by M. D. Massey
When they were gone, I tried to contact the Oak. Whether it was due to distance or some spell that blocked Jotunheim off from other worlds, I couldn’t even manage the faintest whisper of communication. Feeling defeated and alone, I found a relatively muck-free spot and made myself as comfortable as possible.
Some rescue mission. Sorry, Finnegas.
Soon, Býleistr came along to gloat, as I knew he would. He leaned over the hole, hands on his knees, peering at me through the thick iron bars that capped my prison high overhead. I remained silent, waiting for him to speak. No way would I give him the satisfaction of thinking I’d beg for clemency.
“How do ya’ like your quarters, drood?” the giant asked.
“It lacks a certain ambience, I’ll say that. Please inform your housecarl that I take my tea at dawn, and I expect hot towels and an even hotter bath a quarter-hour after.”
He spat a big gob of phlegm into the hole, narrowly missing my leg. “Joke all ya’ want, human. Tomorrow morn’ we’ll hold yer’ trial, and then ya’ll not be laughin’ no more.”
“Tell me something, Býleistr,” I said, feigning a calm I didn’t feel. “I’ve heard that the jötnar live by a warrior’s code, much like the Vikings did in years gone by. So how is it that your people are letting you railroad me with a fake trial, when I killed your son in fair and mutual combat?”
The giant snarled his reply, low and dangerous from between clenched teeth. “When that damned fae queen sent his body ta’ us, the boy’s hands an’ feet was blistered an’ charred by magic. Ya’ cheated, drood, an’ there’d be no way ya’d best ma’ son otherwise. Tweren’t no fair battle.”
“Nah, I didn’t cheat. He attacked me when I was still human-sized, so I did what I had to do to survive. After I shifted it was hand-to-hand, and I ripped his femoral artery out with my own teeth.” I paused for a moment, letting the jötunn king seethe. “Then, I watched him bleed out in the river. I’ll say this much—he fought well, and he died with honor. Quite unlike his father.”
“I know wha’cher doin’,” he replied. “Ya’ think ya’ kin goad me inta’ jumpin’ in that pit an’ tryin’ ta’ throttle ya’ ma’self. Well, it won’t work. Clan’s gonna see yer head on the block, an’ I intend ta’ chop it off with ma’ own hands. Enjoy yer’ last night on the planes, drood.”
Having said his peace, the bastard whipped his dick out to piss on me through the iron grate. It was impossible to avoid the downpour, and I was drenched in the foulest-smelling liquid imaginable within seconds. The laughter of several giants echoed nearby, and all I could do was fume as Býleistr’s voice joined them when he walked away.
Eventually I was forced to shift back to my human form, which left me at the mercy of the elements. Still, I wasn’t completely helpless in my current state, and I was able to cast a cantrip to warm myself as I sat shivering in the pit. Jotunheim was cold, and my Bag had been taken from me, so I covered myself as best I could with rank straw, settling in for a long night.
At some point I drifted off, only to be awakened hours later by someone whispering overhead.
“Psst. Hey, lad, how’re ya’ doin’ down there?”
“Click, is that you?” I asked, feeling a bit of hope creeping into me. “Get me out of here already. I’m fucking freezing.”
“No can do, boyo. Hole’s magicked, an’ there’s too many o’ those tossers hangin’ round up here ta’ bust ya’ out. But don’cha worry yerself none, cause me an’ Loki have a plan.” He went silent for a moment. “Oops, someone’s comin’. See ya’ tomorrow at the trial.”
“Click?” I whispered, getting only silence in return. “Click, you crazy Welsh bastard, come back and get me the fuck out of here.”
There was only more silence, then footsteps. Moments later, Váli’s face appeared above the hole.
I stood and scowled. “Ah, hell—are you coming to piss on me too?”
He watched me for a moment, firelight flickering off his face in the dark. “No. I’m not some honor-less knave like your captor.” He went silent again, and since my teeth were starting to chatter, I waited for him to continue. “Tell me, druid, how did my son die?”
“You too, eh?” The god made a sound halfway between a snarl and a hiss. I couldn’t blame him—I’d want to know what happened to my son, too. “Alright, I’ll tell you. He was your son, after all.”
“In truth, I have no shortage of offspring. However, Calder and I parted poorly when last I saw him. Thus, it weighs heavily on me that we did not reconcile before his passing.”
“Calder? Really?”
“What of it?” he asked. “Calder is a fine name.”
“No, I mean it’s a cool name and all, it’s just—oh, never mind. I’m a little tired right now, so I hope you don’t mind if I give you the Reader’s Digest version.”
“Go on.”
“Cade was working for this witch in exchange for help controlling his berserker nature. She was a soucouyant—you know what that is?”
“I’ve been around a very long time, druid,” he replied, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yes, I know of the species.”
“Right. So, her master was killing humans in my city. I killed her to get to him, and Cade took umbrage at that. So, he showed up at my junkyard, he went berserk, and then I killed him.”
The god cradled his chin in his hand. “You bested a half-god berserker warrior in his were-form? Was he armed?”
“Yes, and yes. It wasn’t easy, let me tell you.” I paused, wondering if I should go on. I didn’t want to piss him off more, but I said I’d tell him what happened, so I continued. “He died ugly, but it was quick, if that’s any comfort to you.”
Váli grunted softly. “It is. We are warriors, and warriors fall in battle. To know he died with his weapon in hand means much to me.”
He started walking away, and I suddenly sensed an opportunity slipping through my hands. “I still have it, by the way.” I blurted. “Didn’t seem right to use it, and hammers aren’t my style. So, I tucked it away someplace safe.”
“I would bury him with his weapon, if possible,” the god said. “Could you return his remains and hammer to me if you survived this place?”
“I could, yes.” If only he knew. Cade’s remains were inside a couple of junked cars that had been crushed into a four by four cube, buried in deep beneath the junkyard stack. No need to tell his dad that, though.
“I cannot risk angering the jötnar by helping you escape. Father would not be pleased if I started a war.” Váli remained silent for the better part of a minute. “When you go to trial tomorrow, ask for the rite of hólmganga, as is your due. That is the best I can offer.”
He walked away quickly, leaving me to whisper in vain to the empty sky above. “Wait—what the hell is a home gang?”
21
The next morning, they hauled me out of the pit by a rope—wet, shivering, and smelling like I’d been dunked in a latrine hole. The guards checked my bonds, then they dragged me to an icy stream where they dunked me over and over until I was relatively clean. Unlike the guards who tossed me in the pit the night previous, these giants seemed to take little pleasure in their duties. And while they weren’t gentle, they didn’t go out of their way to do me harm.
So, not everyone in Utgard is a complete dick. Good to know.
After I’d been forcefully bathed, the guards tied a thick rope around my neck. Then they led me deeper into the canyon, until we came to a huge wall and gate that were approximately five stories high and spanned the width of the ravine. The guards yelled above and the gate opened, at which point we entered their city.
I hadn’t seen much of Jotunheim the night previous, since they’d tossed me into the pit with little fanfare. Now that I had a chance to look around, I had to admit that I was impressed by what I saw. The jötnar lived in homes that had been carved from the canyon walls—reminiscent of photos I’d seen of Petra, but on a much larger scale. From top to bottom on either side, terraces a
nd giant-sized stairs had been cut from the rock, dividing their city into several levels.
The higher up the cliff face, the more opulent the carved dwellings became, and larger as well. In fact, the dwellings at the top were adorned with bright tapestries, precious metals, and gems that had been set into the stone around the doors. But down below at ground level, the homes were little more than caves in the wall. There, the people wore simple clothing and the women toiled at menial tasks, pausing to watch and comment as we walked past.
I didn’t bother asking where we were headed, because I’d seen this movie before and knew how it ended. As we continued through town, a crowd gathered behind us, and giants lined the central road that bisected the canyon and their city. The crowd began to hiss and boo, some spat on me, and I was pelted more than once with rotten fruit and fish guts as we passed.
Thankfully my sinner’s march was brief, and we arrived at our destination within a few minutes. Here, the valley widened, opening up into a series of foothills above a broad rocky plain. When the crowd parted before us and I was able to see in all directions, I realized that the valley was nothing more than a cleft in the vast, never-ending mountain range that stretched from horizon to horizon.
This part of Jotunheim wasn’t much for vegetation, that was for certain, although herds of oversized sheep grazed here and there on the slopes. Off in the distance, I noted that the lower mountainsides were covered in greenery, presumably tall conifers of the kind that favored such climates. The sun shone bright above in the hazy gray-blue sky, but it did nothing to warm the chill I felt deep down to my bones.
A hundred yards ahead, on the crest of a broad hill, stood a sort of outdoor amphitheater, easily the size of four high school football stadiums. It was constructed from stone blocks that had obviously been cut from the canyon, perhaps back when they’d first built Utgard. People filed into the structure from the city and foothills in droves. Some were common folk, but most were wealthy carls, thegns, reeves, and ealdormen—if their bright clothing, jewelry, armor, and weapons were any indication.
We walked through a wide opening that led to the coliseum floor, and I was tied to an upright stone pillar in the center of the stadium. Giants continued to shuffle in, finding seats while those in the stands mingled, talked, and laughed amongst themselves. Knowing I was pretty much fucked in the most royal manner imaginable, I still took the time to conduct a mental inventory, just in case I saw an opportunity to escape.
Escape? Right. Not while they have Bells and my friends.
I couldn’t exactly call Bryn a friend, yet she wasn’t an enemy either. And Crowley—he was just Crowley, but hell if I was going to be responsible for his death. I’d grown fond of Ásgeir over the last few days, so I certainly didn’t want any harm coming to him. As for Click and Loki, those two could go fuck themselves unless they hatched a plan to get me out of this mess.
Ultimately, however, I was most concerned for Finnegas. Dian Cécht was being held captive in that city back there; I was certain of it. And if I didn’t manage to get myself free to rescue him, my old mentor would die a long, slow death inside the Grove. Fucking hell, but I couldn’t allow that.
The question was, could I sacrifice one for the others, or vice versa? For several minutes, I pondered that conundrum. If I stealth-shifted and tore free, I might be able to flee the coliseum and find Dian Cécht. Then, I could fight my way to the portal…
Which was closed, and I had no idea how to open it. Belladonna and all the rest would be dead as soon as I escaped, although I know they’d go down swinging. Then I’d be stuck here in Jotunheim to fend for myself, fighting a one-Fomorian guerrilla war for vengeance until they tracked me down and slaughtered me.
Yeah, I’m fucked. Let’s just hope that Váli’s “home gang” is enough to get me out of this mess.
Býleistr strode into the stadium about an hour later, dressed in fine furs and a shiny mail shirt, with gold bands on his arms and thick gold chains around his neck. He had a short sword at his waist, nothing fancy—a killing weapon. His face bore a grim smile, as if he were about to take care of a distasteful but necessary chore, but that look was purely for the audience. His eyes told the tale of how he really felt, and they were bright and focused on me from the moment he walked into view.
The jarl was followed by a sizable retinue of jötnar warriors, all armed to the teeth. The last carried a huge two-handed sword over his shoulder, and although it looked ceremonial, the nicks in the blade and the sheen on the edge told me it had seen recent use. Another carried a large wooden block on his back, followed by a young boy with an equally large wicker basket in hands. When the giant laid the block on the stone floor of the coliseum, deep cut marks and bloodstains were revealed on its topmost surface.
An executioner’s block. Great.
The guy with the greatsword stood at parade rest next to the block, and the warriors lined up in a wide circle around the jarl and me. That’s when I noticed that several of the more brightly-clothed giants sat in their own section, nearest to the coliseum floor. There were two-dozen of them, and all but three were male. Each watched their king silently—some with grim stares, others bored, the rest leaning forward in eager anticipation of the proceedings.
Býleistr strutted to the center of the floor and began speaking in old Norse. That pissed me off, because if I was going to be on trial, I wanted to hear what was being said. I started to raise my hand, then a familiar voice whispered in my ear.
“Relax, kid. I’ll spell you up so you can understand what my pissant of a brother is saying. The magic should allow you to answer in dönsk tungu as well.”
“Loki—”
“Shhh, I gotta go. Stay frosty, Colinatrix. Gwyd and I are rooting for you.”
“Hey, don’t leave me,” I whispered, only to get silence in return. “Great, just great.”
Temporarily at a loss, I turned my attention to Býleistr as his foreign words morphed into English. Oddly, it seemed that the jarl was much more eloquent in his native language. The backward bumpkin was gone, replaced by a sleazy, utterly persuasive speaker—the kind who grows up to become a televangelist, or a politician, or an infomercial host.
“Noble citizens of Utgard,” the jarl boomed. “We bring before you one who has committed the crime of regicide, having killed your noble prince, Snorri Býleistr’s son, in cold blood.”
The crowd booed in response, throwing more rotten fruit and veg my way, although none managed to touch me. I glanced over at the jurors to find several glaring at me with contempt. Things did not look good.
“As you might imagine, I am still heartbroken at the loss of my eldest, yet I stand here as your jarl to do my duty as our law demands.” Býleistr wiped an imaginary tear as he continued his diatribe, gesturing and grandstanding for all he was worth. “Thus, we gather today so that this criminal’s foul deeds may be recounted to the council of ealdormen and ealdorwomen. I pray they deliver justice for poor Snorri, as they sit in judgement over the foul knave who brought a beloved son of Utgard low.”
The crowd hissed and booed in response, and they threw more trash at me. No doubt, the guy was a fucking expert at stirring up a crowd with fancy words and appeals to emotion. If I let this continue, my severed head would be looking up at that ugly sky above from the bottom of a wicker basket. It was now or never.
“Hólmganga!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. “I demand the rite of hólmganga.”
A hush fell over the crowd, followed by murmuring amongst the members of the jury. For a moment, Býleistr’s face contorted in a rictus of rage, and his fist gripped the collar of his fine fur robe tight enough to rip hair from the edge. Then, his expression relaxed, replaced by one of cool, detached calm. He stood tall as he spoke, addressing me as if he were addressing a flea.
“Hold your tongue, human,” he said. “You cannot demand hólmganga, as you have no standing in jötnar society.”
“Actually, he does,” Váli said, walking out of the
stands and onto the stadium concourse. “He has Fomorian blood, a fact witnessed by a good number of jötnar warriors when he first arrived here from Yggdrasil. If memory serves, several millennia ago, the jötnar and the Fomorians entered into a treaty that provides certain diplomatic privileges to visiting parties. Not the least of which is the right to resolve disputes via a fair and honorable duel.”
“Walk away, Odin’s son,” the jarl hissed, just loud enough for those on the stadium floor to hear. “You have no right to speak in this forum.”
“Oh, I have every right,” Váli replied. “I represent the will of the All-Father here in Jotunheim.”
At that very moment, a pair of voices started a chant in the stands—voices that sounded suspiciously like Click and Loki’s. “Holmgang, holmgang, holmGANG, HOLMGANG!”
Soon, most of the giants in the stands had joined in the chant. In all likelihood, this was not because they desired any clemency for me, but because they were jötnar and they liked a good scrape. Sure, a public trial and execution was cool and all, but a duel to resolve a blood feud—now, that was entertainment.
Váli leaned against the wall of the stadium, arms crossed and looking like the cat who ate the canary. “It seems your people have spoken, jarl. What say you—will the druid get the fair trial he demands? Or will you be shown craven before all of Utgard?”
Býleistr’s face turned beet red as he stared daggers at the Norse god. The two locked eyes for several seconds, then the giant raised his hands to calm the crowd. “Loyal subjects, your jarl has heard your cries. The human and I will settle this matter through trial by combat.”
The crowd roared, many jumping to their feet or stamping noisily where they sat. The ealdormen and ealdorwomen were silent, some nodding in approval, while others frowned at the irregularity of the proceedings. As for me, well—I was already busy figuring out how to kill their king.
