But the fishfolk did not rally, did not return in force.
Far out upon the reef, a host of shell-horns blew. There was a great and resounding din of slapping, as of flat tails smacking the water. A shrill keening and croaking arose from many pulsating throats.
The sea stilled.
The wind changed.
Beyond the black reef, the water first briefly sank in a rotating depression and then rose in a coursing, bulging bubble as if something immense came up from below.
Something did.
Aerk dropped his sword into the bloodied sand and surf and broken shell. Mjiska sensed her brother’s mind fracture, sensed his wits rent from him in a single ripping stroke. He gibbered, he wept, and he laughed a madman’s laugh.
She dropped her axe and began to laugh as well.
The shape from the deeps loomed higher still. Seawater coursed from its slumped and massive shoulders. Below its many sunken yellow eyes clumped a mass of writhing tentacles like a nest of immense headless snakes. It blotted out the rising sun.
And over the river Eyn’s mouth, a dreadful shadow fell.
THE SHIELD-WALL
Dark earth underfoot, the grass matted, mud churned
Grim clouds burden the sky, the earls’ banners wind-blown
Smoke and steam rise mingling with the fog of our breath
The stink of sweat and wet leather, the stamping of horses
Torches spit and sputter in a dawn-squall of cold rain
Across the chosen war-field, the enemy awaits us, our foes
We take our places, strong men and tall, shoulder-to-shoulder
Clad in mail-coats and fur cloaks, grim-faced beneath helms
Last night, at the ship-camps, safe and warm by the fires
We drank and we boasted as we readied our weapons
Now that anticipation turns to insidious dread
A hushed silence of unspoken, unspeakable fear
Soon, the horn-calls will sound, the armies advance
Soon, war-cries will be given, swords sing from their sheaths
Soon, weapons will strike, the battle-clangor will ring
Here is where, in the shield-wall, on the war-field of slaughter
Here is where men are made, or unmade, reputations decided
Earning fame and glory, or cowardice, dishonor and shame
With a crack and clatter, the shield-wall is formed
The sound a great rolling like Thor’s own thunder
Shields set one to the next in a line overlapping
Hard round dragon’s scales, the serpent’s armor
Heavy lindenwood-made, iron-rimmed, iron-bossed
Covered with oxhides, and painted bold colors
We at the front lead the charge, voices raised in a roar
Others rush close behind us; the very ground shakes
A dense press of bodies; there is no turning back
We call on Thor’s strength, Tyr’s war-craft, Loki’s cunning
Hoping only to win the wise All-Father’s favor
It is kill or die for us, all or none, victory or Valhalla!
Long-handled axes, hooked heads like bird-beaks
To catch on shields’ edges, dragging them down
Chests and bellies exposed to spear-points and arrows
Bright-edged bites of sword-blades and sharp steel
Piercing through mail-coats, through furs and leather
Slicing skin, shearing sinew, spilling red rivers of blood
The scarlet-stained earth strewn with injured and dead
Hacked and hewn, bones broken, guts wetly unraveled
Heads cleaved from neck-stumps, skulls split or crushed
Severed limbs twitch, hands still gripping sword-hilts
Amid pain-groans and screams come the pleading
As proud men forsake honor to beg for their lives
We were promised reputation, glory, and lasting fame
We were promised silver, war-plunder, ring-gifts of gold
As the shield-walls shatter beneath onslaughts of battle
We think of treasures more precious than any of those
Mothers and fathers, wives, daughters, and sons
But it is too late, far too late for such thoughts
Ravens have gathered, grey wolves wait in the west
First among carrion-pickers, hungriest to feast
Black wings rustle, white teeth shine, golden eyes gleam
They take no sides, they care not who wins the war-field
Craving only our deaths, the more corpse-meat the better
Oh, and they know they will feed well this day!
THE SEVEN RAVENS
Once on a time, there was a proud queen by name of Ingidris, whose hall was a great longhouse of strong-timbered walls overlooking blue fjords. There were warm hearths and woven hangings to ward off the damp winter chill, and beds piled thick in fleeces and furs. The pantries were laden with good things to eat—meat and milk, bread and cheese, honey and butter and eggs.
Ingidris chose from her many suitors not the wealthiest, nor the handsomest, nor the greatest war-lord, but a king good and kind, brave and gentle, a generous gift-giver and much-loved leader of men. At their wedding, all raised high their mead-horns to the pair, and drank, wishing them much health and happiness.
All, that is, save one, Kargrimr, who nursed in his heart a spurned, envious hatred, and vowed someday to have his revenge.
A daughter was soon born to Ingidris, bright-eyed and flaxen-haired Ingihilde, bringing much joy. The following year saw the birth of a son, as did the next year and the next year thereafter, until the princess had seven younger brothers and loved them all dearly.
But then it was that a great army threatened their shores. The king donned his mail-coat and helm, took up his sword and his shield and his war-banner, and led his men to battle. There, in the clash and clangor of sword and shield, that good king was slain, and he died.
The rune-stones had barely been set over his burial mound when Kargrimr visited the hall where Ingidris grieved. She should make haste to marry again, he told her; he brought many gifts, and hard-pressed his suit. But Ingidris refused him.
“You are,” she said, “no better than a raven, a greedy corpse-picker, quick to swoop in and feast off the dead!”
“Raven, am I?” Angered, Kargrimr turned to her sons. He cast a spell of dark sorcery upon the eldest and transformed him from youth to night-winged bird. “Here is your raven! Now, let us see if you long remain of the same mind!”
Year after year, Kargrimr returned. Year after year, proud Ingidris refused him. Year after year, one by one, her sons were so cursed. Time and despair took their tolls upon the fair queen, dimming her beauty. Yet, time in its turn favored her daughter, and this, Kargrimr soon began to notice. He decided that he would have the princess instead.
Then, Ingidris fell ill, stricken with a terrible and inexplicable plague. She summoned Ingihilde to her sickbed.
The princess, meanwhile, had loved and looked after her raven-brothers. They rode perched on her shoulders or flew all about her, sleek-black and shining, ever attentive.
“You must escape, you must leave here,” the dying queen said. “If there is a way in all the world to undo the evil spell worked upon your dear brothers, you must find it and free them.”
So saying, Ingidris slipped a ring of gold from her finger to her daughter’s. Her eyes closed. Her breast rose and settled… and did not rise again.
Ingihilde bent to kiss her mother’s pale cheek. The ravens cawed a soft dirge in chorus. But there was no time for weeping or mourning, not then.
She gathered some small belongings and crept from the hall. Heavy clouds obscured the moon and stars. To harnesses she’d woven for her raven-brothers, she affixed straps of strong leather and tied the ends to her own belted girdle.
At her command, the seven ravens took wing. Their strength combined lifted her feet from the ground. No one noticed her pas
sage. Rain-mist and sea-spray washed over her face, mixing with the quiet tears she shed for her mother and her home. Yet even grief, and the unknown dread of her future, could not altogether overpower this exhilaration of flight.
Onward they flew as the eastern sky brightened. The ravens brought her to rugged rock-lands where grey granite split with white waterfalls and mossy green vales unfolded into secret, sheltered meadows.
In one of these vales they found a dry, shallow cave. Ingihilde wrapped herself in her cloak and lay down to sleep. Her raven-brothers settled about her, weary and with tired wings.
When they woke, weariness was replaced by hunger. Ingihilde gathered nuts and seeds and berries. The ravens hunted fieldmice, snatched minnows from the quick creeks, and pecked at beetles. They guided their sister to nests, which she raided for eggs. She picked twigs and broke branches from woody shrubs to make a fire.
Rested and fed, safe and warm, the princess knew that next came the matter of deciding what to do. She twisted the gold ring on her finger as she remembered their mother’s final plea. Find a way. Break the spell. Free them.
Queen Ingidris had sent messengers to many kingdoms over the years, consulting many lore-keepers and learned men. If such efforts still had not succeeded, what chance did Ingihilde have?
Then it struck her that there were kingdoms other than those of men. Her brothers, who, as ravens, knew bird-speech, could go to the Althing of the birds, where the bird-lords would meet to law-make, share grievances, and resolve disputes. This, they resolved to do.
The eldest would speak to the eagles and hawks, noblest of all. The second-eldest would consult the wise owls, the third the far-soaring seabirds whose travels took them to all ends of the earth. The fourth would inquire of their sly fellow ravens who followed the battle-banners to feast on the spoils of war. The fifth would address the long-legged cranes and waterfowl, familiar with towns and rivers. To the sixth-eldest fell the task of querying the colorful songbirds, whose chattering melodies passed on much gossip. Finally, the seventh raven, the youngest, would seek out the humble sparrows and wrens.
It was an impressive scene, that Althing, her brothers would later tell Ingihilde. Birds of every sort were there, flocks in such numbers that they filled the sky and crowded the tree-branches. The seven ravens went among them to ask their questions. They heard of gods and heroes who would take on eagle-shape or falcon-form… of enchanted gardens where there bloomed flowers to turn maidens into nightingales… of swan-brides and girls who turned themselves into ducks to hide from evil stepmothers or witches…
But nowhere did they hear of a spell such as had been done to them.
Near the very end of the Althing, the youngest of the raven-brothers was approached by a tiny brown wren who made her home in a bramble-bush in the deep heart of a dark forest. She had not dared presume interrupt the greater birds in their talk, but she had overheard of the seven ravens’ plight.
There was, said the wren, a cottage close by that same bramble-bush where she lived. In the cottage dwelled a dwarf, an ill-tempered and ill-featured cousin of trolls. This dwarf was a brewer of potions and poisons, a crafter of spells. Once, years ago, a man had come and offered the dwarf rich treasure to instruct him in the casting of shape-changing curses. Perhaps this might be the very man who’d enspelled them? And even if not, perhaps the dwarf would know something of such magic?
The brothers greeted this news with considerable excitement. They brought the little wren back with them to the meadow where their sister had waited, and the wren agreed to lead them to her home.
So, again, Ingihilde attached the straps to her belt-girdle. She tucked the little wren into her bosom, and off they flew. Over field-lands and farm-lands and fast-flowing rivers… past snow-capped peaks and through high mountain passes… but, at last, they reached the wren’s forest.
Then Ingihilde knew she must be at her most clever. Dwarves could be cunning creatures, greedy and deceitful. She bade her raven-brothers conceal themselves in the pine-boughs and went up to the door.
The cottage crouched by the bole of an ancient dead tree. Thick roots like gnarled old fingers surrounded it. The walls crooked this way and that. The roof slanted askew. Smoke trickled through a chimney-hole. In the garden were herbs and plants the likes of which Ingihilde had never seen. The stoop was a rough stone slab, the door of warped but sturdy knotwood planks.
She knocked. From within, she heard footfalls, and the sound of a bolt being drawn back.
Then the door opened, and there hunched a hideous dwarf. His nose alone seemed three times the size of his face, bulbous and lumpy, pimpled with warts from some of which sprouted hair. Hair sprouted from his ears and eyebrows as well, bristling tufts of it. That on his head fell in greasy, matted tangles. His beard, sparse by comparison, straggled in thin, food-clotted clumps from his uneven chin.
“Who knocks at the door of the house of Troni?” he demanded in a voice like curdled milk.
His gaze—his eyes were sunken and pitted, half-buried nuggets of bog-iron—fell upon Ingihilde. He stared with surprise.
“I am Hilde,” she said, caution making her use only half of her name.
“A girl,” he said, looking her from top to toe. “And a pretty one. What brings you here, to the deep heart of the dark forest?”
“I seek the advice of the most knowledgeable of lore-masters.”
“Hrm,” grunted Troni the dwarf, duly flattered. “Then come in, Hilde-girl, and make yourself useful.”
Ingihilde stepped inside, ducking her head for the ceiling was low.
The cottage was a single large room with one door and one hide-shuttered window. It had a hearth where an iron pot bubbled over the coals, a kitchen corner where unwashed crockery festered in a basin, an unmade bed heaped with dirty clothes, and a work-area.
Troni sat himself into the room’s only chair while Ingihilde saw to making herself useful. Laying aside her cloak, she set to doing chores. She scrubbed, cleaned and tidied until the kitchen was as neat as a pin. She served the dwarf a meal of stew, bread and beer. She washed his clothes and hung them to dry, made his bed, and swept the floor.
“You are industrious, Hilde-girl. So, what advice is it, that you would have from Troni, most knowledgeable of lore-masters?”
“Three questions,” she said. “Three mysteries of which I’ve heard tell in my travels.”
“And what will you give me in exchange for solving them?”
“This ring from my finger.” Ingihilde showed him her hand.
The dwarf scoffed. “A war-lord once brought me a trove of rich treasure, a cask of gems, gold and silver, to teach him my lore. I have no need of such trinkets as that.”
“Then what would you have?” she asked.
“For the first,” said Troni, “A kiss of your sweet lips upon my cheek.”
She hesitated. Her reluctance amused him.
“After I ask and you answer,” she said. “So that I know you keep your word.”
“Very well. Ask.”
“There once was,” Ingihilde said, “a good king who went off to war. His courage did not fail him. Neither did his arm. Yet he fell in battle. No man came forth to claim the credit. No one saw whose blade it was that did the deed. How did it happen this good king should die?”
Troni chuckled. “So easy! The king was tricked by sorcery, his eyes clouded and his mind confused so that he could not discern friend from foe. Then it was that a rival treacherously struck him down.”
Ingihilde lapsed thoughtful at that, for her first query had been more in the manner of a test. She and her brothers had long wondered how their father had died.
“Eh-hrm.” The dwarf cleared his throat, tapping a stubby finger against his grubby cheek. She leaned to him and placed there a swift kiss. Troni smirked again, satisfied. “What other riddles do you bring me?”
“Tell me what further price they carry.”
“Since you find me so loathsome, for the next I would hav
e you make me presentable and pleasant. Comb my hair, groom my beard, trim my nails and scrape the wax of my ears. For that, Hilde-girl, I’ll solve your second puzzle.”
Again, she hesitated. “After I ask and—”
“Yes, yes, very well,” said the dwarf, flapping a hand. “Ask.”
“There once was,” she said, “a proud queen who fell ill and died, when none around her were touched with sickness at all. What caused her such terrible misfortune?”
“Another easy one!” Troni crowed. “It was a blighting curse, a spell to strike her with pestilence. I thought you had mysteries to ask me, not stuff so simple as this!”
“The last one is most perplexing, which has left learned men baffled across many kingdoms—”
“Ah-ah-ah,” he said. “We first have an arrangement to settle. If you go to the chest at the foot of my bed, you’ll find there a box containing a comb, and ear-spoon, and all else you will need.”
Ingihilde did so, fetching the box within which the dwarf kept the implements of his oft-neglected grooming. With the bone comb, she worked the tangles from his hair and beard. She trimmed and scraped. She brought him a wash-bowl of water to splash his face. When it was done, she held up a mirror of polished bronze for him to inspect his reflection.
“Ha! Handsome as a lord!” he cried, and laughed. “Now I am ready to hear this most perplexing of your riddles. If, that is, Hilde-girl, you are ready to consent to my terms.”
“Name them, then,” she said, not without a foreboding.
The gaze of his pitted bog-iron eyes crept down her body. “You will spend this night… naked… in my bed.”
She shuddered.
“Or you could leave now,” the dwarf continued, flicking a careless gesture toward the door. He yawned and stretched. “Be quick about it, though… I grow weary.”
“I…” She shuddered again. “I agree. I will spend this night… naked… in your bed. But, first, you must answer my—”
The Raven's Table: Viking Stories Page 23
