Lost Lore: A Fantasy Anthology

by Ben Galley

  “You are alone, girl, you have chosen poorly,” the priest said, grim satisfaction flooding his face.

  “At least I have made a choice. You will have to kill me to get to her,” Gunnleif said. She assumed her defensive position once more.

  “Enough.”

  The voice, calm but sharp and commanding nonetheless, broke through the angry crowd and Eyja came to her feet as her gaze fell upon a black and gold banner that rippled and flared in the breeze at the back of the throng. Beneath the banner, a party of warriors watched from horseback. In their midst, Valbjorn, lord of Ingis, clad in fur, his blonde hair tied back from his face, sat tall in his saddle. His green eyes bore into Eyja from across even that distance.

  Stunned into silence, the villagers scrambled to get a look at their lord. Valbjorn urged his horse through the crowd but came to a halt well short of the shore.

  “What has happened here?”

  Ljotolf found his voice. “She has broken her sacred vows. She has defiled our land and our waters, bringing death to our home.” Ljotolf flung an arm out at the fjord and the death that floated there. “See, lord, see how she has cursed us!”

  Valbjorn studied the priest for a moment, then shifted his gaze from Ljotolf to Eyja. “And you? What do you have to say?” His voice remained low, though Eyja could hear the strength that lurked underneath, and his face gave away nothing. Eyja felt her heart pound as she held his gaze.

  “I am innocent of this crime, lord. I have no knowledge of this. I have no skill in such curses. I could no more do this than I could sail a ship to Asgard.”

  Seething, Ljotolf, snatched an axe from an onlooker and stepped toward Eyja. Gunnleif, armed only with the shield, readied for an assault. “I demand justice,” Ljotolf shouted. “I demand punishment. The gods will give me that.”

  But he came to a faltering halt ten paces from Gunnleif and Eyja, his face growing slack as his gaze drifted to something behind Eyja, something in the water. Behind the priest, the villagers gasped and muttered and even Valbjorn’s composure slipped.

  Together, Gunnleif and Eyja turned to the fjord and Eyja felt her stomach lurch, felt her skin prickle with awe. The waters were splitting, like a seam tearing apart, as a path appeared along the mucky bottom, sloping down into the depths of the fjord, a path lined by two walls of water. And there, at the end of the path, flashing in the sunlight, free from mud and slime, lay a sword, pale and bright and sharp.

  With a wordless cry, Ljotolf dropped the axe. “Odin speaks. The Allfather will give me justice!” The priest rushed past Eyja and entered the path, his feet sliding among the weeds and rocks as he began the gradual descent. He had crossed half the distance when the water walls collapsed, burying him in a roar and rush of power.

  Screams sounded behind Eyja, who could only stare, her gut roiling, her mouth gone dry. But before anyone could speak or move, the waters were churning again, the path emerging once more. The sword remained where it lay. Of the priest, there was no trace.

  “It seems the Allfather believes the sword belongs to another.”

  Valbjorn’s voice was quiet and not entirely steady, but there was no mistaking his meaning. Eyja glanced over her shoulder and their eyes met. At last Valbjorn gave the smallest of nods and Eyja turned back to the sword. She took a step toward the path into the depths, then another and another, but a hand on her shoulder brought her to a halt.

  Gunnleif, still grasping her shield, her eyes tinged with apprehension, as though she could not quite comprehend her actions, said, “Let me go first.” And without waiting for Eyja’s response, the shieldmaiden walked between the walls of water, as though the wooden shield might keep them at bay.

  Eyja followed, each stride stronger than the last, a feeling growing in her heart. The water towering above held no malice for her. The ground beneath her feet would not be her watery grave. This was not the work of Odin. This was Ymir’s doing. She could feel the ancient giant all around her, coursing through this water created from his blood, his spirit swelling within the waves, his memory straining against the confines of the earth and the mountains that bounded the fjord.

  By the time Eyja reached the sword, she knew what she must do. The sword, pale as milk, was heavy in her hands as she turned to Gunnleif.

  “The way of the sword, the way of the warrior is not for me, and I am not for it. This must belong to someone who is worthy of it.”

  Gunnleif shook her head. “I am not worthy.” And yet her eyes caressed the length of the blade with longing.

  Eyja felt herself smile. “Knives I know, knives I understand. But this? Gunnleif, you have trained for this, you were made for this.” Still Gunnleif was quiet. “You want it, I know you do. I could tell you that the waters surrounding us want you to have it, and that would be the truth. I could tell you that I feel your spirit in this blade and its home is in your hand and that, too, would be the truth. But if you trust nothing else, trust your own desire.”

  At last Gunnleif stretched out her hand and took the sword by the hilt. She held it out in front of her and looked down the length of the blade. Then, driving the point into the fjord bottom, Gunnleif went to one knee before Eyja.

  “By the sacred ash tree, I swear my life is bound to yours,” the shieldmaiden spoke. “By Odin’s lost eye, I will honor and protect you with every breath until my dying one. This I swear, and may Thor pierce my heart with lightning if I prove false.”

  “Rise, Gunnleif Palesword. As your life is bound to mine, so is my life bound to yours. By the great spear Gungnir, I will watch your back and lead you to fame in the eyes of the gods. And by the chains that bind Fenrir, I will ask no service of you that I would not ask of myself. This I swear, and may the Allfather strike me down if I prove false.”

  “What will you do now?”

  Valbjorn stood at the edge of the moonlit fjord, hands clasped behind his back. While the other warriors of his party drank mead with the villagers and boasted to Gunnleif about their skill in battle, the lord of Ingis had slipped away from the bonfire that blazed in the small market. Eyja had followed.

  “I do not know,” Eyja answered. It was the truth. The moments within the walls of water, the words she and Gunnleif had spoken, they seemed distant and dreamlike. She did not know why Ymir had granted her the sword or what Gunnleif was meant to do with the blade.

  “You have been sworn to by a warrior, Eyja Rikulfstottir. Some lords would take that as a threat.”

  “I am no threat to you. I owe you my life, lord.”

  “I am not so sure.” Valbjorn smiled a little as he looked at Eyja. “Of either of those things, come to think of it.”

  Eyja frowned. “I am no one, lord, a disgraced priestess. There is nothing I could do against you even if I wished it.”

  “Today, that is true. Tomorrow? Two years from now?” Valbjorn let the question hang between them. “You cannot deny what happened today, Eyja, even if you do not fully understand it. This is the beginning of something, not the end. I know you can see that.” Valbjorn glanced out over the fjord once more, then turned away and began to walk back to the village. He hesitated and looked over his shoulder at Eyja. His green eyes were sad. “I hope we will remain friends for many years, Eyja. But I see in your eyes what you will not say. Though all who were here today will believe the sword came from the Allfather himself, though this is the story that will travel upon eager tongues until there is not a man, woman, or child who has not heard of Eyja and the Palesword, I know that is not the truth. I know the sword was a gift from Ymir.”

  Eyja had no denial for the lord of Ingis.

  “Whatever comes next, Eyja, I hope you will keep that to yourself. I hope you will spare the world the knowledge that something of Ymir lingers, that the first giant’s spirit lives on. I do not like to think what could be woken and loosed upon the nine realms should that truth come out,” Valbjorn said, his voice
heavy with sadness.

  “Ymir saved my life. Ymir heard me.”

  For the first time, anger clouded Valbjorn’s face. “Ymir died for a reason, Eyja. Do not forget that.” The anger fled, leaving the green eyes to watch Eyja just as they had first watched her by the hearth at Solhallow. Eyja held his gaze and then the lord of Ingis retreated into the laughter and the warmth of the bonfire, leaving Eyja alone in the dark.

  Head HERE to discover more stories by T L Greylock.

  12

  The Light in the Jungle

  Jeffrey Hall

  Scrap stood on the edge of the Poisoned Precipice, a place once called Agrima’s End, a name long dead, just like the rest of the place he looked at below.

  Hathis.

  The ruined city rose up from the jungle like a carcass still being devoured. The buildings stretched high over the canopy, cracked and some toppled, like a set of trampled-over ribs. The fabled Wall of Tears that surrounded it reached into the forest, the thousands of totems etched into its wood now slowly being swallowed by vines, creepers, and a collection of invasive, purple flowers. Cobbled, phosphorescent roads ran between them, glowing, stony veins not yet drained of their shine from the moss slowly pervading and metabolizing the luster of the once well-made streets.

  And at its center, Thendradi. The head of Hathis. The place said to have stored all the ruling kings’ knowledge and wealth. The great dome stared back at him, two holes in its windows like emptied eye sockets and its shadowy entrance doorless like the mouth of a skull shucked of its teeth.

  Suddenly all of Scrap’s great grandmother’s stories became real. He quivered with relief, excitement, and fear. It was all too much. Only the presence of Tama joining him on the ledge kept the tears he felt welling in his eyes from slipping out.

  “Is that it?” said Tama. The Boarling gripped the axe hanging from his belt as if the sight were threatening him. The first moon, the sister, glittered off his tusks like they were two spires made of glass.

  “It’s it, my friend,” said Scrap. “All we’ve ever talked about. Isn’t it beautiful? It’s beyond our dreams. Finally, our home. Hath—”

  “Not Hathis,” said Tama, sharply. He extended his finger. “That.”

  Scrap followed his finger, and there, stretching out from the northern edge of Hathis was the city’s killer.

  The Flaw.

  All the stories he had ever heard had described it as glowing. Some had it as emitting red light from the blood said to flow at its bottom, others had it as yellow from the fires said to crackle in its walls, but it was neither of those. It was dark. One long shadow stretching out from the ruined city’s broken walls, going on for miles into the jungle. A deep rent in the flesh of Chilongua. A giant, black claw summoned by the Welkin to bring down civilization and introduce it to hell.

  Scrap’s words were caught in his throat.

  The others caught up soon after and their banter was silenced as soon as they saw it.

  “By the fucking gods,” said Baji, breaking the quiet between the group, as she stroked her long braids. “They didn’t just cut the world, they gutted it.”

  Laughs knelt beside her. The Kodo’s tongue flickered in out of his mouth. “Hathis never stood a chance.”

  Behind them all, Trinka whispered a prayer and pulled at the fur upon her chest.

  Tama leaned closer to Scrap. “It’s not too late to turn back.”

  Turn back? There was never any turning back. Not since they all agreed to terms and took their first steps out of Dusk Break, not since Scrap first started contemplating the crazed journey in the first place, not since his great grandmother regaled him with stories of the great Hathis and told him of their family’s totem that still lay etched somewhere in the Threndadi.

  He had come so far since then. He wasn’t going to turn around now, even if the terrible stories of Flaw underserved what it was like to see it with his own eyes.

  A groan emanated from somewhere in the shadows of the city, as if there was still life in its decaying corpse.

  He wasn’t going to turn back, but there was no need to go forward either. At least not tonight.

  “Perhaps we should rest here until day,” said Scrap.

  The others nodded in agreement.

  “A bandit, a botamancer, a jungle-diver, and a soldier all share a drink,” said Laughs. He took a swig of honey rum before passing it to Scrap. No one could sleep overlooking Hathis, not without drowning their anxieties a bit. The only downfall was having to listen to more of Laughs’ jokes. “They share from the same bottle. The bandit takes a swig and says it tastes like wine. The botamancer takes one and says it tastes like juice. The jungle-diver sips next and says its sweat. The soldier is last and says it tastes like blood. Which one is right?”

  “Please,” said Baji, taking the bottle from Scrap. “I’ll give half my share for you to shut up.”

  “You’ll like this one, I promise,” said Laughs. He smiled, showing his gums and tongue.

  “Go on then,” said Scrap. Anything to distract the group from the sight beside them.

  “No one, it’s the piss of the totemist.” Laughs tossed his head back, guffawing so loud that it echoed off the cliffs and into the night. The others looked to one another, wondering if anyone found it funny. Scrap was the only one smiling.

  “How in the names of the gods can you possibly make plants laugh?” said Baji as she handed the bottle over to Tama.

  “Because they actually have a sense of humor. What’s a matter, did someone steal yours all those long years thieving on the road?” said Laughs.

  “Trust me, it’s still there. It’s the only thing keeping me from cutting out that tongue of yours.”

  Laughs laughed, but Baji didn’t. Beside them, Tama passed the bottle to Trinka without taking a sip. Not a drop had passed his lips since they settled in for the night. Scrap was surprised, having shared countless bottles with his friend over the years.

  “What’s a matter, Tama? Too hot for a drink?” said Scrap.

  “I’d rather not darken my head before going into the shadows,” he answered.

  “We’re not headed into the shadows. We’re heading into the Light in the Jungle,” said Scrap, recalling one of the old names of Hathis, one given to it because of the brilliant glow its stone gave off during night.

  “Can you honestly look at that place and still call it that?” said Tama. “Its streets may still glow, but darkness always finds a way of dulling the light, eventually.”

  Scrap frowned. Tama had been nothing but dour since he first told him about his idea to travel to Hathis. Scrap was surprised he came in the first place. “The shadows may have taken its bones, but it’ll never take its heart. Hathis is still down there, the Flaw be damned.”

  “Isn’t that why we’re all here?” said Baji as she reached across the line to disrupt the exchange of the bottle. “To find a bit of the old city? Unless our illustrious leader has been lying.”

  “I’m not lying,” said Scrap. “You’ll find your riches down there.”

  “I better. I’ll need to find an awful lot to have made the miles of this man’s mouth I’ve endured worth it.” Baji nodded to Laughs.

  “My mouth? Be careful what you say, if I stir the biting blossoms into a chuckle I’ll tell them to nip your tongue first,” said Laughs.

  “That’s if they find you funny, which I am having a harder time imagining by the minute.” Baji took a swig. “That’s if they even grow down there.”

  “They do,” said Scrap.

  “So you have promised.”

  “What’s a matter?” said Laughs. “The Flaw have you flooding yourself?”

  “That’s not the Flaw, it’s your jokes. They’re squeezing every last ounce of piss out of me they’re so brilliant.”

  Laughs whispered, and a piece of lichen str
etched out from the overhang and pulled Baji’s hair.

  Baji pulled out her dagger and cut the lichen down. She stood to her feet and reeled on Laughs, who was living up to his name and laughing again.

  Scrap intervened. “The biting blossoms are there. The riches are there. Hathis is there, but we’ll never see it, if we tear each other apart before we even set foot behind its walls.”

  Baji did not sheath her dagger. “So you’ve said. So the jungle-diver has told us. But how do we know this isn’t some ruse?”

  “No one is forcing you to be here,” said Scrap, and it was the truth. Baji, Laughs, Trinka and Tama, they were all friends, all customers of his totems, people he had grown to trust and love, individuals he wanted to share his dream with. They had signed no contract. They had made no unforgivable pact. They had all come here on a promise. His promise that they would find what they sought in the city where his and Tama’s ancestors came from.

  “You tell me there are jewels the size of heads and say that I am not forced to be here? What good am I as a bandit if I resist such an offer?”

  “They are the size a jagrall’s head,” said Trinka, and everyone turned. The Fossala ran two fingers over one of her whiskers as she spoke. “Green and gold and blue. You’ll never be able to lift them, but they are there, and so are the flowers you seek. How do you explain this?” Trinka rolled up her sleeve, spread her fur, and showed a three-pronged wound to Laughs. She looked at Scrap. “Your totem too. It’s all there so long as we have the fortitude to look for it.”

  Baji returned her dagger. “And what are you looking for?”

  “Me?”

  “You,” said Baji. “This entire journey you’ve led the way as silent as a snake. All Scrap has said about you is that he hired you as our guide. Said that you’ve seen the place. But looking at it now, there is no one out there that would willingly come back to for any sum of money. So there must be something you’re looking for in Old Hathis.”