Hersir opened his mouth but closed it and nodded instead. He signaled to Svein who was noted for his brutality and strength in fighting, to follow him. Vott, one of our best sailors, was close behind. This clearly wasn’t over.
Ice and water erupted into the air as an enormous tentacle, sparkling blue in the dim light, wrapped around the smallest ship and squeezed. The ship broke up as if it were made of crunchy skonrogge bread.
My warriors collected around me, shields out, as I moved down the ship issuing orders. “Nock arrows and fire at the beast.”
I hoped my fleet’s other three ships were doing the same.
Across the waves, Hersir guided the ship’s boat while Svein pulled men to safety. I couldn’t tell if they had the enemy commander, but something glinted yellow in the boat.
I tried to sense the undersea world through Draken Björnen but couldn’t. Perhaps it only worked while it prayed to me? Can the gods only see and hear our experiences if we prayed to them and caught their attention? Perhaps.
I prayed silently. Jörd, I come to you humbly and ask for your help defeating this creature, to preserve my life and the lives of my crew as well as these loyal ships.
I waited a moment for the familiar sensation of lightning moving through my skin and sinew, but nothing came. We were on our own.
A disturbance in the current near the stern caught my attention. I heard Buri scream and I ran toward him. I found him lying on the deck bleeding where a long, white spear made of elaborately carved bone had penetrated his belly. It was like nothing I’d ever seen. I knelt to check Buri, but I saw it was hopeless. He would die soon and there was nothing I could do about it except ensure that those who killed him followed him into the afterlife. I moved him to one side and covered him with my cloak.
A splash off the stern drew my attention. Two pale green men dressed in skin-hugging sealskin shirts and trousers treaded water. Each held identical spears and were preparing to throw them. A third’s arm bled from what looked like an axe strike.
Archers near Buri’s shieldmen took aim at the new enemy. The sea warriors sank beneath the waves.
“To me! We need reinforcements at the helm.”
The small boat clunked against the hull. I saw about a dozen men in addition to Hersir and Svein. I let out a breath of relief. Hersir had brought the enemy commander as well.
I smiled at Hersir. “You’ve done well.”
Hersir didn’t acknowledge me but turned away and signaled to Svein to return to the boat to pick up more survivors.
“Commander,” I said, “I am King Caedmon of the Northern people.”
He spoke with a heavy accent that slithered like snakes hissing through his words. “I am Maksa.” He held a small yellow bag which looked to be woven entirely of yellow light.
“Commander Maksa, fight on our side and once we leave Thule I will ensure you and your men return to your homeland.”
He lifted a hand, as if to ask what other choice did he have. But when he spoke it was with dignity and calm. “I thank you for rescuing my crew. You acted quickly and I appreciate that.”
I inclined my head, accepting his thanks.
“But the ice portal we sailed through broke into a thousand pieces. I do not see a way back. Do you?”
“I can return us home, but not if we are all dead. I need your help and the help of your men if we are to survive, and it must be under my command. Will you order your crew to follow me?”
He bit his lower lip considering. Finally, he said, “There is blood between my people and yours.”
“I can see my way past it, if you help us here.”
He laughed or choked; I wasn’t sure which. “You’ll look past our actions. That’s rich.”
“We can discuss that later. For now, I need an answer. Yes or no, Commander. I am out of time.”
“Yes, of course. But this conversation isn’t over.”
I smiled. Something was going right at last. “Glad to hear it. Now let us join forces. We need to get closer to the monster. Can your men help row?”
“I can do better; I control the winds.” His eyes gleamed as he pulled out the little pouch that glowed like a piece of the sun. This close, its sweet fragrance of wheat fields, crushed grapes, and fresh baked bread filled my nostrils with a sense of peaceful summer days.
He knelt by Buri and dragged the pouch through Buri’s blood, which pooled around the spear still lodged in his stomach. Buri would die soon no matter what was done but it was gruesome to watch. Maksa lifted the pouch high and spoke.
A swirling cyclone made up of ice, sea water, and air appeared at Draken Björnen’s bow launching water and particles of ice skyward creating a visible wall of wind and ice. Maksa exclaimed, “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
I felt a deep vibration in the ship’s hull and heard Draken Björnen cry out in my mind. A tentacle as large as two strong men squeezed the hull. Shattering strakes felt like bones breaking through my deep connection with Draken Björnen.
“Attack!” I shouted.
“Assist this ship’s crew,” Maksa ordered.
I glanced at the frost cyclone Maksa conjured. It was not that far from a normal storm. Perhaps Jörd would hear me now.
I called in a loud, clear voice, “Jörd, I remain your champion, but I must have your help if we are to survive. Give me your power so that I may save this ship and these men.”
A silvery laugh hung on the wind, clearly audible above the wild winds and the scrape of frost on wood. I felt the goddess’ gift fill my nightmares as the air crackled and hummed around me. Lightning exploded through my skin and sinews with a shocking suddenness. I knew the pain would come when I pulled Jörd’s lightning through my body. It was agony. Always agony. No sane man wants to be a god’s champion.
I mastered my pain and moved as close to the gunwale as I could, hoping the monster would reach toward me and make this easy. I held the lightning inside, storing it like a cistern stores water.
“Sir!” One of my shieldmen moved forward, his shield ready to protect me from whatever came from the waves. Others followed.
“No. Back away,” I said, pushing my hand toward him and showing him the tendrils of lightning that wreathed my fists and cast a bluish glow over my features. “Defend the port side. Chase the creature to me.”
A bone spear arced over my head aiming for Maksa. But before it reached its target, it caught in a shield with a loud thunk. One of my men's shields saved Maksa’s life.
More of the sea warriors emerged from the waves and attempted to climb over our hull where they met Riordr’s axe, which moved in a slanting motion and took off the head of a man from the underwater city. As soon as the man fell into the waves another sea warrior replaced him.
I needed to attract the monster to me before it crushed the hull. The ship rolled slightly. I sent a mental order to Draken Björnen to roll starboard, but either the monster was holding the hull too tightly to allow much movement or the ship could no longer hear me. Our new enemy threw more spears from the water. One grazed the Maksa’s head, almost knocking him off his feet and left a trickle of blood on his skull. He rubbed his head and cursed.
If we had been in warmer waters I would drop into the water and bring the lightning directly to the monster. Here, the icy water might kill me. Would it even work? And what about the cyclone?
“Commander Maksa, send your cyclone against the ship’s port side.”
He didn’t respond, merely held his little bag in the air and bit his lip. Soon, the cyclone pushed closer toward us. A tentacle as thick as the body of a seal reached up our starboard side and quested blindly along the deck, brushing one man overboard. I was dimly aware of Otto giving orders to save him.
I heard the faint prayers of Draken Björnen. It was enough. I fell into deep communion with the ship, the sea, and the lightning that filled me.
Now.
I wrapped my arms around the tentacle and released the pent-up lightning in a rush. As soo
n as my body touched the creature all the tentacles stiffened, displacing water as they rose from the waves. Then all the tentacles relaxed.
The enormous body of the creature bobbed to the surface. It could not escape my embrace, and as the creature burned, its skin seared to mine. Its corpse subsided into the sea, pulling me off Draken Björnen into the icy water as I desperately tried to pull myself away from the creature. I fell into the waves, aware that the cold water could kill me in minutes. Sparks hit the waves and created a small bubble of warmth as the remaining energy dissipated, but the sea was immense, and I was small. The cold moved back in.
Strong, familiar hands lift me up onto the deck and I felt my skin tear as I was pulled away from the creature. I looked into Hersir’s worried face. He checked my skin, which bled, but the wounds were shallow.
A bone spear grazed my cheek then hit Maksa’s yellow pouch, still held high, bearing it into the waves. The men from the underwater city cheered then dived down into the waves and disappeared from view.
I heard a voice soft as snow and sharp as ice, say, “Caedmon, it is time for you to leave this place. I thank you for bringing me such a lovely trinket made from a piece of Sif’s yellow cloak and Njord’s tears.”
I looked around but could not see Jörd, which was both a disappointment and a relief. Where the cyclone had been, a new ice ring had formed, thicker and wider than the previous one, and sparkled with a golden glow as if it too had been made from pieces of Sif’s cloak.
“Go now, Caedmon. You and your ships cannot endure our winter.”
The journey back to Midgard took moments in real time, but weeks had passed while we were away.
The enemy fleet was long gone. A gentle breeze blew, and the sun shone as clearly as high summer. The sea swelled with boisterous seals, whales, and other creatures.
Our ships—mine and Maksa’s sole survivor—needed repair. Our crews were exhausted. We sailed for Fljót but when we arrived, we found only destruction. As we disembarked from our ships at the village, we saw evidence of disaster again. Bodies of men, women, and children, as well as their livestock, were piled neatly, as if preparing provisions for the winter. My pulse pounded in my ears and a curtain of red rage lowered over my vision. I clenched jaw tightly.
It was a moment before I found my voice, and when I did it was all I could do to control it. I turned to Maksa, whose face had gone gray. He looked at me and took an involuntary step back. I spoke carefully, but there was poison in my voice. Men who did things like this were worse than monsters. “Explain,” I said.
He gulped and looked around at the evidence of death everywhere. “This is what your forces did to our village. Exactly like this. You think we did this? We were with you in Thule.’
“We did nothing of the kind.” I approached him until I could see the sweat rising on his forehead and smell his fear. “This has to be your forces.”
He shook his head. “Not here. We don’t act without provocation. You did this to us. That is why we made an example of your village.”
“Sir?” Raud pointed toward the brush. I glanced over but I didn’t see anything. “There’s a man there, hiding.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Is there indeed? Raud, Otto, bring that man to me.” I turned back to Maksa. “Now we will learn the truth.”
They found and brought the man forward. He was exhausted and shaking, blood covered his hands and stained his bright blue wool overtunic decorated with Curonian embroidery and made from fabric fine enough to signal his status as a merchant. He appeared uninjured, though. Perhaps he’d held someone who was bleeding, his matted dark hair was filled with leaves and sticks.
“Who are you and what happened here?” I asked.
Maksa repeated the question in the Curonian tongue.
“I am Piške. May I have something to drink? I am too dry to speak.”
I sent Otto to bring beer. Once the man had drunk his fill and stopped trembling, he told us of a fierce attack by armed, intelligent bears. They left behind items of value, but killed the villagers, scything them down like a professional hunting party.
“They butchered everyone. They ate—” He gulped and his face turned green. He buried his face in his hands.
Maksa said something quietly in Curonian. It must have been comforting because Piške nodded and continued.
“They took some with them, but left the rest, as if filling a larder with seal meat. I couldn’t—I didn’t—” He paused for a long time and then said simply, “No one survived.”
Except him. What sort of coward was Piške to survive an attack that killed so many?
Maksa said, “That is exactly what we found in our village that was massacred.”
“You butchered our village because you thought…” It was horrible, but it had a certain logic to it. Intelligent, weapon-toting bears storing humans to eat later. I’d thought only humans could enter or leave Thule and then only during the Solstices. This was a new wrinkle.
“Because we thought you had butchered ours.” Maksa looked into my eyes and I saw he’d realized the same thing I had. We couldn’t afford to be enemies.
“We have a mutual problem,” I said.
“A pact then?”
I nodded. “A pact between your people and mine. Until such time that we can find a way into Thule and confront our mutual enemy or ensure Thule is closed forever to all who might seek to leave.
Edda: Piške the Curonian and the Blood-Soaked Bears
Translated from Old Curonian. From the Kaup Longship Excavation
In the chilly hall filled with a trace of old smoke,
Where Gudrud’s smile once warmed the air, Piške wept.
Outside, white bears, their muzzles stinking of blood, growled.
* * *
“Stay, my Love, Stay with me here,” Piške nuzzled his face in her hair.
Her cheeks once beauteous red, now fading into ivory death.
Another body amongst so many in her father's mead hall.
* * *
Her voice trembled, a forced gaiety, courageous to the last.
“Why do you visit me, Merchant? To bring me trinkets from the South?”
* * *
“No gold adornment or teardrop jewel could outshine your beauty,” swore Piške
But her eyes, as blue as sky, were now as still and cloudy as the pearls he’d brought her last.
“You outshine your jewelry, Lady. Even in death.”
* * *
A battering at the hall door and two huge white honey-stealers were through
Piške‘s heart froze solid, staring into the cunning eyes,
* * *
Not quite beast. Not quite man. But monsters that hungered like beasts,
and killed like men with spears and axes.
Gore-splattered human arms and legs stuck out from one monster’s sack.
* * *
Piške trembled and ducked down.
Who was he to take on the monsters, a mere man before uncanny bears?
Unarmed.
* * *
Piške searched, but found not a single axe blade on the bodies near him.
He looked wildly around but found not so much as a fire poker.
All taken by the horrific man-bears in their rapacious murder spree.
* * *
He knelt and whispered in his true love's hair, “Gudrud, you alone were kind and good.
Now I rescue you to burn nobly in your funeral pyre.
Not end in the belly of a beast.”
* * *
But how should he, an unarmed man, stand against monsters?
Wits, not weapons, would serve him best.
* * *
"We wait, my love, for the dark shadows of night to creep across the snow.
Then I shall hide you in the woods, my Gudrud."
Gudrud said not a word.
* * *
The monstrous bears kept coming. Some seated themselves at blood-spattered tables.
They guzzled leftover mead, making horrid sounds, roaring laughs.
* * *
A fat bear rendered a human arm, eating the meat and gnawing the bone.
Foul atrocities. Corpse-greedy bears.
They laughed and feasted on Gudrud's household.
Brave and cowardly alike were but food to these monsters of evil.
* * *
Piške hunched down, barely daring to breathe.
If he could get to his pack, an amber amulet of concealment waited.
* * *
Piške pushed Gudrud under a stack of furs. Let the bears think her part of the pile.
He crawled along the hard, wood floor, knees aching
Moving slowly around corpses,
Under the bear's noses
He inched along until he felt his leather pack and reached inside.
* * *
Gripping the invisibility token, he spoke the incantation under his breath
Adding a prayer as he did so.
"Blessed Veļu Māte, Goddess of the Dead! Your faithful son begs you, Queen of the Afterlife,
Help me set Gudrud's soul to rest."
* * *
Into the chill of the hall appeared a goddess with white, blonde hair reaching the floor,
Scented with daisies and white roses.
Veļu Māte slid through the insensible bears at the solemn pace of the funerary cart bringing the dead.
* * *
Piske felt the burden of her presence driving him to the ground.
Lightning Scarred Page 10
