The Raven's Table: Viking Stories

by Christine Morgan

  When those of us still in the cage gave loud protest, Andain tried to dissuade us from rash and useless action.

  Karvyk and I heeded him, though we hated to do so.

  Verdfol, however, did not.

  He flung himself against the bars, screaming more insults. Spit and blood and flecks of teeth sprayed from lips that were split and swollen. The words were mushy and incomprehensible, but enough to make them pull him out next. He lashed out at them, calling them lickers of rats’ arse-holes, or something of the sort; even we could not make much sense of it.

  They decapitated him with a single swing of a cleaver to rival any war-axe. Verdfol’s head went rolling, shocked eyes blinking, mouth still forming now-soundless obscenities. The trolls seemed disappointed that his body didn’t strut and flap like that of a chicken at the chopping block.

  This proved the end of the night’s festivities. Jat and Leiffyr were thrust back into the cage with us, shaking and shamed but alive. Heimnir, dangling limp from the chains with his feet seared black, did not move. Verdfol’s body, they hung by the heels to let drain of blood, presumably for tomorrow’s butchery.

  We sat in the straw, or slumped there, no longer caring. We were five now, half our number, and our gazes were bleak as we looked around at one another.

  The giants went to their sleeping-places. For a while there were sounds of vile rutting and belching, then snoring and the occasional odious sleep-fart.

  Each of us stayed for a time lost in his own dark thoughts that grew darker still, until I knew that we would be done for if we surrendered to the hopelessness. I turned to Andain, nudged him, and suggested a tale might ease our minds and lift our spirits.

  Karvyk snorted at this, and scoffed, as if I’d gone mad. But the others agreed with me, and Andain saw the wisdom of it and nodded.

  “Then gather, my oar-brothers,” he said, beckoning. “I’ll tell you the saga of how Thor came to the court of the giant-king Geirrod, and we can take heart from his bravery…”

  ***

  Once it was that sly Loki, shape-shifter, tricker of men

  In respite from Asgard where he’d drawn down disfavor

  Took Frigg’s falcon-form and on feathered wing flew

  To spy and stir trouble, and make yet more mischief

  He came to a great hall, in the high giant-lands

  Built of thick stone, with ironwood timbers

  Each door-hinge the length of the arm of a man

  Where many tall windows looked in on its rooms

  Here, for a time, Loki found much amusement

  Peeking through shutter-slats and key-holes

  Seeing trolls cheat at dice and all manner of games

  Hearing their crude jokes and rude habits, laughing

  He watched the giantesses splash in their baths

  Immense in their nakedness, breasts bouncing

  Sporting with each other in unsisterly ways

  Such that even the gods themselves might have blushed

  This hall was the court of a giant called Geirrod

  A troll-king, an ogre, a master of mountains

  He, wisely guessing at this falcon’s true nature,

  Had it seized by a henchman and locked in a chest

  Now was the clever one caught by his own cleverness

  Three months he starved there, in fear for his life

  Abused by the giants, spat at and pissed on

  Feathers torn out in fistfuls to wipe Geirrod’s rump

  At last, wretched from the constant humiliation

  Loki succumbed and confessed of his name

  And was let send a message to the home of the gods

  Groveling and contrite, pleading for rescue

  No love was lost between the Aesir and Loki

  But the insult of his capture could not be ignored

  They sent swift reply asking the troll-king’s demands

  To which Geirrod gave back this answer-challenge:

  “Let the mightiest of all of the All-Father’s sons,

  Red-bearded Thor, lusty drainer of mead-horns

  The maker of thunder and shaker of skies

  Come himself to fetch back this wicked one.

  “Let him leave behind Mjolnir, much-renowned hammer

  Skull-crusher, giant-slayer, Jotunheim’s bane

  Let him leave behind, also, his iron-forged gloves

  And the broad belt that doubles his great godly strength

  “Let no steed of land or sea, nor any chariot carry him

  Tanngniost and Tanngrisnir stay kept in their pens

  Let him bring no companions, not slave-boy or whore

  Or sheep, if that’s his liking, but make this journey alone.

  “If, through obstacles and hardships, he reaches my court

  And there he can best me in a contest of my choosing

  I will free from the chest this vexing author of woes

  God-slanderer as he is, betrayer, if you want him.”

  To the ogre-lord’s terms, Thor was unhappy but agreed

  He set aside Mjolnir, his much-renowned hammer

  He set aside his belt of strength and gloves of iron

  Then, alone and on foot, set out for Geirrod’s hall.

  The thunderer walked until even his legs felt the ache

  To a dark forest above which the rocky cliffs rose

  He there found the house of a giantess, Gryd,

  Mother to Vadir the Silent, half-brother of Thor

  Gryd, no friend of Geirrod’s, offered good counsel

  Welcoming the bringer of storms as her guest

  Serving him a meal of meat, milk and mead

  Then guiding him to that place of fleece and warmth

  Later, much later, the giantess sated in his arms

  She wanted talk, as women are wont to do

  She warned him the troll-king had a dangerous heart

  Black, greed-filled and cunning, eager for treachery

  Thor glowered with despair and the grey sky rumbled

  For despite all his valor in battle and vigor in bed

  His muscle and sinew and temper and wrath

  He was, and did not deny it, less than agile in wit

  “Without Mjolnir to hand, my much-renowned hammer

  Without my iron-forged gloves and belt of strength

  How am I to beat this ogre, this master of mountains

  In a contest of his choosing within his own hall?”

  At this, Gryd smiled and said to him, “Odin’s son,

  I will lend you what aid as I can… here, behold

  These gloves of mine are iron-forged and will fit you

  This belt will add a giant’s strength to your own.

  “As for Mjolnir, I must say I have here no hammers

  Nor swords, nor axes, nor other weapons of war

  This, though, my staff, called Grydarvol, may serve

  It will never be broken, not by the most fearful blow.”

  Thor, greatly pleased, accepted these things

  He buckled on the belt, hung the gloves at his side

  And carried Grydarvol upon his shoulder

  When he set out again with the next dawn.

  The high cliffs stretched jagged up to the clouds

  A sheer palisade such that could not be climbed

  Not by man or by god or by sure-footed goat

  But Midgard’s defender would not be deterred

  From hiding, thrall-giants, henchmen of Geirrod

  Dropped down boulders in hopes of smiting his head

  These, Thor side-stepped to let smash on the ground

  Or some, with Gryd’s staff, he sent flying away

  Gryd had told Thor of a vast cleft in the rocks

  River-cut, a waterway down which rushed the Vimur

  It flowed, she said, from a well-spring near Geirrod’s door

  So that to follow its course would lead him to the hall

  He made his way to the edge of the tumbling torr
ent

  Wanton and wild, a white-surging cascade over stones

  Any other would have been swept away and drowned

  Bones battered to bits by the turbulent forces

  Not so Thor, who wedged the staff Grydarvol’s end

  Firm in the river-bed to lean and brace himself there

  As he waded to the knee, then the thigh, in cold water

  Wincing when, ice-frigid, it flooded his groin

  Waist-deep then he waded, and chest-deeper still

  His flame-red beard wetted, his ruddy face splashed

  He stood to his neck and the river rose no higher

  Its current could not budge him, so strong was the staff

  Slow but determined, Thor pressed on upstream

  Fighting his way when the rocky cleft narrowed

  He heard a shrill laughter, and, raising his head

  Saw a giantess standing there, tall and well-formed

  With a leg to each side she straddled the river

  Skirt hiked high to bare a cleft of a fleshier sort

  Adding to the Vimur her own copious flow

  Until it ran with less cold, and rose to Thor’s chin

  This creature was Gjalp, daughter of Geirrod

  Not unbeautiful, but cruel, her father’s true child

  Who sought to drown Odin’s son in a dousing of piss

  Of which, it seemed, she possessed an endless supply

  “Any foul stream must be stemmed at its source!”

  So saying, Thor hefted a large rock and let fly

  To Gjalp’s pain and sorrow, he did not miss his mark

  She fled, wailing and cursing, promising revenge

  But the mighty throw threatened the thunder god’s footing

  And he slipped on slick stones to be swept toward shore

  There, a bent reaching rowan branch offered him grasp

  Saving him, letting him pull himself up from the river

  On he went, following the path Gjalp had used

  Which brought him at last to the gates of the hall

  Here, he was not given a goodly guest’s greeting

  But sent instead to a goat-shed to lodge for the night

  It was a low place roofed over in heavy stone shingles

  The floor heaped with droppings, the air thick and foul

  Furnished with only a single stout chair, where Thor sat

  And pondered what wickedness Geirrod had planned

  He was not made to wait long, for the chair rose beneath him

  Lifting up toward the roof, meaning to crush in his skull

  Again he took Grydarvol, wedging its end in the rafters

  Then bore down with all of his great godly strength

  There came from below two loud snaps and loud screams

  The chair lowered at once; underneath it was Gjalp

  And Greip, her twin sister, and their backs were both broken

  The she-bitches left crippled face-down in the dung

  Then Geirrod in anger had Thor summoned to him

  They faced each other from opposite ends of the hall

  Where many large bonfires burned all in a row

  And harsh words and insults were exchanged between them

  His court was assembled, foul ogres and sniggering trolls

  Looking on as their lord taunted the bane of their kind

  And, taking up tongs, seized a chunk of smith’s metal

  Glowing red-hot, which he flung straight at Thor

  But Thor, in the iron-forged gloves Gryd had loaned him

  Caught this missile unharmed, and flung it right back

  Striking the troll-king full in the chest with such force

  That, driven through the stone wall, he plunged to his death

  In falcon-form Loki sat locked in the chest, peering out

  A blow from Thor’s fist cracked the lid to release him

  Then the shape-shifter, freed, took on bear’s form instead

  And against all the giants they unleashed Asgardian wrath.

  ***

  Andain finished his tale and it did serve its purpose. We felt that we might now be able to find some thin sleep, rather than lying wakeful in dread of what fresh new torments the morning might bring.

  But we had not lain our heads long in the straw when we heard a noise stirring nearby our cage. We sat up. By the torchlight we saw a figure approaching, and as he drew closer, we were stunned to a man.

  It was Sennulf.

  Sennulf, alive! Caked in shit from his head to his heels, his eyes those of a man tottering on the edge of madness, but alive!

  He had scraped out a hollow, he told us, with air enough to breathe. Foul air, the foulest, buried there in the midden, feigning death. He’d waited there, motionless, through the long evening until quiet had come. Then he’d burrowed his way to the shit-pile’s edge and emerged.

  The latch was too heavy to lift, but Sennulf crept to a snoring giant and stole the great iron-tipped spear. With that as a lever, with all of us straining, we raised it enough that the cage door swung open.

  Jat would have then gone to vengeful blood-work, slitting throats, but Andain and I restrained him. This one chance for escape should not be squandered. Nor did we try and reclaim any of that which had been stolen from us, our weapons and arm-rings. Our lives were by far the more precious.

  We hastened away, into the black forest night, guided only by a half-moon and the shine of the stars. Exhausted though we were, somehow, finally, we came again to the creek where our captors had paused to let us drink. Some time after that we found the clearing where the troll-stone rose from the earth.

  By then, dawn colored the sky pale gold. On wearied last-legs we pressed on.

  Then, with sudden shouts, armed men surrounded us.

  They were the men of the Sea-Sword, a search-party sent by Finleif with the day’s breaking. Such was our state that they did not at first recognize us as their own oar-brothers. When they did, they threw down their weapons and gave a glad cry.

  But, from somewhere behind us, far back in the hills, there echoed an enraged roaring and clangor. Keen-sighted Ivald saw tall trees shaking, boughs rustling, leaves shed, birds startled up by the disturbance.

  We ran for the shore. We made the ship ready in a hasty confusion.

  There was no talk of fighting, of making a stand. Too many men had been lost already, and the trolls now came furious, ready for war.

  The wind filled our sail as our oars bit the water. We pulled with a good will, bending our backs.

  And our good swift Sea-Sword carried us safely away, to Njord’s welcoming waters where waves rolled and whales sang.

  IN THE FORESTS OF THE FAR LAND

  “I should have brought my harp,” Thorkild said as we sat by our fire, the dark woods gloom-shadowed and ominous around us.

  “Your harp?” Fenbjorn snorted with scorn. “To kill with your singing what you couldn’t kill with a spear?”

  Ingolf and Guthdar laughed at that insult, and for a moment I almost laughed as well, but I stopped myself even before Fenthris elbowed her brother hard in the ribs. I did this not to win favor with proud and pretty Fenthris—well, not only that reason—but because Thorkild was my friend.

  He might have been no great hunter—thin and scrawny and clumsy as he was—but he had still come with us, had proved himself brave enough, braver than those others of our friends who had stayed home to look after the fields and flocks, to fish and do farm work.

  We six, we were the sons—and one daughter—of warriors, not farmers and fishermen. Our fathers had fought in great battles, been in the shield-walls and given slaughter to their enemies, before taking to sea in the long ships to seek this far land and make it their own. We had been raised from the cradle on tales of blood and plunder, swords and glory.

  “A song would be nice,” Fenthris said. She smiled at Thorkild, her golden hair gleaming. “Every hall must have a skald to sing and tell the stories.”

&
nbsp; “And is this our hall?” I asked, gesturing around.

  It was no hall, of course. Not even a shelter. Just a camp we had made in a clearing, scraping away deep layers of pine needles to find bare earth, then making a ring of stones to pile branches and kindling at the center. We had logs to serve as benches, and our spears stuck in the ground so they stood jutting toward the star-pierced summer sky.

  “If it is,” said Guthdar, “which of us is the lord?”

  That stirred some argument, good-natured though it was, with each of us putting forth their own right to claim. Ingolf was the oldest, already boasting a reddish fringe of beard. Fenbjorn had brought down the most game. Thorkild’s family was wealthiest, as he reminded us by showing off the chain of silver he wore around his neck. Guthdar was the biggest, wide across the shoulders and stout as a barrel. I, Wulfric, was the quickest… and, some said, the cleverest.

  “You cannot be lord if you’re to be the skald,” Guthdar told Thorkild.

  “Well, he won’t be skald in my hall,” Fenbjorn said. “His music will curdle the milk and set all the dogs to howling!”

  “You cannot be lord if Fenthris is to be the lady,” Ingolf said. “She is your sister!”

  Fenthris scowled. “Why must I be lady of the hall?”

  “Because you are a girl,” he said.

  “So?”

  “So, you will spin and weave and—”

  She bounced a pine cone off his head. “I am a sword-maiden!”

  “You don’t have a sword.”

  “I have this.” She drew her knife, which had a wide leaf-shaped blade, sharp-edged and tapering to a good stabbing point.