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Dramatis Personae
EINAR THE JOYOUS, a Vangal warrior, nephew of the Oski chieftain
LOUIS THE SATYR, an aelfborn bard from Arbonne
RURIK THE QUIET, a warrior with ogre blood
REVEREND STEFANO BAROZZI, a priest from Genova
REVEREND ILSE OF REIFSNYDER, a templar from Mordengard
WIGLIFF THE WISE, a scoundrel, son of the Oski chieftain and Einar’s cousin
TÖSKJEL, a voelva (witch)
HROTHGAR, lord of Oski Faste and chieftain of the Oski tribe, vassal of the Earl of Rothland
HALGA, Wigliff's sister
Wigliff's brothers
RAGNAR
HYGLACK
WULFGAR
HELFDANE THE FAT
EDGTHO
HERGER
RONETH
HENRI LECONTE, Bishop of Beauclerc
LUIGI LOCATI, Bishop of Ottschtul
LUKAS OF REIFSNYDER, Ilse's brother
ZURMLURD, a wizard
MENRIC, Bishop of Athingburgh
HARALD LEIFSSON, Earl of Rothland and vassal of King Otto of Mordengard
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Einar slept. In his dreams, he strode across a battlefield with serpents writhing on his shoulders, whispering death in his ears. The Norns watched from above, silently unraveling the tapestries of lives well-lived; the skeins of brave men now feasting in Valhalla. Ahead of him loomed an army of the dead, clothed in human flesh and armed with fire. The moon god Mani hurled spears of silk from his chariot far overhead, and Einar pressed on, hewing through the dead, though they cared not, for no man could die twice. He surged toward a spire jutting from the ground like a gnarled tooth, and at the base of that spur of rock a figure waited. Older than living memory, the voelva Töskjel hunched over her knees, her bowed back no longer able to straighten. Her eyes glistened with foresight, and Einar knew fear. Around her, spirits shimmered: a ghostly honor guard of the fallen. The earth shuddered as Jormungand heaved; Einar teetered, then leapt a fissure and landed prone at Töskjel’s side. She peered down her warty nose and smiled through her beard, unperturbed by the flailing of the World Serpent. Her black gums smelled of rotting flesh as she wheezed and spoke.
When the mead-hall of your ring-giver
lies silent from the death of axe-hands,
you will meet a herald of alfar seed
who flees the gnash of wolves’ teeth.
In a land of fire he will bandy Otan’s theft
to pay your weregild and enter halls long forgotten.
The wind-bowl will take him,
and the death of snakes will descend upon the world.
Lo! No table of fire will devour the earth’s bounty,
wound-bees will fill the sky as kings play the game of iron.
Only a pourer of beer, a spear-shaker,
will brave the arrow-dew to make the world aright.
Einar sagged under the weight of his Weïrd, and reached for his ax. The crone cackled and wagged a knotted finger, and he froze, unable to move. She bent down, her fetid breath upon his face, and kissed him with dry, leathern lips. Her eyes, points of black fire, blazed into him, and he lay transfixed by the burning in his soul. The world darkened, and he awoke.
He lay on the floor of his lord’s hall in Oski Faste between the girth of old Freggi Hairy-Breeks and the ale-soaked stench of Ulf the Angry. At his feet, a dog worried at a scrap from last night’s meal. In the haze of the smoky longhouse, women moved quietly, tending fires and mending clothes. It was early yet, but through the hole above the fire pit he spied the sky—dark, lusterless, and swirling with angry gray clouds. It would snow again today.
Einar grunted and shifted aside the bulk of the sleeping warriors so he could rise. The dog growled at him, but he ignored it, stepping over the cur blearily and tromping to the doors. From there he staggered out into the biting morning cold. The fortified village of Oski Faste hunkered low against the hillock upon which it stood, as though trying to avoid the brunt of the slashing winds from the north. Einar walked to the edge of the hall’s wooden walk and observed the waters on Lake Oski as he relieved himself in the snow. Short, choppy whitecaps burst over leaden waves, and he knew that the coming storm would be the worst yet of the season. Finishing, he glanced around the wooden houses and palisades, seeing few of his kinsfolk outside today; only those whose duties required that they brave Ymir’s breath went hurriedly about their tasks.
Yawning, Einar turned to reenter the hall and break his fast when he spied a procession of men trudging up the slope beyond the palisade. His eyes widened, and he burst into the hall and bellowed, “Awake! Awake! The hunters return!” Then he barreled out of the lodge and down the slope toward the opening in the fence where guards were pulling back the wooden gate.
Five men bore litters through muddy ice, their faces filthy and grim. Upon the litters lay covered corpses, their cloaks hardened with frozen blood. Einar and the guards looked on grimly as the hunters approached, their breath manifesting a forest of icy air as they hauled their bleak load to the gates. No one spoke until a man named Olvir spat words like daggers. “It came at us out of the mists. A troll. Before we could draw swords, it had gutted Sven and sank its poisoned teeth into Thrand. We fought like bears, but Kjar and Hoketil joined them in death before the fiend retreated with its feast. Sven’s wife will not need to build a pyre; nothing of him remains, save this.” He handed Einar Sven’s sword. No blood marked it.
One of the guards, young Eyolf, spat upon the ground vehemently and spoke. “Aye, it’s tasted man-flesh now. We must hunt it down with spears and burn it ere it returns to plague our kinsmen.”
Olvir eyed Einar and gestured with his fist, “Is this not why the voelva bound your ax with runes of power? Your cousins say that no troll can long withstand it.”
“This is so,” Einar nodded, “I will put Angreiðr to its work before long. But for now, let us tend to our valiant dead. My lord uncle will hold a feast for them tonight in honor of their bravery.”
The hunters nodded solemnly. The guardsmen took a litter, Einar took another while two hunters took up the watch, and together the men marched through the ice-covered mud toward the looming hall perched upon the mount.
An errant snowflake brushed Einar’s cheek, and he grinned in anticipation of the revelry and fighting to come. Even while he did so, a worry he did not apprehend coiled through his mind, leaving him with a vague discomfort. The mead that night soured in his mouth, which vexed him greatly, all the more because he could not fathom why.
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