#nordic, #fantasy, #mythical, #slow-burn, #snow, #dark, #curse, #treasure

Gundor

The hounds had quickly found the trail, and Gundor led their diminished party further away from Grejkran. The Honnúng’s decision to split the group had been sound, but Gundor couldn’t escape the nervous feeling of being exposed and vulnerable. At least they had the dogs. One was sniffing for the tracks, tracks that would drive it mad with fright unless coaxed. The other one followed the Honnúng behind him. Gundor was counting on it to warn them should something dangerous lurk in the shadows—the one under his command was of no use there.

“Gundor,” Saga said, sliding next to him. “Can I ask you something?”

“My Honná, certainly,” Gundor said, bowing a little.

“I’ve been thinking about the Mothers,” she began, her gaze sweeping the ridge on their right, “and the riddle…”

“Hail fool, of carvéd stone?”

She nodded. Unlike the rest of the party, she wore a woollen hood instead of a fur cap, leaving her cascading golden hair loose for the wind to play with. “I remember the stories I was told as a young child of how the Mothers were turned to stone. Tricked to Lake Hîlev in search of the fairest giant of them all.”

“Is that how the story is told?” Gundor asked, a smile casting the frown aside momentarily. “Well, I suppose it’s close enough.” They slid down into a small dell and began to circle a taller hill to avoid the steep climb.

“That’s how it was recounted in my childhood, but there’s more. I remember that it was a longer story—”

“Aren’t they always?”

“—but that it wasn’t about the Mothers. It was called The Lay of the Forsaken Widows or something like that, but we called it the Hxr Song.” Saga guided her skis closer to Gundor’s, and she sang softly,

“Sleeping at the forest’s lap;

There hxr laid a mighty trap;

In bone and flesh, they poured the sap;

Their plans wrought pure in drum and clap;

Was silent then the lake and land;

Frozen still their hair and hand;

No voice, no sound, no laughter rang;

In mocking verses, Munnuth sang.

Tam-ta-tam, ah, I’ve forgotten the rest. Didn’t they quarrel, Munnuth and the hxr, on what to do with the giants after they had been trapped? And the hxr got aggravated, casting Munnuth out of their graces, and since then, she’s been an outcast.”

Gundor glanced at her, surprised. “You have an excellent memory, my Honná. I’m astonished that people remember those verses. Yes, it is like you sang, and the story is told that ever since the trapping of the giants, Munnuth has vied with the hxr. They are bitter rivals, not unlike many of the beings still living in the Skûd.”

Fórn loped back to him, licked his hand, yawned, and resumed its leading position.

“So,” Gundor continued, “are you wondering why this Hag, one of the hxr, would awaken the giants they trapped so long ago? Or, perhaps, is the Hag a hxr at all? Has Munnuth returned? That Aner boy only saw an older woman shedding the skin of Old Moukash. Were the Grey Hermits who revere Munnuth a sign for us that she, too, has forsaken the silence of the Skûd and is now moving among us?” Gundor sighed loudly. “The truth is, this is what I wonder, too.”

“You don’t… feel them?”

Gundor raised his brow. “Feel them?”

Saga flinched. “It’s just, well, something they sang us about tyrites when we were little. There’s the ripple; there’s the flame; on tyrite’s skin, a jumpy nipple… and so on. We were told you can sense the presence of the creatures in the Skûd.”

Gundor laughed, his voice a foreigner in the winter’s quiet. “No, sorry, we don’t feel that, not with our nipples, at least. Marvellous.” He shook his head and continued, “Right now, I wish I could. Lately, I’ve had more questions than answers.”

“And the trail we’re following,” Saga said and patted Fórn as it returned for encouragement from Gundor. “You don’t think it’s her?”

“Munnuth?” Gundor ruffled the hound’s head and knelt to whisper in its ear. With a determined growl, it sprang back to lead them. “It’s a gról, all right, and a mighty one, too. Not many leave this sort of trail in their wake. But…” he removed his hat and scratched his bald head, “Munnuth is ever the weaver of secrets, working behind others and living off the shadows on the marshes.”

“Behind or within others?” Saga asked.

Gundor grimaced. He would have liked to have an answer to that, too.

Istan

Istan spat snow from his mouth. They had descended from the Fisherman’s Watch, and the pleasant ride with the koisas was but a faded memory. He had tumbled, thrice, before they reached the tall, snow-glazed spruces and more level ground, and he swore to burn the skis if he ever returned with the fell silver. “What is this Fokkéln?”

Skada had allowed him to go first, and she halted graciously beside him. She looked at him, a questioning look on her face. “It’s a forest.”

Istan groaned, picking his ski staff up from the snow and slowly straightening his back. “No, I mean, why did Fjelvid warn us about it? There were, what, mounds and a bastion north of here? Why don’t we head to the Keep and get some supplies? Surely they would welcome lone travellers?”

Skada looked ahead, her mouth a straight, rosy line—a look Istan now associated with her thinking. He had learned better than to disturb her, but it was hard. The questions and suggestions bubbled barely under control. There was also something beautiful in her sternness, how her cheeks, soft and subtly flushed, drew tighter, and as she tilted her head slightly, her playful curls drew back from her face in anticipation of a great decision.

And suddenly, all Istan could wonder was why she wasn’t married already.

“Istan?” Skada asked.

Istan blinked, realising he hadn’t listened. “Er, what?”

“You know what haunted means?”

She also had a beautiful frown—and a way of making him feel utterly stupid. “Of course I know,” he said. “But what does that have to do with us?”

“You asked why not go to the bastion… did you hit your head or something?” Even her brow arched beautifully.

“No! All I’m saying is, why would anyone leave a haunted bastion to its own devices and not get rid of the haunts? A perfect waste of property.” He pushed quickly past her, heading in what he hoped was the right direction before his cheeks melted the drifts around them.

“Istan,” she called.

Istan halted and looked over his shoulder.

She pointed to the northeast. “That way.”

*

Fokkéln was much like all the other forests Istan had seen after crossing the mountains. Tall, grim spruces covered with thick pelts of snow, with a birch here and an ash there, and the velvety hush enveloping everything in such an eerie softness that it strangled all sounds. It was like the world didn’t exist beyond the nearest trees. The forests near Farklent were always teeming with noises: twigs snapping, small animals scuttling, birds chirping. Here, it was his rasping breath competing with the gentle purr their skis made as they cut through the powder—and nothing else.

And his guide was just like the forest, quiet to the bone.

They halted often to check their bearings with the súlstein. Even the magic of the stone, as it drew the faded circle of the moon as they peered through it, wore off, and the grinding progress of reaching yet another small rise or pushing through this new thicket took its toll on him. Still, the magic of the stone conjured a way for him to cope with the hardship: he imagined his route all the way from the Narrow Pass and how he could draw that on a parchment. The forests could be noted with sharp arrows, the hills with small arcs, the white patches marked as lakes, and Rótokul, the Cracked Banks, could be, well—and then Istan found that his ploy had played its course.

“I would just draw a big white blank space for all the snow… and a bloody line that’d be my ski track,” Istan muttered. “Farsch, but I hate this.”

The dull grind returned.

To his amazement, the small dells and slopes they encountered turned into a long-awaited respite. Going downhill, he could actually feel something different. The lightness, the speed, even the jarring impact and the kiss of the áhko, as it pummelled him when he fell, were a welcome change.

Groaning, Istan picked himself up yet again. “Hey! Should we stop for the day?”

She was atop a nearby small hill, looking away.

“Hey?” Istan shouted again. “How can you not get tired when I can barely cope?” he muttered as he slowly dragged his sledge beside her. “Skada, we need to stop for a moment—”

“Can you see that?”

“What?” Istan frowned, squinting into the gloom. “See what?”

“Hanging from that tree. That… thing,” Skada said, her brow furrowed. She pointed with her staff.

“No, I don’t.” He wiped the sweat from his face. “If it’s not a bath, then I’m not interested in it.”

“What? A bath?”

“Ah, it was a joke… Never mind.” A bath would have been nice. It would have been nice for some time now. “What do you see?”

“It’s a jelklát,” she said.

Istan, still unsure what he was supposed to see, peered in the direction she had pointed. “And what is that?”

“It’s a sign,” she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper.

“Skada,” Istan said, trying to contain himself, “I don’t understand what any of that means. A sign for what?”

“Come, but quietly now,” she whispered, pushing herself on the slope.

“Skada, Skada! Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” Istan cursed under his breath. Resigning to fall, he pushed after her.

This time, he didn’t fall, and he was just about to congratulate himself on it when he spied what Skada had spotted from farther off. From one of the trees, a birch bent into an arc under the snow, hung a contraption made of thin rope and blackened wood. The parts were arranged to resemble a human figure—a tiny, hanged human. Each piece was covered in sharply drawn symbols, and red paint shone weakly on the scratched and frozen surfaces.

Istan shivered as he stared at the thing. “This is the jelklát?”

“Aye. It’s a sort of wind chime,” Skada said. She peered around them, speaking softly to herself.

“What did you say?” Istan couldn’t take his eyes off the thing. The pieces were all similar, round and about the length of his forearm, but the markings differed. “Is this a… good sign?”

“Be quiet. I’m trying to remember something,” she said, closing her eyes. She began to hum softly. “Does it sway in the wind and say clap-clap;

Does it shine in the night and say clap-clap;

Or does it brood and be sullen and unmoving or fallen;

hear the chime in the night, fear the chime in the night;

Does it sing after dusk and say clap-clap;

Does it scream in the woods and say clap-clap;

If the wind is awaking before dawn is a-breaking;

hear the chime in the night, fear the chime in the night.”

“Is that a… children’s rhyme?” Istan liked the jelklát even less after the song.

“It is, but,” Skada looked unsure, “I’m not sure if that was all of it.”

“Well, it doesn’t sound like it’s a good thing, right? Should we perhaps leave it be?”

“Yes, I think you’re right, but still…” Skada frowned. “Damn it. Come on, let’s move.”

They continued eastward. The whiteness around them seemed unmoving, but then Istan realised everything was increasingly darker. Clouds crept over them, covering the moon and belching murkier gloom over the region. His skiing couldn’t keep the grim cold from biting. The freezing sensation radiated from his fingertips to his forearms. From his face, it cascaded towards his chest, and he had a peculiar sensation that the frost was after his heart. The jelklát had made him forget his thorough exhaustion, but now it trundled over him.

“Skada,” Istan began, taking a few furious strides, “should we halt for tonight?” With her stamina, he feared she would say no.

“We should head there.” She waved at a dense group of spruces.

Istan, exhaling in relief, peered around them. It was all forest to him. “How’s that any different from where we’re standing right now?”

Skada shook her head in disbelief. “Come Skûd, but you wouldn’t have made it far on your own. If the wind turns, you’ll be an icicle before you fall asleep. That slope will shelter us, as will those trees. Besides, the drifts are shallower there, and we might avoid building a lean-to if we can find a large enough spruce under which to sleep. Is there no snow in Farklent?”

Leaning on his staff and groaning, Istan answered only with a wave of his hand, and soon they were examining the trees. She was clever, he had to give her that. The branches of the spruces formed domes coated with thick layers of snow, but the hollows inside were almost like tiny huts. After examining a few that were too small, they found a space to fit them both, and the ahkós they tucked under the tree beside them. Skada ordered Istan to cut spruce branches to cover the floor while she cleared the snow inside, uncovering a bed of moss. Finally, they laid two reindeer hides over the moss-and-branch floor before tossing their bedrolls inside.

Before the doorway, Skada built a small wall from twigs and snow, leaving a gap between it and their hideout. Istan looked curiously as she produced from her ahkó the oilskin he had seen before and unwrapped the ashes and half-burned logs of their previous fire. In a heartbeat, fresh flames crackled to life and began their dance.

“Not bad,” he said, nodding in admiration. He yawned, thinking he could first eat something and then collapse into their shelter.

“Here, fill these,” Skada said, handing him two pots.

Istan stared at them. “Fill? With what?”

“Snow. We’ll melt it down for water. We can make a stew or a broth. I know I’m starving. Later, we’ll melt more snow to fill our skins.”

A lot later, full-bellied but dead-tired, Istan lay inside their nest. He had burned his tongue, so he had no idea whether Skada’s broth had been good, but it had warmed him nicely. Moreover, their makeshift hut was remarkably warm, considering the circumstances. Removing his hat and his mittens, he had to agree with what she had said earlier—he wouldn’t have gotten far without her. How did she know all this was beyond him, but the fates had blessed him with an excellent guide.

“I can take the first watch,” Skada said. She was lying next to him, looking as tired as Istan felt.

“You sure?” Istan was surprised to hear the hesitation in his voice. “You’re our guide, after all. Better you stay sharp.”

She looked at him, her blue-green eyes appearing relieved. “Thank you.” She rolled onto her back, pulled up her scarf, adjusted her fur hat, and was fast asleep almost instantly.

Istan stared at her, listening to her gentle breath before realising he was nodding. Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to the fire and the cauldrons. “I’ll just heat some snow then,” he said, yawning deeply.

It was slow work, and the results were pitiful. He had to fill both pots six or seven times to get enough water for one of their skins. They both carried two, and then they had two casks of ale stored in hay, wrapped in skins, that lay beside them. Thankfully, those were still untapped.

Still, he was unsure how large a flame he was supposed to keep burning. Enough to keep them warm, but not too comfortable, since they didn’t have much firewood in the ahkós —only four bundles each.

That brought other issues to his mind. They had seen the Fells, but what had the koisas told them? It took two days to get there, and perhaps another two days to find the silver, but what then? He turned a little. They had managed to level most of the roots with the branches, skins, and bedrolls, but one gnarly stump was jutting against his side. So, four days, and then the return… he yawned again.

What then? “Work the chains of fäll servíl, smith, lest Firdún may escape again,” was what the child in his dreams had told him, and therein lay the problem: he was no smith. He knew no smith. He could draw maps, sharpen quills, make measurements, but to hammer, to heat, and to craft were all foreign concepts to him. He should’ve asked that from the black swan, but it was too late now, and turning away…

In his mind’s eye, he saw the deck of the ship yawning, with the wood screaming in protest as frost took hold, bending the straight planks. The northern gale, cold and merciless, had sprayed water like icy needles over the craft and crew. He had clambered over the terrified passengers, the livestock, and tried to explain to the captain that they should change course. Once they reached the harbour—though not the one they were aiming for, but one that would bring him closer to Filgentýr—they had looked at him with hostility.

He blinked as his forehead hit the snowy ground. Had he fallen asleep? Shuddering, he turned a little in his spot, taking comfort in her gentle breathing and in the way their small fire crackled and snapped the twigs. There was a similarity in how the flames handled the wood to how the frost made the forest creak and sing. He shook his head. He was no closer to answering his own question: he was no smith, but he would need to make the chains?

Probably not. He could claim the silver, find a blacksmith—surely there would be a smithy in the nearest village?—and let him work on the chains. Then, well… he yawned. Then he would be done, and maybe the nightmares would leave him be? Certo Mur no more? He could return home—

But there was nothing there. His home, the tiny hut he had lived in, was all that remained of his parents. It had been an outbreak of nartfever, a dreadful pestilence that used to strike after lean years, that took them, and he was called back from his cartography studies. Naturally, he had returned, but would the stipend, his studies… would they still be there?

He didn’t know.

And then, the nightmares had resumed.

And the task.

Certo Mur.

Lest Firdún may escape again.

The villagers all feared the name, Firdún… He glanced at Skada, her nose just visible amid all the fur. She hadn’t spoken much about him. Wasn’t she afraid of him, or was it something else? She had seen a vision, or so she claimed… was she cursed, too? And that woman in red, and that child—a shiver ran through him—and the large being stalking them on the road… And then, this fell silver, how much would he need it? To make a chain, long enough to fasten around a man… but if Firdún was the stone statue of his dreams, he was a huge man indeed!

His eyelids felt heavy, and he did hear the water bubbling in the nearest cauldron, but he was too tired to do anything about it. He assumed they had enough supplies for the trip back from the Fells, but surely there were other villages or homesteads where they could ask for help. His head bent lower, and lower.

A peculiar, metallic scent wafted into their nest.

“Farch,” Istan muttered and crawled beside the fire. Had he thrown something other than snow into the pot, or was it already empty? He didn’t want to boil a twig and drink it later, but peering in revealed still fresh snow inside, the same as in the other. The smell was stronger now. Did their fire smoke more than it had before? Maybe he had thrown in wet wood? He placed a couple of logs near the fire and withdrew back into their nest. The fire crackled pleasantly, his stomach was full, and he felt so warm that he removed his thick jacket, using it more as a blanket.

“I wonder if it’s time?” he said quietly to the fire.

#nordic, #fantasy, #mythical, #slow-burn, #snow, #dark, #curse, #treasure

Istan

Istan jolted awake with a sharp cry.

“Steady now,” Fjelvid said behind him, its massive palm resting on his shoulder. “You’re a jumpy dreamer. You’ve nearly tumbled off twice already.”

“Sorry.” Istan shook his head. Despite the wide seat, the sleigh had nothing to stop him from falling off the side, and they were still moving fast. “And thanks.” He yawned and looked around him. Skada was covered in furs; only her nose was visible. “Is it morning yet?” The landscape all looked the same. White on white and… but it didn’t look the same. He squinted. “And where are we?”

“Aye, the morning is already behind us, such as it graces us during Benighting. These are the Rótokul, the Cracked Banks. Lake Jôv draws its waters from countless streams that, over the aeons, have carved their way through the cliffs here. We must be cautious, though, for not all of them are ice-covered. Strong currents may deceive an unwary traveller, and when you fall through the lintís, well, that’d be the end of it.”

“Lint…is? What is that?” Istan looked worriedly at where their steedless harnesses were pulling them.

“Ice that forms thin layers, maybe a finger’s thick, over places with currents or other things underneath. Devious ice, we call it, but now, my good passenger, I must concentrate.” The koisas resumed singing, its voice rumbling on a low note.

Their sleigh passed by sheer cliffs of whiteness, occasionally revealing their grey insides like earthy scales raised against the glimmering crust. Their jagged edges jotted a canyon for them to follow, and slowly, they climbed upwards. Istan retrieved a small pouch of salted beef from his bag. Leaning comfortably backwards, he chewed in silence, letting Fjelvid’s murmur-like singing keep him company. This was the first moment since leaving Farklent that he felt content. Warm, relaxed, and rested, he could find nothing to complain about. He smiled, and a chuckle escaped his lips.

“What’s so funny?”

Istan started, but then he realised Skada had asked the question. “Oh, you’re awake. Nothing. I was just… I’ve been cold, hungry, and miserable all those weeks I’ve travelled, but now, here, in this unlikeliest of places, I’m none of those things. I’m warm, my stomach is, well, not full, but not empty either, and this sleigh… this was a boon.”

“Thank you,” Fjelvid said above them, and resumed singing.

Skada, rolling herself up under all the covers, smiled at him. “It’s good to enjoy it while it lasts.”

Istan stared at her. “You’re a sunshine, you know that?”

Skada’s face remained blank, and she seemed more interested in her portion of dried meat than in his comments.

“You know, I’ve been wondering,” Istan began, clearing his throat. “How is it that a woman of your age is, well, not married?”

Skada stopped chewing.

Istan wrung his hands. “The people in the village, many of the women, had these necklaces or belts where they had hung shears and keys. It was very peculiar; I didn’t make much of it at the time, but now, I’ve been thinking. In Farklent, married women tie their hair with bands of specific colours in much the same way, so you can always tell who is married and who’s not.”

“I didn’t know you were looking for a wife.” Skada resumed eating.

The koisas let out a trumpeting sound.

Istan glared at it before turning back towards Skada. “Who said I wasn’t married? But that’s not what I was after. The thing is, what I mean is…” He fumbled with his words. Insufferable woman. “You abandoned your entire village in a heartbeat to help me, a stranger. The more I think of our escape, the more I feel like the weirdest thing is that you came to my help alone—and you had the sledge packed and ready! I don’t know much about the north, and I will hold my part of our agreement, but Miss Mort, if you’re running away from something, now would be a good time to tell it.”

Skada shot him a glance—brief, cautious, nearly insecure. But as Istan blinked, she was herself again, stern and sharp.

“Certo Mur,” she said. “What does that mean?”

“Ah, it’s a… nothing important.”

She snorted and brushed a lock of curly hair from her face. “You’re not much of a liar, you know that? I overheard the Honnúng and the Honná discussing it. It’s something about a king?”

Istan’s brow arched. They understood Lowers, at least a little! The Honnúng, wasn’t he the Lord of the village? Well, it made sense that he would speak it, given the trade through the Narrow Pass. “Um, it’s a name, well, a title, no… people in Farklent, when they’re born, they’re given these names, Faltes, according to the signs read by the village elders.”

“Signs, what signs?”

“It really depends. On a windy day, the child could be called la Fil, light of mood, or on a rainy day le Sonder Ur, sorrower. When I was born, I… there were some disagreements between my family and a village, um, witch? She believed my father robbed her, ah, didn’t pay a due price for her services, so she, er, named me…” Istan shrugged.

“Certo Mur? The king?”

“The King’s Bane,” Istan admitted, forcing down the grimace spreading across his face. “But it’s all nonsense.” Nonsense that saw the witch killed before she could spread the word. Nonsense that made her parents send him away from home when he was still young. Nonsense that made him change his Falte, Certo Mur to la Nalan—Istan la Nalan, Istan Clouded.

Nonsense that terrorised his nights till he chopped his finger off.

Skada peered at him closely. “So the people in your village were right: you are cursed.”

“I…” Istan didn’t know how to respond. It was true, after all. He was. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Well, I’ve… I’ve also seen something.” She bowed her head, closing her eyes for a moment, and one of her playful curls fell over her nose. She brushed it away. “I told you that something bad was going to happen in the Kran. That was my vision.”

Istan nodded. “Aye. So that’s how you knew?”

“Yes, well, only that a doom would befall Hjolkran that very night.”

Istan’s brow furrowed. “But why didn’t you warn them?”

“People don’t take kindly to those seeing things that are not there.”

“Ah, you’re right.” Istan saw it now, remembered the ring of torches and the clergyman’s solution to his curse, but it all made him wonder: was she cursed, too? “So, Miss Mort, you’re not”—he looked for a word—“unwanted by your people?”

Skada kept her gaze nailed ahead. “Call me Skada.”

The snow sang under their sledge.

*

Fjelvid guided the hiahkó up the frozen stream, and they entered a region of short, gnarled trees, their branches free of snow. White streaks cleaved jagged routes through the woods, undoubtedly the many rivers the koisas had told them about, and their sleigh climbed ever upwards until they finally reached a wide frozen field. A strong western wind found them there, and the sledge shuddered as it tried to push them onto their side.

“Ho! But isn’t the wind playful today! I will sing regardless of what she thinks. The west wind, she’s the tricksiest of them all: not quite warm, not quite cold, but strong and quirky,” Fjelvid said. “This is where the river Rôin falls into Lake Jôv. I will take you a little while longer, but to reach the Pale Fells, you must cross the woodlands on our right.”

“Can’t you take us past them?” Skada asked.

“The Fokkéln grows too dense for the hiahkó, and to go around it would mean weeks of travel as we’d have to descend into Lake Lout and then follow the rivers Troutside or Whiteflush east; long, perilous—not cheap.” The koisas glanced at Istan.

“Sorry, I have nothing more,” Istan said. “Is… is it a problem to go through the woods?”

Skada gave him that obscure look that made him think it was a stupid question, but he couldn’t decipher how stupid it was.

“Well, you might get lost,” Fjelvid said. “There are some areas you should avoid, like the Latecomers’ Bastion and their burial mounds or the Sharp Pits, but those are north of here. If you cut directly east, I believe you’ll do just fine. It’s only a two-day journey, and then you can follow Firdún’s Wake to the Fells.”

“But isn’t that…” Skada began but fell silent, and Istan was certain it was fear in her eyes.

“Perilous? It is, but you’re going to some perilous places, so danger is hardly something you can avoid entirely. Just stay away from the lights, and you’ll be fine. I made that trip once, and here I am.” The koisas guided their hiahkó closer to the eastern bank, and they slid past the forest.

Istan didn’t like the stunted trees. They looked as if something had tormented and twisted them, forcing them to shrink and bend and crook instead of grow boldly upwards. “So,” he began, trying to think of something else. “You’ve been to the Fells?”

“Good gracious, no! I’ve gone past them, just near enough to hear the singing and know I will never have to ascend the Fells. A dreadful place, most dreadful…” Fjelvid resumed singing.

They continued in silence for a good while longer. The tormented woods gave way to shallow pools and bays, and the koisas slowed their pace. This was where the lintís was a real danger. Fjelvid leaned to the sides, sniffed at the ground, and scooped snow with his long arms, muttering to himself. Then they reached a small hill, and Fjelvid ushered the hiahkó to its top, where the windswept remains of a building stood abandoned amidst the gloom.

“This is the old tower people used to call the Fisherman’s Watch. We are upstream, so salmon, brown trout, graylings, and occasionally pike and perch come here, some to spawn, others to grow before returning downstream. In spring and fall, Rôin is teeming with fish, and even now, if we tried it, we might catch an eel or two.” Fjelvid gave out an odd, smacking sound with its snout. “Peculiar things, those eels. Well, then, my odd travellers, this is where I leave you.”

Istan looked at Skada, and they both slowly clambered out of the sleigh. It felt weird to attach the skis, and the ahkó was surely laden with stones. He stared at the long slope ahead, already tasting snow as he imagined himself tumbling, and the sledge would smash against him, and he would be cold and wet and miserable—

And then he saw them, beyond the slope, beyond the black-and-white woodlands opening at their feet: three fells, bathed in this gloom of not-daylight. They were tall, almost like mountains, cast in shimmering snow with a haunting, blue-tinted glow about them.

“Are those… the Fells?” Istan asked.

“The Pale Fells,” Fjelvid said, coming beside him.

Far in the distance, Istan spied more of the similar fells. “And those at the back? They’re too?”

The koisas chuckled. “No. The first one you see is the Stout Fell. It’s a bit wider than the others, hence the name. Then, the two behind are called the Sisters, and there are many more.” Its voice took a deeper note, and it began humming, “Hm, hm, rounded belly with a thick hard head; don’t dally in the hope of a leafy bread; this one eats what the others forget; and others forget what Stout just ate—”

“But they’re all pale: white, frosty, bald.” Istan interrupted the singing. “Why are these three called the Pale Fells and not something else?”

“Ah, well, she hasn’t told you?” The koisas lowered its head and glanced at Skada, who was fastening the ropes of her ahkó. “They carry the name because the folk living there, Firdún’s folk, aye, well, who used to dwell there,” Fjelvid rambled. “In the summer, most fells are green and lush with flowers and grass; it’s a constant contest with the saplings braving the slopes. But the Pales… Firdún brought ruin over his folk, and the Pales remain grim from spring to fall. Nothing grows there, and the stone is whiter, paler than anywhere else in the region.”

Istan nodded. The other fells had trees growing on them mid-slope, but not the Pales.

Skada slid beside them. “Ready to go, stranger?”

“Sure,” Istan muttered and leaned to inspect his sledge.

“Off you go! Through Fokkéln, yes, and then by the Wake. Don’t get lost… oh! That reminds me.” Fjelvid spun around and strode back to the sleigh, rummaging through the few pouches and bags hanging from the hooks. “Ah, here we go! May I give you a parting gift? This is a súlstein.” The koisas returned and gave Skada something.

Istan leaned over, and they both stared at a weird grey rock lying on Skada’s mittens. She turned it around in her hand. The stone, slightly smaller than her palm, was cut and polished on two sides, but its edges retained their rougher, porous appearance. The more Istan looked at it, the more it reminded him of a huge salt crystal.

“Thank you,” Skada said when Istan said, “What is it?”

“A súlstein. A sunstone. It’s not much use now, but wayfarers wandering in Benighting should always have one. You’re going to lose sight of those lovely Pales the moment you enter Fokkéln, and then the forest will try to guide you wherever it sees fit—don’t follow its calls! In the daytime, well, you must rely on your, er…”—the koisas looked at Istan—“on her skills, but during the night, look.” It took the stone and raised it. “See?”

Skada and Istan peered at the stone. The polished side faced them, and to Istan it looked like a smudged piece of glass. The surface had streaks of lighter and darker hues that moved as Fjelvid’s hand shook, and then there was a faintly glowing round blot at the lower side—

“The moon!” Skada gasped. “You can find the moon with it! But it’s cloudy! How… how?”

Istan stared at the faint dot in the stone, then looked past it into the horizon. Ragged clouds dragged themselves behind the Pale Fells, partially revealing the starry sky. “There’s no… there’s the moon.” He snatched the rock and peered at it closely, watching the moon peeking through the clouds and bringing the stone to his eyes. The pale dot was the moon. “There it is. There it is!”

He had never heard of such a tool, not in all the cartography lessons the Duke’s cartographer had taught him. If he could bring it back to the south with him… after resolving this curse cast upon him. The word “curse” stirred something within him, and he asked, “How can I see the moon through this… stone? What sorcery is this?”

Fjelvid laughed a booming laugh. “Sorcery? Call it a koisas trick, but I’m glad you understand how it works.”

Skada took the súlstein and carefully pocketed it. “Thank you. We… we can’t repay you. This is a gift beyond anything we could’ve hoped for.”

Fjelvid waved its hand dismissively. “Nonsense. For the trip, you’ve paid in full, but it is true what they say about us koisae…”

Istan, still wondering how he could use the súlstein to continue taking measurements even when the sky was overcast, asked, “And what is that?”

“That we love stories,” Fjelvid said warmly. “And I haven’t heard anything this foolish for a while. So, good luck, come back, and bring me a story to sing to the others and make them so envious their feet turn green!”

Aner

Aner kicked onward with his skis, his shattered staff replaced with a frozen sapling that one of his escorts had cut for him. He was the last one, lagging behind the strong men of Hjolkran, who had promised to take him home. The tyrite—Aner had already forgotten his name—the Honnúng and Honná of Hjolkran, two men, and the two surviving hounds had left them earlier. They had headed north or northeast, while the remaining eight men, three of whom were wounded, would return to Hjolkran to warn the people there.

After they had taken him back to Grejkran, that was.

“Come Aner! The faster you go, the sooner you’re back home,” Hjalmar called. Even with a broken hand, the man skied fast, staying apace with the rest of the party.

Home. Aner shivered. He missed his parents and realised they must be worried senseless about him—again. They would scold him and demand an explanation, but the men of Hjolkran promised to explain it all, to tell them how the Hag had tricked him and lured him to search for his brother.

Except he didn’t believe them. The tyrite had spoken kindly enough, but the rest, these hardened men of Hjolkran, looked at him funnily, flinching whenever he was in their sight. He had received the same looks throughout the fall and winter after Bern had disappeared. He knew what they were thinking, despite what the tyrite had told them.

“The boy is fine,” the bald man had said.

They were afraid of him.

He was touched by the Skûd.

He wasn’t fine.

Aner kicked with force and hastily wiped a tear from his cheek. Surely his parents would accept him back? They loved him. At least, his mother always said so. The mark would fade over time? Perhaps next summer… but then his gaze slipped into the woods beside the road. Looking past the rows and rows of white trees, he saw the innermost forest, the prowling shadows reminding him of the nightmares his parents couldn’t stop, of the Mothers’ gleaming eyes looming at the level of the treetops before they had attacked him.

“Petty little child,” a snarl echoed softly in the air.

Aner had not told them, not even the tyrite, that he could still hear the voices of the two Mothers. They already thought he was tainted—he didn’t want them to know just how bad it really was. He knew the fate that those marked by the Skûd suffered. Everyone did.

They couldn’t go home. They wouldn’t be allowed to.

“We can smell you, our pretty little treat,” Lorná called, her whisper mixing with the grunting and puffing of the men of Hjolkran.

He had named Fjelá as the one with the higher-pitched snarl, while Lorná had the rougher, barking voice. Enviously, he watched the backs of his escort. None of the men turned their heads or looked nervous, whereas he was afraid of every shadow cast along their path. He shivered violently, realised he was falling too far behind, and tried to quicken his pace. Grejkran was just behind the next hill. He was certain that the village with its walls was much safer than this open road. This gloom could hide anything.

“Halt!” The frontman called, raising his fist. “Get ready!”

The men fanned out, raising their spears, while two of the men stopped and began readying their crossbows. Hjalmar stayed a little back, waving Aner to him.

“Boy, keep close,” he hissed.

“What is it?” Aner asked, his voice tense, but the big man only grunted.

They edged forward, and Aner tried to peer past the men. The woods grew close to the road, but he didn’t see anything out of place: not the telltale glint from the Mothers’ eyes gleaming amidst the whiteness, nor had the trees shed the snow from their branches, so nothing had brushed against them. Then, he gazed lower.

On the pristine white road lay six or seven dark bundles. Shadows, Aner thought at first, but then he squinted. One of the bundles had two bare feet. Why was he lying on the ground? The closer they got, the more he saw things he didn’t want to, things he tried to avoid seeing. Severed limbs on the white with red streaks leading to or from them; faces with dislocated jaws and caved-in or cleaved features. Most hideous, however, were the thinnest bundles. Only a frayed cape or a robe lay on the frozen ground, and something pale, like forgotten pigskins, peeked amidst the folds—and Aner could only think of how the Hag had shed Old Moukash’s guise.

How they had found his brother.

Ejrík, the frontman, kicked one of the bodies. “Grey Hermits,” he said gruffly. “I recognise this fellow. Was visiting us at Hjolkran in the autumn. I reckon they had some business with the Honnúng, at least the leader of this sorry bunch had.”

“Help,” a pitiful, raspy whine called at them.

Aner stared as two men of Hjolkran approached a huddled shape: a man in torn clothes, leaning against a tree trunk a little off the road.

“Who are you?” Ejrík called out.

Aner didn’t hear the response, but Hjalmar seemed interested in what was said and beckoned Aner to follow him. They found the Kranians talking with a gaunt man resting against the trunk of a pine, clutching his side.

“…attacked us out of nowhere,” the man was saying. A trickle of dried blood from his nose smudged his lips and jaw. “Two of my own… they… I’ve never seen anything like it.” He started coughing.

“They shed their skins?” Aner said aloud, his voice ringing clear under the hush of the forest.

The survivor gaped at him. “Y-yes, that they did. How… who?” He looked questioningly at the men of Hjolkran. “Have you seen it happen before, boy?”

“He has,” Ejrík said, casting a sidelong glance full of disgust at Aner.

“Are you hurt?” Hjalmar asked.

“I… yes,” the gaunt man said, his breath wheezing in agonised gasps. “One of these creatures slashed at me.”

“That’s a shame,” Ejrík muttered. “You know you’re a wanted man, Onok the Hermit. Had we met you in a better shape, we’d given you a good chase, but in this condition…”

The survivor blinked. “Wanted… for what?”

“We’re men of Hjolkran,” Hjalmar said, his hand resting on the hilt of his long knife. “And you threatened our Honnúng’s child. We were certain you had returned to the marshes, but here we find you just as the Honnúng’s baby girl has been taken from him.” He slid closer to the wounded Hermit. “The way I see it, there are two ways out of this. That looks severe”—he poked at the man’s side with his ski staff, and Onok grunted in pain—“but it could take some time. I can save you from the pain as long as you tell me where you’ve taken the child. Alternatively, we can let the frost do its job. Oh, hear that?”

Somewhere in the distance, howling broke out.

Hjalmar grinned. “Would you rather be alive when the wolves get you?” Then his face turned grim. “Speak!”

Onok let out a long breath, a hiss steaming in the crisp air. “Those are not wolves.”

A cold cackle rang out behind them.

#nordic, #fantasy, #mythical, #slow-burn, #snow, #dark, #curse, #treasure

Istan

Istan blinked furiously. His vision was blurred from rushing through the dark forest, and now, the glaring light ahead hurt his eyes. Slowly, he approached what seemed to be three torches standing in the snow around a giant sleigh. The fires formed a golden dome under the inky-black sky speckled with the snow’s silver, and Skada stood inside it—talking to someone.

“Wait,” he tried to shout, but his voice was a pitiful gasp. He pushed on, his muscles screaming. Whatever he had said about the rafting and skiing having in common lay in the ruins of his stamina. He glanced briefly behind him, but the bright lights had played their trick on him, and the forest was a huge smudge spread across his vision. Perhaps they had lost that thing; perhaps it had given up.

Istan squinted as he reached the sleigh, the torches’ flames flickering angrily in the wind reigning over the open. He watched how the shadows danced and twirled over this wooden contraption, over the few sacks and other wares coming into focus. One of the bundles of cloth turned. Istan cried out and tried to jump backwards, but his exhausted legs only toppled him backwards, and he fell over his sledge.

“You all right?” Skada asked before resuming to talk with a creature Istan had never seen before.

It was a tall—two heads taller than Istan—slender being clad in surprisingly thin garments. Grey and speckled with dark tufts, the fur of its coat resembled what the well-offs of Farklent might wear on a hunt in early autumn, but Istan could only guess the animal. A grey hem descended from underneath the coat, adorned with odd-looking metallic trinkets, bones, and other small items hanging from braided ropes. Beneath, two sizeable bare feet with three webbed toes like a frog’s, but covered in coarse, thick, dark hair, tapped the snow gently.

“A jumpy bugger,” the creature said, glancing at Istan. It wore a woollen green hood over its head, and its two ears, much like those of a fox and similarly dark orange in colour with crimson or deep red tips, peeked from holes made for them. Its eyes were wide and round—astonishingly round, otherworldly black—bulging a little forth underneath the protruding brow.“What are you two doing here, in the midst of Benighting?”

“We’re travelling,” Skada said, not paying attention to her fallen companion. “We saw your torches, and I remembered something my father once told me.”

The creature leaned a little closer, emitting a purr that came from deep within its chest. “And what did he tell you?”

“That he had once heard a song such that he could never forget, and in that song, he flew over the lands and lakes as if he were a frisky wind.”

Istan picked himself up when something snapped in the darkness behind them. He turned around, but the torches’ light hid the world from him. “Skada… did you hear that?”

“Kindly said, my dear,” the creature said, its long whiskers at the end of its furry snout wriggling. “Did he also tell you that it always comes with a price?”

“He did,” Skada said, pulling a knife from her belt. “This is my father’s Good Knife. I’ll give it to you if you transport us to the place of our choosing.”

Two more loud snaps, and with a tearing yawn, a tree fell in the woods behind them. That Istan could see, as well as the shapeless shadow taking its place among the whiteness. A low, rumbling moan carried over the white field.

“Skada, it’s coming,” Istan hissed, grabbing his ski staff for protection.

“It’s a lovely knife, my dear, but I have many, and”—the creature drew a mitten from its hand, revealing long, delicate fingers—“it’s hopelessly too small for me. Oh, and who might that be?” Its ears rose alertly, and it looked toward the sounds. “Hmm, let’s hope my torches deter it.”

“Skada…” Istan was certain that the shadow was slowly moving towards them.

“Istan,” Skada snapped, “focus, please. We need a ride, and he’s willing to take us, but only for a price. Do you have anything of value with you?”

“What?” Istan felt for his pockets, only to realise he had none. “I don’t… You did the packing… wait!” He hastily opened his jacket, pushed his scarf aside, and from against his chest, he fished out a small leather pouch hanging from a leather cord. With a yank, he tore it free and offered it to the creature. “Would this do?”

“Ah, well,” the creature said, leaning closer. A gleam entered its black eyes, and the hair on its snout stood rigid as if it were a hound sniffing a trail. “But this is something else. Very peculiar…”

Istan handed the pouch to it, and it turned it around in its palm. Its ears were still up.

“Such a nice little trinket. Very well, I accept the payment. Please latch your ahkós to the bar at the back. I’ll secure them; I’d rather not stop to collect your belongings while we’re on the way. Come now, no time to waste.”

Hastily, Skada and Istan drew their sledges for the creature, and with their skis and staffs and bags, they sat in the sleigh. The thin being, constantly humming an odd-sounding melody, hopped onto the driver’s stand behind them. “Are we all set? Are we all ready?”

“Yes, but… where are your horses?” Istan stammered, looking at the long leather traces, six bridles and as many collars, all lying empty on the snow before the sleigh.

The creature snorted. “What a barrel-bred question. The hiahkó of a koisas needs no horses, needs no reindeer, abhors the thought of mules. Hear my voice!” An annoyed trumpeting sound came from its snout—and then, it started to sing.

Behind them, heavy footsteps crunched the snow, but it didn’t slow down the song. Instead, the koisas’s voice grew in power, and the wooden beams of the sleigh trembled gently. Most peculiar, however, was the bitter, metallic taste introducing itself to Istan, along with a smell: a whiff of something peaty but with hints of novel sensations he had no words for. Yet, he was certain he had smelled it before. He could almost remember when Skada whispered something beside him.

Istan turned towards her. “Sorry, what?”

“The Skûd. The Skûd is here,” she whispered and nodded towards the empty collars. “The koisas is calling forth the Skûd.”

The slack harnesses were no longer slack, but they writhed this way and that, coiled and lashed out across the snow, until one of the bridles sprang up—and neighed. No. Horses neighed; this was grunting. Istan gaped as bridle after bridle rose from the ground, dragging the yokes and traces with them. The air rang with their otherworldly grunting and snorting, and then there was this clicking that Istan felt in his teeth rather than heard.

The koisas knocked the beam behind their heads, and the sleigh shuddered before it jolted forward, the two majestic skis beneath it gliding over the snow. They were moving; this sleigh without horses was moving. Istan stared in wonder at how they picked up speed, how the bridles rose and fell, how the harnesses somehow made the snow billow also before them, not just behind them, and how that sparkling powder seemed to take the shape of some animal pulling their sleigh. Istan blinked, and the silhouette was gone—only to reappear in the leading position, or was it in the second? It was hard to tell. The snow’s singing under the sledge mixed with the koisas’s strange chanting.

A frustrated, loud moan startled him from staring.

He and Skada both spun around and peered behind their driver. A tall, broad shape stood in the torches’ light, the orange glow revealing a thick, brown cloth, a wide leather belt, unnaturally large breeches, and two massive boots. The creature’s head was still shrouded in shadows, and the torches went out like blown candles. Only a ragged glimpse of thick beard or hair covering a large nose remained to haunt Istan.

“What is that?” Istan whispered, squeezing his skis against his chest.

“That?” The koisas glanced over its shoulder before turning back. “Hard to say for sure, but I did see Two Toof meandering about not two days ago. Could be him. I reckon he’s getting a bit hungry these days. Not much to eat during Benighting.” It looped the reins from its hands around a brass pommel of the backbeam.

“Who’s Two Toof?” Istan looked at the koisas, then at Skada, whose face was wrinkled in a deep frown.

“During Benighting?” Skada waved her hand. “But Benighting is past us?”

The koisas laughed, its snout opening into a long maw with tiny teeth and a long, wolfish, crimson tongue dropping out. “Past us? Do you see the sun, my little skier? No, no, Benighting is here to stay for quite a bit longer. Hjelkvít we celebrated, made merry and sang with food and beer, to lay the seed, yes, for the spring’s quickening, but like a seed, it will take time for it to grow.”

Istan, not really following the discussion, glanced at Skada. She looked horrified.

“You mean,” she began, shifting uncomfortably next to him. “That the Skûd is closer to us till the sun returns?”

“Why yes, of course! Such a silly question. I can see that he’s not from around here, but you… you are true stock of the North. Don’t they tell you anything these days? Tyrites are so busy, so haughty. Now, my travellers of the night, where may I, Fjelvid of the Reed, take you?” The koisas looked at them with those peculiar, round eyes glinting as bright as the stars above them.

“We must reach the Pale Fells,” Skada said.

The glimmer in Fjelvid’s eyes disappeared, and its ears shot up. “What madness drives you there? No! Please, I don’t want to know. It’s better that I don’t know, lest it drag me there, too. No. Ah, had I known this… but I did promise, didn’t I?” Fjelvid raised its head, peering above them into the awaiting gloom. “Fine. The weather is fine, my steeds well rested, Lake Jôv, ah, uncontested…”

Its muttering slowly turned to singing.

“If there is a want, and there is a need, what else can we count on, other than speed;

Long are the leagues, long are the miles, in snow hope may wither, before traveller dies;

In barren fields and frozen skies, false chime the ringing of a silver bell…”

Its voice fell into a murmur.

“In hollow holds and haunts of the Fells, where nothing stirs yet everything stares.”

Istan stared at the creature, the voice of the koisas with its deep undertones and soft yet clear highs mesmerising him, but it rang weird in his ears. Fjelvid’s voice travelled forward, not obeying the rushing air torrenting over the sleigh, and it sank deep within him, reverberating his bones, leaving a warm, round sensation just under his chest.

“What… what does that mean?” he asked reluctantly, fearing that he would violate the song and shatter the sensation.

The koisas glanced at him, but resumed staring into the horizon. “Rest now, little man. The road is long.”

The snow purred under the sledge.

Aner

Aner found the skis, but there was no time to put them on. Hastily, he slung them over his shoulders as he sprinted away. He was heedless of the direction—away from the snarling and heavy, booming steps—but not heedless in choosing a path. He lunged at thickets full of young or densely growing taller trees, preferably firs, but birches would do, too. There, those lumbering beasts would have the most difficult time following him.

Hopefully.

Quick stomping on his right alerted Aner, and he realised these things could circle ahead of him faster than he could escape, never mind the tricky paths he had chosen. He was the hare, and he was losing the hunt. He should have considered the direction more closely. On his right, the ground sloped down; on his left, up. He raced uphill, keeping in the shadow of the thick firs. If only he could reach the top, latch the binds, and—

A shrill cry erupted near Aner, and a gargantuan shape lunged from the darkness. “Mine now!” it screamed.

With a scared peek over his shoulder, Aner made out a distorted, ugly face with a long nose and gleaming eyes. A huge, grey arm ending in four and a half outstretched fingers with sharp ends flashed before him—and then it was gone.

The monster crashed over the saplings he had pushed through only moments earlier, tumbled, and rolled downhill, shattering two tall pines that came down, shedding their snow crowns over the thrashing beast. A vicious cry cut through the cold air.

“Did you get him?” called a voice.

“Flesh!” screamed another one.

The sounds came from Aner’s right. Three large beasts were after him? He didn’t stop to listen for where the hideous Hag hiding beneath Old Moukash’s skin was; he only hoped it couldn’t keep up. Old Moukash had had bad knees. Please, have bad knees, Aner thought as he sprinted up the hill.

He had not gained much distance nor trees between him and the fallen horror when he already heard it bark, “Get him! Get him!”

Despite the strain of climbing in knee-deep snow uphill, the voice sent a jolt of nausea through him. In his mind, his voice screamed at him. “Run! Run, damn you!” and it was joined by someone else’s urging, his brother’s: “Run, Aner! Ru—”

“Run to me!” The voice shifted from the soft drawl into a grinding snarl. “Run to me, little boy! I’ll take you to your brother! Oh, Bern would like to meet you, oh yes, very much. Aner! Aner! Please!” It was the Hag mimicking his brother, and her cold laughter rang in the night.

Something flashed on Aner’s right, a little way above him. There was a lump of snow—a buried boulder?—looming amidst the woods.

Of course! Aner knew that rock. Quite a few of them circled the Bay of the Mothers on all sides. Old landmarks, left there by… Aner couldn’t remember, didn’t care to remember; it was irrelevant. He ran like he had never run before, skipping lightly on the icy frosting of the snow, barely making a dent in the drifts. This was smiís, tough snow, whiteness that endured surprising weights. It carried him to the boulder, and he sank behind it, panting from the effort.

“Quickly, now,” he commanded himself.

The bindings were all frozen and stuck, but he tore and pushed and bent and forced his boots into them. He tightened the straps, got up, and grabbed his ski staff. The slope ahead was downhill. It was steep, but had he continued further up, it would have been worse.

A heavy footstep crunched through the smiís behind the boulder—and Aner pushed with his staff.

The initial sucking sound of gathering speed drowned out the furious roar behind him. He could feel the air pummeling at his back from ferocious swipes that snapped at least two lesser trees—the creature almost caught him. The skis soon sang their song, and the winter forest enveloped everything in a brooding, velvety silence.

A pine suddenly appeared in his path, its dark trunk mingling with the prowling shadows and the eerie shapes his watering eyes painted before him. With a yelp, he managed to dodge it, but not without a crunching impact—half of his staff snapped off, leaving him only with the dull-ended stump. It didn’t slow him, and going downwards, the staff wouldn’t matter much. Out on the open…

Later. He would deal with it later.

Ahead, peeking between the white-gowned firs and gently glowing birches, there was a deep, dark line. It was intensely black, like a void before what Aner thought was a slope section with no trees growing on it. It was oddly placed, like a barrier, and did it move? He couldn’t tell. It did get closer fast, though.

Should he veer aside, should he stop?

Were they already waiting for him?

The blackness rushed to meet him, and he yelped in fright—and was in the open.

It was the edge of the forest.

He would have wanted to laugh, but the effort made him concentrate, and he saw a group of men—armed men!—turning towards him.

He cried out, “Help!”

The men were already moving, fanning out and forming a line, a few staying behind. They had hounds!

“Help!” he screamed again. “They—”

Aner left the slope, his skis finding no purchase, and he soared. He was tall, he was light, the wind rushed against his face and the men! The men looked bewildered. They were shouting.

Then he started descending.

Fast.

He crashed against the whiteness.

Gundor

Where did he come from?

A looming shadow thrashed itself on the open. A rugged roar blasted over the icy ground. But it was the boy lunging from the woods a little below this creature that caught his attention.

“Help!” The boy’s cry rang clear and sharp over the steep slope.

As the hulking creature emerged from the woods, Gundor was already calling the hounds to him. He crouched by their side, his fumbling hands sinking into his pockets and pouches, looking for a black metal box he always kept with him. His attention constantly drifted from the search to the slope, slowing him down.

The horror leapt forward, trying to grab the boy, but missing—no! It caught the ends of the skis and flung the boy into the air. Then it lost its balance, crashing and sending clouds of snow avalanching downwards, its high-pitched shriek echoing across the slope.

He found the box, not seeing what had happened to the child, and almost spilt its contents as he flipped the lid open. “There, come here, come here, shush,” he said soothingly to the dogs—and to himself.

They were whimpering and squirming, their tails dragging between their hind legs, and only his voice kept them still. “I know it’s a big one, but your master needs you.

So yowled hounds of Gér, their hunt leading yonder;

In white mane as lights vane, may swift paws thunder;

Where few tread, in blind step, beyond grass and under;

But come grim—roam free, fang, claw, and antler.”

As he spoke the words, he sprinkled red flakes—dried reindeer blood—over their snouts. The dogs turned rigid and attentive.

“Go, now!”

The hounds sprang into motion. Like three arrows, they darted across the snow towards the monstrosity rising from the ground. The beast screamed, its shrill voice carrying over the frosty ground like a gale, but it was answered.

Three sharp twangs rang near Gundor. The archers of the band lowered their crossbows and started winding whilst the remaining seven took their positions, abandoning their skis and wielding tall spears and round shields.

The boy was back on his skis, his staff lost in the crash.

Gundor skied to the nearest crossbowman. “Tólk, give me your bolts! Tólk!”

“What?” Tólk asked, not ceasing to draw his bow. His eyes were wide with fear, but it did nothing to slow his hands.

Gundor stopped behind him. “Your bolts!” He withdrew all of Tólk’s arrows, spun them around, and stuck them in the snow, with their blades pointing upward. Hastily, he started to apply the same flakes he had used on the hounds, though this time he licked them first to make them stick.

Two more twangs and a vicious cry stole Gundor’s focus for a moment, and he watched as the giant, for it was indeed a giant, took an arrow to its shoulder. It slowed the beast down not one bit, and ferociously bellowing, it stomped towards the man standing closest to it.

Thrusting its hand high, it swept it down in a scything fashion. Ejrík, who had been the nearest, ducked into the snow. The giant missed. Roaring, the creature raised its feet to stomp him dead, but it cried out in pain and toppled backwards.

The hounds were biting at its heel, forcing it away from Ejrík, but then Gundor had to focus on finishing his work—and rushing towards the next archer.

A high-pitched yelp from one of the dogs rose sharply and was cut off suddenly. Gundor grimaced. If only they could keep it at bay with the arrows and wear it down—

“Petty little men!” the giant screeched at them. “Sting you like, bite you like. I’ll eat you whole!

Come now, hasten here;

cloud the slopes and falls ere;

comes the morning,

and puts us asunder!”

Gundor halted as he heard its words. “Oh cock.” He turned reluctantly towards the giant, fear gripping his neck.

The bitter metallic scent of the Skûd washed over him.

One of the dogs lay unmoving at the creature’s feet, a long streak of red crossing its final bed. The giant stood tall and proud, its grey skin gleaming in the moonlight as its incantation fell upon them like fresh snow. Twang, twang, twang rang the bows of Tólk and the two other archers, but if they found their marks, no sounds escaped the billowing whiteness cascading over them.

“To me!” the Honnúng roared. He stood between Gundor and where the giant had been, and the boy was with him. “To me, now!”

It was too late. The men had circled the giant, each trying to poke it with their long spears, trying to inflict scratches and wounds to buy time for the archers to bring it down. They knew they would have to strike hard and often, and it was unlikely that any man could stand alone against this creature, but now they were caught in the whirling snow.

Blinded and alone.

A shriek escaped the steady hissing of the snow as it fell from the clear sky. Gundor sped towards the Honnúng. At least Fórn and the other hound were still distracting it.

“My Honnúng!” he cried out. “We need to go!”

“What is that thing?” the Honnúng roared back.

The boy shouted something.

“What?” The Honnúng stared at the boy, saying something, but Gundor couldn’t hear them.

“My Honnúng!” Gundor tried again, but his voice fell as a looming shadow emerged from the white flurry before them.

“Little man!” the giant screamed, bringing its matted curls of black-grey hair and a gaping mouth full of teeth through the white cover. Its long arms darted forth, clawing at the boy, but, with a painful scream, the giant drew them back.

The Honnúng lunged between it and the boy, his longsword, Rotúk, dripping with black blood.

“Get back, fiend!” The Honnúng shook his sword at the giant. “You will not lay a hand on this boy. Go back to the pits of the North!”

“Silly little man.” The giant swung its hand, but the Honnúng was faster, dodging the blow—and again Rotúk tasted giant flesh.

The giant screamed in pain. Now, its blows landed faster, its sweeping arms trying to catch and crush the nimbly-moving Honnúng. Yet, the snow was deep, and the Honnúng stumbled. The giant’s clawing hand caught him in the chest and, with a sickening crunch, sent him flying backwards.

Gundor tried to shout, to do something, when an impact on his shoulder felled him to the ground. One of Honnúng’s men rushed past him.

“Flesh!” the giant cried as it lunged at its fallen prey.

Only to be skewered through the mouth by one of the tall spears of the Kranians.

“Die beast!” Saga screamed at the top of her lungs. It was she who had rushed past Gundor, wielding the spear.

The giant let out a stunned growl and collapsed beside the Honnúng. The spear had pierced its skull, with the long blade jutting from the back of its head like a stubborn tuft of hair. As the monstrosity died, the sudden snowing also ceased, and the slope emerged from the white haze.

Gundor looked around them. Two of the dogs still lived, although the other appeared hurt. Among the ten men, he quickly counted three archers and five wielding spears, but couldn’t see the remaining two. He spotted movement higher up on the slope.

Another dark shape lurking among the white firs peered down at them, but as soon as Gundor saw it, it withdrew from view. At the same time, something shifted in the woods to their left, snapping and tearing branches, but he could see nothing. In the air, the heavy presence of the Skûd lingered, and he shuddered violently.

“Are… are they gone now?”

Gundor winced as somebody spoke next to him. It was the boy, his face white as chalk.

“Yes, I think so.” Gundor took a last look at the brooding forest above them before turning towards the boy. “Who are you? Are you hurt?”

“I’m… no, I don’t think I am hurt,” the boy said quietly, staring at Saga helping the Honnúng from the drifts. “I’m called Aner. Aner of Grejkran.”

“Aner,” Gundor repeated, the name sounding somewhat familiar. “Aner. Aner.”

The realisation hit him like a hammer.

*

The Honnúng, Saga, and their men sat around a fire near the scene of the attack. Aner was with them, recounting his story and answering their numerous questions. Gundor listened to him for a while, but then went to stand beside the giant’s fallen body, staring into the eyes that still glimmered but saw nothing. He sighed, removed his thick fur hat, and drew a hand over his bald head.

“What do you think?” The Honnúng approached him. He had a bruised cheek and snarled like a beaten dog whenever his foot dipped too deeply into the snow. He had taken a beating, but he was a formidable man. They all were. Out of the ten men, everyone had survived, and only Hjalmár had suffered a serious blow that had broken his arm, but they were all eager to carry on the hunt.

Gundor nodded at him. “Hail, fool of carvéd stone.”

“Cannot lie hidden and gnaw a bone. Is this what it is, then? Which one is she?”

“Vaxá.” Gundor pointed at the giant’s bare left shoulder. “She has the rose upon her sleeve.”

The rough skin was adorned with peculiar shapes that were the doings of slounkul, and sure enough, they did resemble the petals of a rose.

“Vaxá the fool, bold and greedy;

Lorná of old, with a grasp of cold;

least is Fjelá, bent back and frail,

mastering cunning and finding trail,”

the Honnúng sang quietly. “Why aren’t they sleeping?”

“That I cannot answer. What the boy told us of this Old Moukash worries me. He used the word Hag—accidentally if not on purpose—and described it as a beast shedding the skin of this poor woman… and the way the Hag talked with the Mothers…” Gundor shook his head.

“Gundor,” the Honnúng said, kneeling beside Vaxá’s unseeing eyes. “We mustn’t tarry, but I’m afraid. The boy claimed that he saw Lorná and Fjelá, too, and you yourself said that something looked at us from the shadows up there. I will find Valka, but as the Honnúng, I’m worried about the people of my Kran. Please advise me. What should I do? Do we continue as we started, or do I send some of the men back to warn the people? Should I send you to Grejkran if this Hag returns there?”

“There’s a risk either way,” Gundor said. His brow furrowed as he tried to think. “But I think you’re rightly worried for your people. Vaxá is the fool of the carved stone, and I can’t understand how I didn’t see that before.”

The Honnúng shrugged. “Giants who have slept for decades suddenly spring to life. I don’t think anyone could’ve foreseen that. You think the two will avenge her death?”

“Perhaps,” Gundor said. “I believe so, yes, but the Hag worries me. She’s undoubtedly one of the hxr, which makes me wonder…”

The Honnúng stared at him. “But why would they want to steal my child?”

“I don’t know,” Gundor said. “The hxr have wreaked havoc and sowed chaos, but never challenged the Krans openly. And it gets more peculiar. Aner claimed that Old Moukash was present during Benighting. They had the meermann perform the rites I performed at Hjolkran, yet she wasn’t caught. Somehow, she clad herself in the Skûd, hiding herself from the wards so that she could endure inside the circle. This is unheard of. No creature of the Skûd can suffer the circle.”

The Honnúng looked troubled and began pacing. “Perhaps the meermann wasn’t up to the task. They draw lots, you know?”

“Wasn’t up to or chose not to fulfil it? And this also worries me for Hjolkran. Did someone tamper with my circle? Is that how they got Valka out? I found this from her crib.” Gundor held out a small token he carried in his pocket.

“Is that a…”—the Honnúng leaned closer—“klót?”

“Aye, a drum bone.”

“But the hxr wouldn’t need one?”

“No. They can travel between the two worlds freely. Perhaps it’s nothing—it could’ve been set there for protection, too, but it makes me wonder…” Gundor’s voice faded, and he stared at the fallen giant. Frost had already crept up her hair, but she wouldn’t find a peaceful rest. Already, crows and ravens flocked to the nearby trees, and he had seen a flash of orange sulking in the shadows. There would be a feast, though the thought of eating flesh that had once been stone made his stomach churn.

The Honnúng grunted. “There’s someone else, then? Someone else… who could’ve disguised as one of the Kranians.”

“Or just a sympathiser,” Gundor reminded him. “The hxr’s way lures certain people.”

“Like this Skada you brought to Hjolkran?” The Honnúng’s eyes found that dangerous glint anew.

Gundor stayed silent for a moment. “Yes, people like Skada. People ready to leave their families and all the familiar things behind. Yet, in Skada’s case—”

“If you say they’re not connected…”

“No! They are definitely connected. I’m sorry I couldn’t see it before. Like I was saying, in Skada’s case, I believe she’s a kindling of a bigger fire. Her actions have set something in motion, something that’s now awakening around us—but I don’t think she’s the gról we’re after.”

“Why not?”

Gundor sighed, one of his mistakes glaring at him. “Because she carried the same mark by the Skûd that Aner there is carrying. A mark I couldn’t see when she first came to me after her home was destroyed.”

The Honnúng glanced at the fire where his wife and the men were now casually chatting. The boy was huddled under a large pelt, sipping a steaming mellót, a herbal drink, from a mug.

“What do you mean?”

Gundor looked at Vaxá’s face, the shining eyes reflecting the starry sky, the fire, and the curved shapes of him and the Honnúng. “They are both called, but I cannot say yet by whom.”

#nordic, #fantasy, #mythical, #slow-burn, #snow, #dark, #curse, #treasure

Aner

“Bern!” Aner’s voice rang helplessly against the thick firs. “Bern!”

He stopped to listen and thought he heard a faint plea coming from somewhere to his left. Heedlessly, he had rushed into the woods, but now the excitement of hearing his brother’s voice had worn off, and his cautious nature took the reins. Getting lost wasn’t an issue; snow remembered his trail. It was his brother’s voice that made him pause now and again. That and the creeping night.

It was his brother calling him, all right. How many times had he chased after him in these same woods? Yet the dark forest had a sobering effect on him. It was cold, and the rest of the world slept in silence beneath the drifts.

“Aner, I’m down here!” Bern’s voice rang true and clear where everything else was muffled and meek.

Aner glanced down a slope. He had come quite a distance from Grejkran, not seeing any signs of his brother, only the echoes of his calls leading him deeper. It would do no good to be wandering about, especially this close to Benighting. He squinted. The moon was already high, casting a silver glow over the forest, but there were too many trees to see anything down the hill.

“Bern? I’m coming down,” he said aloud, but he was no longer shouting. He reluctantly turned his ski tips towards the slope. “You’d better be down there.” He pushed with his staff.

It was a long descent, with trees growing in dense formations, forcing him to zigzag through them. He spotted a patch of white, resembling a river among the black trunks, and sped down towards a row of puffy firs. He was so intent on searching for his brother that he only noticed the white nodule ahead when his skis jerked upwards—and he flew. It was likely a boulder or a cliff hidden beneath the snow, and he was off the edge.

With a scared yelp, he crashed into the awaiting trees.

Aner groaned. He was lying among a group of junipers, the resin-rich air tingling his nose, their needles scratching his face. It took him a moment to untangle himself. The impact hadn’t been too severe, but it had bent the bindings on his left ski. He stared at it, frowning. He could still use it, but it would make moving that much slower. Then, he looked at the ground, his frown deepening. Why was there so little snow?

“Aner!”

Aner jolted up from the snow, forgetting his skis. He dashed towards the sound, pushing through the branches and forcing his way to… a lake. He froze. He was standing before a lake, but not at any ordinary lake.

This was Hîlev. And it wasn’t frozen. It never was.

Void black, its serene surface scarcely reflected the moon and the stars burning brightly above. It was a dark sink amidst all the whiteness, and its shores were free of snow. It was said that the lake had a power of its own, one that not even winter could subdue.

Cautiously, he lifted his gaze, fully aware of what he was about to see: the tall, grey cliffs known as the Mothers, under which he had lost his brother. However, as he focused on the eastern end, he gasped. There was the spot where they had hidden. There were the trees Bern had pushed through in his final escape. Even that flat section of the cliffs, the hem, where Aner had stood while fishing, was there.

But the Mothers, they were gone.

Bern’s voice sang in his ears, but this was different from the one he had been following. This was a memory of the two of them hiding under the bushy fir, of Bern telling him about the creatures coming through the stone just before he had run off. Of the crashing sounds following Bern towards the Grey Crossing. A memory of what he had told the villagers of Grejkran, about the cliffs no longer being there—and they hadn’t believed him.

Yet, here, staring at the place where the Mothers had once stood, there was nothing there: a ring of shattered rocks, almost like the remnants of a broken eggshell, with gaping holes in the middle. A trail led from the Hem into the woods, a trail of fallen trees; some felled by the way strong spring winds played, others uprooted as if tossed aside. Following the line of havoc up to where the snow cover resumed, Aner stared in horror at the deep prints on the white surface, and he remembered.

He remembered the creatures in his dreams, those gargantuan beings trying to get into his home.

He remembered their sickening voices calling him.

A nauseating wave of terror washed over him, and he trembled. He had to get back to tell his parents and inform the Honnúng of Grejkran that the Mothers were awake. He didn’t know what they were, but he was certain they meant harm to him. They meant harm to everyone. He was breathing rapidly, his eyes darting from one shadow to another, expecting to see movement on the opposite shore. Luckily, the trail led away from the lake. If only he could get back to his skis…

“Aner!” Somebody called his name, but this wasn’t Bern. This was a woman’s voice. A voice he recognised

.

Aner turned, peering in the direction of the Grey Crossing, and he saw her, Old Moukash, limping along the shoreline. Relief swelled inside him, and he rose to run to her. She came for him! Perhaps she had been worried that he would try and find Bern. The people of Grejkran did whisper that although she was no tyrite—no woman could ever be—she saw farther than most people; at least, that was what his mother had told him.

Old Moukash looked around her. “Aner!” she called, but her foot slipped at that moment, and she fell against a dead and dry tree jutting on the shore. A broken branch impaled her right cheek. She bellowed, but this was someone else’s voice—rugged and cruel. Snapping her jaws, she wrenched her face free from the tree.

Aner whimpered aloud, pressing his hands to his mouth. A patch of skin from Old Moukash’s face hung loosely from the protruding branch. In its stead, peeking beneath the rags of her face, were the dark features of something gnarly, something vile: a mask of strained flesh, a beak-like nose thrust forward from hollow cheeks, and sharp teeth.

“Aner, where are you, my dear boy?” the creature called as it shed the skin of Old Moukash. It had abnormally long arms ending in hands with long fingers, a bent back, and two scrawny legs kicking the abandoned husk away. Long, matted hair ran from its head and over its back, hanging over its sagging breasts and shrunken skin that gleamed grey in the moonlight. “Come here! I’ll take you to your brother!”

Aner drew deeper amidst the branches, his heart racing violently as if it would tear free from his chest. His palms were sweaty, and his back was awash with cold. He stared at the woman, no, at the creature he and Bern had spent time listening to, about the Grey Crossing, about Lake Hîlev, about how to reach the Mothers—and never to tell anyone that they would go there.

“Oh, Aner,” Old Moukash snarled, “was it a good drink? Did Bern call you? A bit of honey, a bit of bog myrtle, and a bit of something”—she barked a laugh that reminded him of wolves tearing at a kill—“to make the head go spin. Oh, my dear boy, we will have such a night ahead of us, my little plaything. I can smell you hiding here. No good running now. Oh, Aner! Aner!” Her voice changed to that of Bern’s. Then, her head snapped upwards as if to listen. She chuckled. “You see, Aner, they have awoken. You carry the mark of the Skûd, and they know it. Mothers, it’s time to eat.”

On the opposite shore, something moved through the woods. In the dark, Aner stared in horror at three pairs of gleaming eyes burning almost at the level of the tallest trees. Their mountainous shapes loomed behind the row of spruces, their dark hair cascading over them and hiding their features, with only their long, crooked noses visible and painted grey by the moon. And the cruel voices from his dreams bellowed over the placid water:

“Petty child, come, petty child.”

“Treat, a merry little treat you are.”

“We crunch your bones; we drink you dry.”

And then Old Moukash, or whatever the ghoulish being that had shed her skin was called, cried, “Feast fair for the years to come!”

Aner turned and ran, ran like his brother had run. Behind him, the tumult of heavy steps crashed through the frozen woods.

Istan

Whatever the large being was, it moved slowly, its lumbering steps setting a rhythm for its rumbling breath. Istan winced as Skada patted him with her staff.

“Let’s move,” she hissed.

“What is that?” Istan whispered, crouching after her.

“We’ll see.”

He definitely didn’t want to see the thing.

They moved slowly, and Istan realised that the creature was heading in the same direction they had earlier. They were already past it, and he released the breath he had been holding, but then Skada turned her skis towards the road and started. Istan stared at her, his mouth agape.

A powerful moan—and the cracking of frozen twigs—sent shudders through the forest, shedding loosely hanging snow from the nearby trees. The creature entered the woods; it was on their trail!

Istan sprang after her. What was Skada thinking? They would be all too exposed on the road. He tried to move nimbly, but he crashed against a fir here, a birch there, and pummelled through some shorter growth he didn’t recognise, only to find Skada standing near the road.

Gasping, he halted behind her.

The creature’s heavy steps drew closer. There was also a novel sound rippling above it all, some sort of crooning, almost as if the large thing was humming a tune. Istan tried to peer in the direction from which he knew the noise was coming, but he could see nothing.

Skada pushed herself on the road. “Listen. Stay exactly on my trail. Do not wander off.”

Istan wanted to ask what they should do if that thing emerged from the trees, but once again, he merely nodded at her back. His weary legs were no longer heavy as lead; they wobbled like harvest-time pudding. He was also no longer staring at his skis, the skis be damned. His alert gaze swept the woods where the monstrous being lumbered onwards, snapping branches and bending trees, stopping now and then to let out wicked sounds that reminded him of bears nearing a treat—or a kill.

Then, he glanced at the ground. Wide prints ran across the snow, like a human going barefoot but with feet two or three times as large, and on the sides, he spied weird sweeps that he couldn’t place in his head. Whatever it was, it was gigantic—and definitely not a bear.

Skada halted at the spot where they first spotted this thing, turned her skis into the forest, and plunged back into the woods.

“Are you crazy?” Istan growled after her. He wouldn’t go there. They had led it right there! They had no weapons, not that they would be much of use anyway, but at least here they could outrun—out-ski—that thing, and at least one of them would have a chance and that would be Skada and—

A loud moan rattled him awake from his scared stupor, and to his amazement, he sped after her. She had already reached the line of small hills and followed them after the monstrosity, but she was waiting for him. The heavy steps moved faster now, and this thing was snorting. It sounded annoyed.

“Come on, my little fox,” she teased him, “this way. Don’t get stuck.” She pushed into a densely growing scrub that had shed all its snow and waded forward, away from their previous trail.

“This is insane,” Istan cried out, but the rumbling of the heavy steps gave him no quarter, and he plunged into the thicket. The branches scraped at him, his sledge got stuck, and his chest felt like bursting from the effort, but, with a whimper and a final grunt, he pushed through.

“Quickly, towards the lake, hurry!” Skada hissed.

Then, she was gone. A grey spectre under the ink-blue shade of the mellow-white trees, leaving a cloud like seafoam of diamonds in her wake.

Istan stared after her. How could she move that fast? Was he holding her back all this time? Was that why they were getting nowhere? The thoughts flashed before his mind, but they wound around a peculiar feeling: she was beautiful. And in the cold gloom, a warmth spread around his chest.

However, in the cold gloom and left alone, the frozen woods had a new edge to them. The shadows were deep, and the air was bitterly cold.

Behind him, a furious roar blasted through the hunkering silence, and he saw her ploy: they had made a loop through the forest, leading that thing onto their trail, but the trail led back to its own tracks. Wicked, he thought. That thing, it was baffled, it was—

A new eruption of rage bludgeoned through his thought; it was getting closer.

Istan dashed after her—and fell on his face. Hastily, his heart raging with fear, he pushed himself up, thrust with the staff, and was off. It was rough, rugged, and devoid of grace, but it was a true effort. He swung the ski staff like a madman, heaved like he was splitting the world with his strokes, kicked and slid like he had never before—and was making fair progress.

A new roar shattered the snow from the trees around him.

Doubling his efforts with the strength he didn’t know he had, he stormed onwards. Snow sprayed behind him, and the trees began to thin out around him. Finally, he shot out from the forest, sliding over a vast field of white. Blinking and almost fainting from the effort, he looked desperately for Skada.

The great white field had swallowed her, but there was fire ahead.

Gundor

Gundor passed below two bent birches. One of the hounds ran ahead of him, but now it halted and gave that familiar yelp and whining.

“Come here, Fórn, come here, boy,” Gundor commanded, and the dog retreated. He patted it on the side and whispered soothingly into its ear.

Fórn nuzzled his thigh but returned to the trail. Once again, it winced as it found the track but was able to continue. Behind Gundor, the rest of their party joined him, their ongoing debate carrying far in the crisp air.

“…and has brought us here,” Saga was chiding the Honnúng, ”so close to Grejkran that I am surprised if the dogs won’t lead us directly into her house—”

“Calm down, my love!” the Honnúng cried, his voice tense with frustration. “For the hundredth time, and may the Skûd eat my balls, but Fjala is not behind this. The trail just happens to lead near Grejkran. Gundor, which way are we headed?”

Gundor looked at the hound turn east—towards Grejkran. “We follow the trail.”

They had set off from Hjolkran in two groups. Skjald, the Hunt Master, had given the Honnúng’s finest hound, Fórn, and two others to Gundor, as he was the only one able to coax the dogs to stay on the scent. The Honnúng, the Honná, and ten men chosen by the Honnúng accompanied him, and they followed the slounják, the haunted trail, as the men soon started to call it. The Hundottsman took the other trail that had pushed further northwards, taking the Hunt Master and a host of swift skiers with him.

Then, the hunt was on.

“Let’s remember we’re on a chase here and would like to surprise the prey,” Gundor told the quarrelling pair.

“You should’ve stayed at the Kran,” the Honnúng muttered, glaring at Saga.

“What a marvellous idea,” Saga snapped back. “And what then, when you’ve killed the thief and saved Valka, huh? What, you carry her in your arms, tucked against your chest, back home?”

“We bring her home. What else, woman?” the Honnúng growled.

“Gundor, explain to your former pupil,” Saga said, passing them her head held high.

“Explain, explain what? I should’ve made her stay home. Ordered! I should’ve ordered her…” The Honnúng steamed, his eyes throwing daggers at her back.

Gundor sighed. He vaguely remembered the Honnúng trying that. “I think she refers to the fact that none in the group can feed Valka when we save her.”

The Honnúng turned his blazing gaze at Gundor, and the tyrite decided he should have stayed silent.

“Not to worry, I’ll let Fjala breast-feed her,” the Honnúng muttered. “That should teach her. I’ll tell her, I bloody tell her…” He glanced at Gundor, grunted, and said, “Let’s move.”

Their party slid fast under the almost full moon. The fields they crossed sparkled in the gentle light, but with the clear skies, they could also feel the bite of the bitter cold. They drew their hats and scarves closer to shield their faces and noses, but kept their gruelling pace. The trail turned northwards, and to the delight of the Honnúng, he loudly announced they were now between Lake Hîlev and were passing Grejkran by—Saga remained silent. On their left, the ground rose into the forested ridgeline governing the lake, and on their right were the mounds of long-forgotten people who had lived in the region.

They were crossing a river, its whereabouts belied by the lost-looking bridge jutting from the whiteness, when one of the men skiing closer to the ridges, Ejrík, called them to halt.

“Can you hear that?” Ejrík shouted, beckoning them closer.

Gundor whistled Fórn back to his side while the Honnúng and a few men skied towards Ejrík. Gundor listened. There was sharpness in the crisp air, clarity, but he could make out nothing unusual. The snow crunched beneath his skis as he shifted his weight from side to side; Fórn panted loudly; the two other dogs’ furs swept the drifts; the lazy wind whistled somewhere, playing with the trees over the ridge.

“What do you hear?” Saga called, but the group around Ejrík all raised their hands.

Something crashed in the forest above them. Again. Then, a frightened yelp cleaved the air, but it was cut ruthlessly. The men looked at one another, drawing swords and readying bows as they spread out. Another scream tore through the waiting silence, and with it, two firs, growing on the slope far above them, fell with a ferocious tearing sound.

Something big thrashed itself free to the open.

Next chapter

#nordic, #fantasy, #mythical, #slow-burn, #snow, #dark, #curse, #treasure

Part III

Like a housling mouse, unseen in its efforts;
It scuttled and nibbled, with teeth it whittled;
The truth of their task, unyielding silence;
It gnawed the mind o’ this lone tyrite.
A race began, a race mighty fierce;
‘Cross lands all dim, this contest of three;
One unknowing, one in desperate need;
And one for prize; vanity and greed.
O’ Jatlekál, why can’t thou see?
Why are thou ears, locked and the key;
Hidden or lost, buried under the frost;
Carry whispers far in the Skûd.

Aner

Kop.

“Aner!”

Aner snapped up, yelped, and raised his stick with a solitary iron nail at the head. Frantically, he turned around, waiting for the monsters to lunge at him and do what they had done to his brother… Only silence greeted him. In the narrow loft, perched above the main and only room, he could barely make out the curly hair of his mother as it cascaded like a vine and hung in mid-air. His father was hidden behind his baldness, which shone like the moon even in the early hours of the day.

Relief dragged Aner to rest against the cool wall, and he exhaled deeply. His eyes closed, his head drooped—and he snapped back up.

It was the second morning after Benighting, and Aner was tired, tired beyond anything he had experienced. Curled into a ball, he rocked himself gently, trying to forget the night’s terrors. Cold sweat had glued his rough burlap shirt to his back, and his pale, bony knees peeked through the holes in his worn linen breeches. He shivered.

“Bern,” he whispered, and tears filled his eyes.

The days after his brother’s death had been hazy, the weeks empty, and the months dull, until a few days before Benighting, he started to see dreams—terrible dreams. Aner squeezed the stick, wrangling with the remnants of the nightly visions that still haunted him.

At first, these dreams had been much like dreams always were, fleeting visions with as much purchase as you would find on a frozen lake. Yet, they always had one peculiar part that remained the same.

In the dream, he stood over water, not ice, just water; deep, dark water that betrayed no reflection when a voice called him.

“Aner!”

It was Bern, his brother! That sweet, confident drawl Aner missed so much echoed across the lake, but he couldn’t move; he couldn’t shout, and soon silence fell, ending the dream.

On Benighting, however, that changed, and the dream grew longer and more disturbing. He was back at the Mothers, standing on the lake, and he heard these sounds as if the forest around him was full of life, full of large creatures vigorously moving along the shoreline, just out of sight. And his brother called him, begged him, to come and save him.

“Aner, please! They’re coming! Please! Aner, they’ll find me, they’ll find me!”

This time, Aner was able to move. He ran towards the shore, screaming his brother’s name and waving his arms, making such a racket that he seemed twice as tall and thrice as strong as he really was. He was like his father, a raging bear afraid of none, set on finding his brother and defending him from whatever was making those noises.

And then it would come.

Dread.

Terror.

His feet would sink beneath the waveless surface, slowing him down. He would never reach the shore, and the Mothers, the pale cliffs in the shoreline, the Mothers had gleaming eyes, and from them echoed cold snickering as he thrashed in the water. And it was as if they moved, as if they were reaching towards him…

Three times, he had woken up in his bed, drenched in sweat and gasping for air in a silent scream.

Not tonight. Tonight was different.

Just as his waist was going under, just as the Mothers leaned towards him, he rolled off his bed and fell. He sprang up, shrieking in panic, but no voice left his mouth. He was home, in this tiny house outside their village’s, Grejkran’s, walls. It was still night outside, and moonlight javelined in through the cracks—and this light drew his attention.

No.

The shadows moving outside the house with heavy, lumbering steps caught his attention. Gigantic creatures circled his home, speaking in cruel voices and poking holes into the structures to force an entry.

“Petty child, come out, petty child.”

“Treat, a merry little treat you are.”

“We crunch your bones; we drink you dry.”

“Come out!”

“Aner! I’m hiding! Help me run from the lake, please!” It was Bern; his voice had been the last. He had called Aner—then he had screamed.

“Aner!”

The echo of his brother’s helpless shriek lingered in his ears.

Aner sniffed. He had tried to stay awake all night, but it was useless; sleep had won. He had tried to tell his mother, to tell his father, but they had said, kindly and finally, that they were just nightmares.

He didn’t believe them, and he squeezed his weapon tighter. Luckily, he could ask someone else.

*

The house was built over a bend in a river, but the water was hidden beneath the thick snow cover, much like the rest of the region. Aner stood at the door and knocked as loudly as he dared, and an answering call, “Coming!” rang from within. He glanced over his shoulder. The ground sloped upwards until it reached the dark fortifications sheltering the Grejkran proper, and the roof of the Kran, especially the spire in the middle, reached boldly towards the sky. It was a stalwart behemoth watching over the lands—and Aner’s home—and its shape brought him comfort.

The door opened, and an elderly woman thrust her head outside. “Aner? My dear boy, what brings you here? Has Anná already spent all the leaves I sold her last week?”

Aner shook his head, squirming under Old Moukash’s gentle gaze. Her grey hair fell in stubborn tufts over her furrowed brow, past her warm eyes and sharp nose, and reached for the grey woollen scarf tucked around her neck.

Aner had come here with Bern on errands from their parents, and she had always delighted them by telling stories of what lay hidden in the forests surrounding the village. She had told them of the Mothers, of the lake—and strictly forbade them to venture there. How she had cried when they had found Bern, when they had carried him, what was left of him, back home. After that, Aner had not visited her, but today was different. He needed answers.

Old Moukash took him in and sat him at a table, pouring him a cup of steaming drink. “This is warm honey, birch leaves dried in spring, bog myrtle, and chaga… and something that I keep to myself.” She winked as she set the pot between them.

The amber drink had a rich, sweet scent, and Aner imagined that golden smoke, like sunlight in spring, rose from the cup. This was in stark contrast to the musky peatiness thick in the air. He took a sip, and it sure as Skûd didn’t taste like summer. It was bitter with a very woody flavour. He thought he was drinking a tree.

“How often have you seen this dream of yours?” she asked. She had peculiar eyes; they seemed to deepen the longer Aner looked at her.

“For five nights, I think,” Aner said softly.

“And they’re always the same?”

“Well, mostly. Except the last one.”

“Is that the one where you thought you were back home, and these… creatures? They were outside, trying to get in?”

Aner nodded. He looked around him uncomfortably. The house was cramped, with overladen shelves taking up all the wall space with their jars and pouches and cups and bottles. Heaps of different dried flowers and plants lay on the floor, and from the ceiling, myriad little buckets hung where flowers would bloom again in the spring.

“Do they get in? No. Ah, and then it’s your brother’s voice waking you up.” She stirred her drink, keeping her gaze locked on Aner. “Aner, please, you’ll snap your neck soon. You’re not an owl. Ask what you came here to ask.”

With great trepidation, Aner shyly met her gaze, and in a quiet voice, he asked, “Do you think it’s true? That my brother could still be there, hiding from… from whatever lives there?”

“My dear boy,” Old Moukash said, reaching to caress his cheek. Her hand felt cold, but the gnarly hands of the old often do. “The Mothers is a special place to us, and a power resides there that is beyond our understanding, but to hope to find Bern there and after all this time… It’s the grief talking, not my dear Aner, who is smart and knows how to behave.”

“But it is said that odd things, unnatural things, can happen in the Skûd,” Aner said desperately. “Fenrik Sjollkín felled the great stag there, but it came back alive, Fenrik’s arrows turned into its antlers…”

“Aner, please—”

“In the Sagas sang during Midsummer, Stuvé sails the hidden rivers until he reaches the halls of the dead, where his wife is, and he brings her back!” Now, Aner was shouting. “And in the lay of the Nonra—”

“Aner!”

Aner opened his mouth, but her glare made him shut it and bow his head. For a moment, they sat in silence.

“Aner,” Old Moukash continued softly, “Bern is dead, and we must all accept that. These dreams you have, well… Bern was always a crafty boy. Who knows? Perhaps this is his way of sending his last thoughts to you from the Whispering Halls, perhaps not. What is certain, however, is that heeding such dark dreams is foolish, even dangerous. Bern is dead. Let us honour his memory and not mar it with these feverish nightmares. Now, finish your drink and off you go to your parents.”

*

Aner’s skis felt unwieldy as he returned from Old Moukash’s house. Whatever nascent hope had been kindled inside him was now extinguished, his brooding mind wallowing in dark depths. He was a grey speck travelling alone across the fields before Grejkran, and the wind galloping in gusts pushed him closer to the forest’s edge. The woods stood in solemn silence, their dark trunks cloaked in white. When he passed beneath an outstretched branch, accidentally hitting it with his staff and releasing a shower of snow to cascade over him, he stopped and shouted angrily.

“This is unfair!” His voice felt feeble and powerless; he felt feeble and powerless. “Why did you take me there? You stupid, thick-headed log-of-a—”

“Aner!”

Aner fell silent, his heart missing a beat. “Bern?” he whispered. He shook his head. Now, not only was he seeing nightmares, but he was also hearing voices! His father wouldn’t take this lightly. No. Bern was dead, just like Old Moukash had—

“Aner, please!” Bern’s voice barely passed the guarding trees, but there was no doubt about it. It was his voice. It wasn’t strong, and he sounded scared. Bern had always been stout of heart, stouter than Aner was in any case, and now he was calling for him.

He was calling for help.

Aner picked up his pace, sliding past the ranks of white until he spotted an opening and dove into the woods. “Bern! I’m coming!”

Istan

Istan reached forward, his frozen fingers singing with delight as the warmth of their tiny fire spread over him. They huddled in a small dell; perhaps a snow cave was a more apt name, as the walls leaned inward, leaving only a tiny crack for the smoke to escape. After enduring the angry wall of raging snow for what felt like an eternity, Skada had ordered him—the girl had ordered him—to halt. Somehow, she knew there would be shelter nearby, and they had crawled into this cave through a hole and sat on their bedrolls before a fire she had made for them.

Istan was exhausted, cold, and miserable. Whenever he wasn’t worrying about his aching fingers, tingling face, and sore legs, he found himself cursing the day the visions returned. He should never have come to this place, into this darkness, and he was certain this would be where he would meet his end. If the dark would not quench him, then surely the cold, snow, and ice would—unless one of those creatures, like this Mistress Red as Skada had named her, got him.

Yet, underneath his cursing, he also knew the truth. He had tried not to come here. After all, what kind of man would take orders from a swan? A violent shiver ran through him. His journey to the north hadn’t been exactly as straightforward as he had told the villagers. He had turned away from his trail twice: once while still near Farklent—and found his lodgings frozen when he woke up—and once when crossing the Horseshoe Coast. He would never set foot on a ship, ever again. Sighing, he bowed his head. Apparently, he was the kind of man taking orders from swans…

And from women.

Istan cleared his throat. “Miss Mort—”

“Call me Skada; how many times do I have to say that?” She was seated near the entrance, peering out into the dark.

“Skada, sorry… Who was she?”

She didn’t answer.

“The woman in the red, what was she carrying? It was a child, a baby, right? You said that something bad was about to happen. How did you know? And, um…” He hesitated, looking for words. “Did she raise the snowstorm?”

The silence hung between them like a veil, and if he hadn’t been entirely dependent on her, he would have been furious at such behaviour. Yet here, huddled in this rough hole of frost, he didn’t have the right to be choosy about the company he kept. He would cling to anyone willing to keep him alive and take him to the place of fell silver. But the idea that his guide was somehow involved with the abduction of the child gnawed at him. “Did you… know she’s going to take the child?”

“No.”

“But you knew something would happen?”

She nodded.

“Well, if you’re not comfortable talking about the red lady, answer me this: how many days’ journey have we ahead of us?”

“It depends.”

“So you can talk, splendid,” Istan said, but wiped the frown from his face as she glared at him. “It depends on… what?”

“On the weather, who we meet on the way, which way we go.”

Istan had an uncomfortable feeling that his guide might not be the boon he had thought she was when she saved him from the red woman. “And you know the way to these Fells?”

“Aye, well…”

Istan’s heart sank.

“There are three, so we might need to search for the silver, but yes, I know the way.” Without another word, she crawled out from their hideaway.

Istan sighed, relieved. At least, she claimed she knew it. “Hey? Skada?” Istan stared perplexed after her. “Skada?”

Her head, with its playful blonde curls, peeked in, then she slid back inside. She carefully dismantled their fire, separating the burning sticks and smothering the flames. Gently turning them in the snow, she tied the half-burned sticks into a bundle and rolled them inside a piece of leather with a waxed surface. Only one splintered piece of wood she left untouched, its flames desperately flickering on the snow.

“Hold these,” she said, handing two torches to Istan. She used the last piece of firewood to light the torches, then extinguished the flames and tucked the wood into the bundle.

“What… what are you doing?” Istan asked curiously.

“What?” She took the other torch. Her brow made a beautiful arc, highlighting her soft cheeks and piercing eyes.

“The fire,” Istan said and pointed at the bundle. “You can’t put smouldering wood into a sack. It will burn free from there.”

“No, it won’t.” And then she crawled out.

What an insufferable woman, Istan thought, and crawled after her.

*

It had stopped snowing, and everything around them was shrouded in a feathered silence. They had to uncover the sledges Skada called by a funny name, but they were soon back on their skis. Istan’s fingers hurt, his arms hurt, his shoulders, back, and legs hurt—it had been no small feat to soldier through the screaming storm.

And he was tired, exhausted. He had nodded off at the village when the lord and his advisors discussed his future, but a proper night’s sleep? Probably beyond the mountains, but that was weeks ago. In that farmer’s house, outside the Narrow Pass.

“We head north,” Skada said, interrupting his thoughts.

“Um, Miss M— Skada, isn’t it morning already?” Istan asked, looking around them. The all-pervasive darkness hung heavily over them, but in the distance, the southeastern horizon appeared lighter than the rest. “It’s been so cloudy ever since I crossed the Rusted Teeth Mountains that I’ve already forgotten what the sun looks like. Should we wait for it to get a bit brighter?”

Skada stared at him, her face blank. “It’s going to be a long wait.”

“The dawn can’t be far off, and the cave would be much warmer than standing here in the open.”

Skada attached the skis to her feet, picked up her staff, and turned to leave.

“We don’t wait for the sun?” Istan felt how his tired body screamed for warmth. He stared at her gliding over the snow. “Fine.”

At first, Istan could concentrate on his surroundings, but the silent forest, shrouded in gloom, was dull and uninteresting. Slowly, as the toil with the staff and these two slippery planks began to command all his attention, his gaze fell from the trees to Skada’s back, from her back to her sledge, from the sledge to the tip of his skis, and from the tips to the middle parts and bindings.

One foot forward and push with the staff. One foot forward and push with the staff. The dulling repetition took over. The rugged singing of the snow beneath his skis filled his ears, and the warmth from the movement was replaced by aching in his back.

At times, their paths took them up small hills, and in general, going upwards was fine. There was fur attached to the soles of the skis, providing a surprising grip and allowing him to ascend steep slopes with considerable ease. The worst rises they circled, but he quickly learned he could also move up sideways without fear of sliding back. He wouldn’t call it pleasant, but it was manageable, even with the added weight of the sledge dragging him down.

Downhill was something else. The trees grew densely here, and Istan was amazed at how smoothly Skada navigated herself down with speed. He didn’t. If he didn’t hit a tree, which wasn’t unusual, some weird force tripped him, and he would land on his side, on his face, or take a brief flight before diving into the drifts. Spitting snow, it took him a good while to get back up. Skada stopped to relight his torch after a few falls.

That wasn’t the worst of it. He had a murderous sledge. It seized every chance to pummel against his heels, crashing against him like a hammer on a nail when he fell, and on one particular ride, it tried to overtake him—mid-slope.

The struggle felt endless, and Skada allowed them only two brief breaks. She wasn’t a very talkative guide, and when she answered his questions, she did so briefly. From her, Istan learned that they had travelled the better part of the day, stopping once near noon and again at what would have been dusk. Still, she urged them to continue.

“We can’t camp here,” she said, looking cautiously around them.

“Why not?” Istan, dead tired, snarled as he tried to rub life into his weary legs.

“There’s no shelter, and this is not a pleasant place.”

Istan took in the dark forest leaning over them, for once agreeing wholeheartedly with her, but again, she dodged further questions by springing up and saying, “Keep up.”

One foot forward and push with the staff. One foot forward and push with the staff. Past the two rises blocking their way, up the third one and down from the other side—headfirst into the snow.

Clearing his face, Istan wrangled himself free from the cold embrace. He could see Skada’s shape a little way off, between two tall firs reaching up into the darkness. Her torch flickered joyously, lighting parts of the trees on both sides of her. It looked as if she had two massive wings spread upwards.

Cursing, Istan checked his gear and resumed on the trail. He would have given anything for a stop at an inn. Surely there were inns in the north? Although at this point, anywhere but here would have been better. All this murkiness and freezing cold, these colourless woods, this damned perpetual night that had killed the sun… It would rise, wouldn’t it? It must rise soon. He had somehow mistaken the night for the morning, and the sun would peek in just a bit from the eastern horizon…

And then he emerged from the woods and stood gaping beside Skada.

“The sky,” Istan gasped, staring above them. “It’s still there.”

The curtain of clouds parted, and beyond it, the moon and stars shone so brightly that Istan had to shield his eyes. It seemed as though everything before him was burning with silver light—had someone scattered stars at their feet? Blinking fiercely, Istan tried to focus on the terrain ahead, but it appeared like a shimmering sea.

“You’re an odd man,” Skada said beside him. “You’re not much of a skier, and you thought somebody stole the sky? Are there no clouds in the south?”

“Of course there are,” Istan snapped, but his retort lacked the will it should have had. “I’ve been travelling in these parts for the better part of a month, and not once have I seen the sun, not since I passed the Rugged Teeth Mountains.”

“The sun? She’s still travelling in the south,” Skada said. “You should know, red man.”

“Travelling? Red man?”

Skada pointed east. “When we see her late in autumn, the horizon burns red until one day, only a purple streak remains before the winter’s night sets in. The old wives sometimes sing that the röt mon, the red man, stole the sun, but everyone knows she’s travelling in the south.”

Istan glanced at her briefly. “What a peculiar thing to believe in. I thought it’s all dark and miserable here, but this…”

For a moment, he forgot the cold, the exhaustion, the pain gnawing at his joints and making his muscles sing. He had never seen so many hues of blue and grey, not even when diving into the rivers and ponds in Farklent. The sparkle on the snow put most diamonds to shame. He was most amazed that it wasn’t dark, even though it was night. He could see deep into the frozen woods, gape at corridors and hallways crisscrossing beneath the arched whiteness where twilight blue reigned. Yet, raising his gaze to the horizon, he beheld in sharp silver the far-off fells in the northeast and the patchwork of wilderness around them: darker, densely grown forests and vast stretches of white fields.

“This is beautiful,” he gasped. “Wait… what has happened to the sky?”

“What do you mean?”

“The moon is, well, the moon is what it should be, but the stars!” Istan looked around like a bewildered owl, desperate for a point of reference. “There should be the Pawn somewhere on the eastern horizon, trailed by the Hounds, but they’re in the middle—and where’s the Sailor’s Eye?”

“Who are they?”

“Constellations! The stars are all wrong! I’m a cartographer… well, a cartographer in training, and this… this is all wrong…” Istan said, but then, squinting, he peered into the distance. “That’s the High One, right? Le Sjervole, we call it, the North Star.”

“The bright one down in the north? Yes, I’ve heard it called that. We call it Maan Nila—the Nail of the World. What’s a cartographer?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Istan glanced at Skada. “No? We, er, we draw maps based on… on measurements.”

“Measurements?” Skade tilted her head.

“Yes, well, like how far certain landmarks are. We use these scales and other tools to get the measurements, then we draw our findings on a map—”

“And what’s that?”

“You don’t have maps here?” Istan frowned. “They’re these documents, drawings we make on parchment or vellum: it shows where you are in relation to the world around you.”

A light, clear laughter rang from her lips. “You’re a weird man, Istan of Farklent, if you need a piece of skin to tell you where you are.”

“It’s not that simple. See, the Le Sjervole, the… what did you call it? The Nail up there. We know that the north is there”—he knelt, drawing an arrow pointing north on the snow—“so now that I’m here”—he looked ahead and drew the forests opening around them, choosing not to use the symbols of King René’s schools but rather simpler imagery depicting the woods—“I could give this map to the next poor Southron ending up here. They would instantly know where they are, and how to get where they want to be.” He looked at Skada.

Her brow was slightly furrowed, but she was listening to him, her lips pursed cutely. “But everyone knows that the Maan Nila is in the north, as it anchors the north into the pit where the Whispering Halls are. And they would know where the krans are, too, or could ask for guidance.”

“Yes, I suppose people here could help them, but with a map, you would already know that. Merchants, soldiers, messengers might not have the time nor interest to ask… And these Whispering Halls… wait, down in the north? You mean up in the north?”

“How can the pit be up? Besides, when you bury your dead, how could they get up from under the soil? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“That doesn’t make any sense? That?” He stared at this odd woman who talked to him as if he were a child. “Miss Mort, nothing makes sense here. You say up is down and that the Sun is away and will return… when exactly?”

Skada shrugged. “Could be three weeks still, but don’t dwell on it. We shouldn’t linger. Keep up.” With that, she extinguished her torch and slid forward.

“Don’t dwell on it?” Istan asked her back, wanting to scream it at her. What an insufferable woman. Yet, as a cold shiver ran through him, part of him reluctantly agreed with her. In this land forsaken by the sun, where even the stars were all wrong, perhaps he was the child she made him feel himself to be. He sighed but hurriedly tucked his unlit torch into his sledge and followed. He shouldn’t let her get too far ahead.

After all the woods, the region opening around them looked much more traversable than the hills within the forest. The land dipped into a gently undulating valley governed by densely growing trees and made a sharp bend before a new patch of thicket awaited them further ahead. Istan could only guess what lay beneath the drifts, but again, the toil soon made him forget everything except the rhythmic movement of his hands and feet.

Again, they had to plunge into the woods as the white fields ended, but this time, there were wider spaces between the trunks, and they could travel more freely. The trees here had fewer snow coats, and everything was bathed in darker shadows that leaned uncomfortably close. Istan was grateful as they emerged from beneath them and slid over a snaking white path in the middle of the forest.

“This is the Northern Road,” Skada said ahead of him.

Something in her voice pushed past Istan’s exhaustion, and he slid beside her. “The Northern Road? There wouldn’t be any inns lying nearby?”

Skada smiled. “There are, but we’re not going that way. There’s a camp nearby, one used by the travelling merchants, Savík, and others on this route. It’s right after a stretch of Lake Hîlev’s southern shores. We should see it soon on our right.”

This time, they moved side by side, but Skada was as talkative as before. She seemed to favour grunts and nods over wordy explanations, and Istan was hard-pressed to talk and keep the pace. He did manage to wrangle out from her that she had once lived somewhere nearby, but she had left her parents’ house for the household of the local lord. Yet there was something in her story, some aspect that kept nagging at him. For one, women her age, even though Istan could only guess the years, were often married; she wasn’t. Customs differed widely, but still…

Breathing heavily, Istan soon started to lag, and his focus moved to other matters than his guide’s story. Then his left bind got loose. With a frustrated groan, he stopped to examine it. His mittens were clumsy, so he discarded them and started fiddling with the straps. Frozen stiff, tightening them took its time, but finally, wiping sweat from his brow, he managed to secure his boots in place. He exhaled loudly, stretching his back. His breath steamed in the frosty air, and suddenly he laughed.

“I’m like a dragon belching fire,” he said to himself. He filled his lungs, arched his back, and expelled all air in a thunderous gasp that, like fire, danced visibly above him. He chuckled, shook his head, and looked at Skada. She had stopped a little way off but was staring ahead. Time to go, Istan thought, shook his head, amused, and looked behind.

In the distance, the road ascended higher and twisted past rows of firs standing stiff even under the weight of snow, while the few birches among them arched into curves. They had skied beneath a few such gates, and Skada had mentioned that some of them would stand upright again in the spring, but many remained bent. She had a funny name for them, loosely translated as “the humble supple” in the common tongue. It was a fitting description.

Istan squinted. “Skada, do you see that? Skada!” he hissed as loudly as he dared.

Under one such humble arc, a dark silhouette moved towards them. It was still far off, but something uncanny about its shape and movement chilled Istan. “Skada, what is that?”

Skada came by his side. “I don’t know.”

“Are there… bears living here?”

“Bears?” Skada frowned and muttered something inaudible.

Istan glanced at his sledge, then at hers. Neither had any weapons apart from the torches—fire might protect them if necessary. He cursed these northerners, who had confiscated his sword when he had ridden into the village. Raising his ski staff from the snow, he glanced at the end. Its metallic tip was pointed but hardly sharp. “You wouldn’t have packed any weapons, now would you?”

Skada shook her head. The ominous shape wavered as if uncertain where to go. Then, it disappeared into the forest.

“Was that,” Istan said, measuring the distance, “where I stopped to relieve myself?”

“We have to go. Hurry.” Skada pivoted nimbly on her skis and drove directly into the woods on their right.

“Skada, wait! What are you doing?” Istan shouted as loudly as he dared. “It’s much faster if we take the road! Skada!” He followed her into the forest where the white-gowned firs waited. In horror, he watched as Skada deliberately brushed aside the trees around her, going deeper into the woods, creating a gaping hole in the whiteness—an arrow pointing to where they had exited. “What are you doing?”

She neither halted nor answered, and he was forced to follow. They cut into the forest in a perpendicular line from the road, and all the while, she waved and hustled with her arms and ski staff, shedding snow from the branches and scarring the white surfaces around their path. Istan, realising that madness had taken her—and in order not to think what terror was following them to make her act like this—did the only thing he could: he left her trail, quickened his pace, and tried to cut in front.

Skada noticed him—and smiled. “Good idea! Make a second trail there, but cross over to the other side and make one there, too. We don’t want it to know how many we are.”

“What? Are you insane?” Istan, gasping for air, almost tumbled, and only a sapling juniper caught his fall, pushing him back on his feet.

“After the hill, we need to turn right,” Skada continued. “Then we ought to stay silent but try to leave as many marks as possible. You can draw a second trail for as long as you keep an eye on the road.”

Istan tried to keep up with her, but she had to wait for him on the other side of the small rise.

“Right? You mean towards that… that thing? Skada, please,” he gasped. “Could you explain?”

“We need a distraction.”

“From what? What is that thing?”

“Hard to tell.” Her voice was thin and strained, yet he couldn’t tell if it was from fear or anticipation. “Could be a troll, could be a nätter, could be something else. We don’t stop to ask—we run.”

“A troll?” Istan stammered, but she was moving already.

However, she now moved more cautiously, crouching a bit lower and not taking those long strides Istan admired and envied. He caught up with her, but he also eyed the woods with mounting trepidation. She kept marking their trail, but less often. Then she halted and waved at Istan to do the same.

At first, Istan heard nothing; his laboured breathing rustled his clothes and made his cap rub against his ears. He couldn’t see far amidst the trees, and the small hill from which they had turned was part of a succession of nodules blocking the road from sight. Istan trembled, and his hand squeezed the ski staff. Remembering it was the only sharp thing at his disposal, he raised it, pointing it like a spear towards where the sounds of movement came. As if answering his challenge, something moaned in a low, rumbling voice in the night around them.

Something big.

#nordic, #fantasy, #mythical, #slow-burn, #snow, #dark, #curse, #treasure

Gundor

Grim people muttering among themselves gathered outside a smoking shed. Gundor, still reeling from Honnúng’s violent outburst, reached them just in time to see the Honnúng emerge from the building. His face partly covered in ash, he tossed two charred planks before the crowd: a pair of burned skis, their form bent and brittle, the remnants of their metallic bindings blackened. Gundor didn’t push through the angry mob. Instead, he waited as the Honnúng marched towards him, the Hundottsman trailing his lord like a bloodhound.

“Perhaps we’re both mistaken,” the Honnúng said to Gundor, wiping his face. “Somebody has collected most of the skis into a pyre, left the door open, and made a nice little campfire to hinder our pursuit.”

“Fool of a foreigner,” the Hundottsman said, spitting over his shoulder. “We have plenty left to track him down. Sjald is readying the hounds; we’ll catch him in no time.”

Gundor squinted. The billowing smoke made his eyes water. “What do you mean, we’re both mistaken?”

The Honnúng beckoned them to move a little away from the crowd, lowering his voice. “There’s no way that Istan fellow could’ve known where the skis are, and what troubles me is the fire: why burn only a single shed? Come Skûd, had I been the one to cover my tracks, I’d have lit the Kran and whatever houses I could.”

“Like I said, he’s a fool,” the Hundottsman repeated, waving at Sjald. The Hunt Master was goading two eager dogs towards them.

“And you are, too, if you don’t understand that he got help from within,” the Honnúng said. “Nobody has seen Holkké, the other guard I named to watch after the foreigner. I’m concerned… and now the skis…” He looked away, over the ramparts and into the prevalent gloom hunkering over the region.

Gundor, cautious of another outburst, remained silent. The burning of the skis troubled him. It was indeed likely that the foreigner had received help from one of the Kranians. Yet, there was something uncanny about this whole business. Muttering to himself, he turned around, looking at the village bustling with searchers.

The ground was all trampled, not that Gundor was a tracker, but he caught sight of something peeking at him. A pair of black eyes stared at him from behind the open door of the burned shed. He cleared his throat, saying, “My Honnúng, please, come with me. No, just you. Good Hundottsman may see for the hounds.”

“But the hounds are already here,” the Hundottsman said, baffled, as Sjald reached them.

Gundor saw how something small, a dark shape with fur or a thick, matted beard, disappeared inside the hut. “Did you…?” he whispered.

“Aye,” the Honnúng, now standing beside him, replied. “Give us a moment,” he ordered, following Gundor into the shed.

It was dark inside, and the lingering smoke and ash danced in the air, painted dull grey by the pallid glow seeping in from the open door. In the centre of the shadowy shed were the remnants of the burned skis, and the walls were lined with crates, barrels, sacks, and other objects. From the ceiling hung rows of lanterns, ropes, fishing nets, and a few bear traps.

“Close the door,” Gundor whispered. As the Honnúng slid the door shut, he continued, “May I speak to the Keeper of the House?”

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, behind a blackened crate, a small creature stepped forth. “Yôth,” it said in a deep voice. Standing nearly as tall as Gundor’s knees, it wore a dark grey cloak fastened with a wide leather belt from which a myriad of keys hung. It had two large, utterly black eyes that gleamed curiously in the dark. Under its round nose, a thick grey beard cascaded into its cloak, and it was hard to tell whether the hair sprouting from its sleeves around its gnarled hands and breeches to cover its bare feet was fur or beard. Cautiously coiling behind it was a tail with a tuft of black fur at the end.

“Finhílt,” Gundor said, bowing low.

“Keeper of the House,” said the Honnúng, also bowing.

The creature took a step forward and started speaking. In a low, growling tone, it battered them with a distressed story about the previous night’s events.

“I see, I see,” Gundor said. “I am terribly sorry for the burning of your house. Truly, such heinous acts should be punished.”

“What does it say?” the Honnúng asked.

“Have you forgotten the language?” Gundor said, amazed.

“I’m the lord of the land. I have other matters on my mind than the language of the… the Skûd.” The Honnúng’s voice dropped as he snapped at Gundor. “Keeper of the House, I mean no disrespect,” he added, bowing again at the small creature standing with its arms crossed over its tiny chest.

The finhílt blurted something and waved its hand.

Gundor frowned.

“What? What did the tomt… what did the Keeper of the House, say?” The Honnúng smiled but took an icy grip on Gundor’s shoulder and drew him closer towards his dangerously gleaming eyes.

Gundor turned his head away from the small creature. “It said that the Skûd remembers those who have abandoned it.”

The finhílt spoke again, its words short and urgent.

Gundor nodded. “But your rule has allowed it to prosper, and it wants to punish… what do you mean, the two?”

The finhílt repeated its part.

“The foreigner,” the Honnúng said, his eyebrows high, “and a maiden?”

Skada

Skada pushed a pair of skis and a staff for Istan, who clutched them awkwardly. Then, they ran. Somewhere behind them, the Kran’s door screeched open, but that was the last thing they heard as the sounds of their hasty escape, heavy breathing and crunching snow took over. The deep drifts mocked their attempts, and all too often, Skada had to halt, turn, and help Istan up.

“Quickly, up, now, go!” Skada urged him onwards while she took the heavier burden of dragging the ahkó behind her. Ahkó! They would need another one, but from where? Returning to the storage shed wasn’t an option, not while the Mistress Red was anywhere near. Skada cursed. They would need another pair of skis, too. And a ski pole!

But she had burned the ones she had found earlier.

“Come Skûd,” she cursed aloud.

And provisions.

They would starve in a week with what she got.

They slid through the dark village, dragging their feet and gear through the heavy snowfall, as Skada guided them towards the ramparts. She kept looking over her shoulder, expecting to see those vicious leaves flying towards her, but there seemed to be no pursuit, and their tracks were already partly hidden. The Mistress Red wasn’t after them, she reminded herself, and she dearly hoped that was true.

Finally, they reached the palisade and the stairs leading up to the walkway. It was unmanned; the only one outside was Gundor at the main gate, which was on the southern side, concealed by the snowfall and the Kran’s looming shape. “You need to climb up,” she told Istan.

“Right. And the red woman, is she…?” Istan kept peering towards the Kran.

“We don’t want her to catch us.”

“Right. Should we warn—”

“Look,” Skada said, grabbing Istan by his jacket. “Something bad is going to happen in the Kran, and when it does, they will blame the stranger for that.”

“Wait, what? But the Lord promised me provisions, help—”

“Did you see her?” she almost screamed at him. “Did you see what the leaves did to Holkké? And her turning into that, that root? My mother—”

No. She shouldn’t tell him about the vision. She would need to convince him to leave without sounding all mad and make him return to the Kran. It would be all over then, if there were anyone left alive. The red puddle that used to be Holkké flashed before her eyes.

“Listen, Istan,” she continued. “I will help you to reach the Pale Fells, where fäll servíl, the fell silver can be acquired.”

“You can?”

Could she? She knew very little about fäll servíl. The tales told of people seeking their fortune from the Pale Fells, risking the shadow of Firdún in their attempts. The Pales… They were in the northeast, a few weeks’ skiing away. Finding them wouldn’t be difficult, but the silver…

And there, her thoughts took a novel form, one she had not dared to utter, even to herself. With fäll servíl, she could make her own bídr—she could be free from the Honnúng’s stock. She could choose her husband, house, and keys. She might even leave the north. Her head held high, she said, “Yes, I can lead you there, if you promise that I receive half of the found silver as a payment for my help.”

Istan peered at her curiously. “Yes,” he said.

“Swear it.”

“On my honour, if you help me to claim this fell silver, half of the prize will be yours. This I swear, and may the gods stand witness and see me fulfil it, or punish me in failure.”

For a moment, they stared at each other in silence.

“Take this,” she said, loosening the ahkó’s rope around her and passing it to Istan. “Climb the rampart and lower the ahkó on the other side.”

“Eh… but, my horse… she’s still there,” Istan stammered, waving towards the gate. “And my sword…”

“Where we’re going, no horses will follow, unless you plan to eat her,” she snapped at him, turned, and strode towards the nearest building.

“Wait, wait! Where are you going?” Istan cried after her.

“To get another ahkó.”

“What… what does that mean?”

Skada didn’t bother to answer, leaving the man staring after him. Cautiously advancing through the night, it took her a moment to find a suitable sledge. The first one was broken, but the second one would do. The tinder sheds lay nearby, and she piled as many firemaking utilities as she could into the second ahkó. She then risked a visit to the hatten, a long barn where the butcher stored his wares, stealing two frozen pig shanks, fresh fish, and a small barrel of wine. Luckily, there was also a pair of skis and a staff leaning against the wall inside the hatten. Finally, she returned in time to find Istan lowering the first ahkó down.

“Good,” she gasped, peering behind her. The alleys and the village were all quiet, and the snowing had ceased momentarily. Nothing moved in the gloom. “The doom will strike before the night’s end,” she said quietly.

“I’m sorry, what?” Istan turned, the rope slipped, and the second ahkó fell freely over the wall.

It landed softly into the snow.

Skada waved her hand. “Nothing. Grab the rope, you’ll go next.”

Istan was much better at the rope than at running in the snow, and soon he was down. Skada pulled the rope up, opened the knot, and latched it from the middle around one of the protruding trunks of the rampart. Then, holding both lines, she slid down. She didn’t reach the ground, but it wasn’t a deep fall. Releasing her left hand but gripping the rope’s other end in her right, she fell—and the rope coiled and landed on top of her.

Istan stared at her, looked up, and then down again. “That’s clever.”

“Thanks,” Skada said curtly. “Put on the clothes on the ahkó, and then the skis. We must get as far as possible before they realise we’ve gone missing.”

Istan looked around, a puzzled look on his unshaven face. He loosened the hide that had been tightened atop his ahkó and picked up a large coat and other warm clothes, but he still looked lost. “Um, and what are these skis you speak of?”

“Have you never skied?” Skada stared at Istan as he quickly dressed, her mouth open in disbelief. “Never?”

Istan, now looking like a Kranian in a heavy woollen tunic, thick breeches, boots, mittens, and a fur hat, looked at the longer and shorter skis before him and shook his head. Against his chest, he carried one drinking skin, and on his back, another, both tucked under his clothes. “Why?” the man had asked, as if he wouldn’t understand what frost did to most liquids.

Skada cursed. She cursed the stranger, she cursed her plan, and she cursed her mother. “Look, strap your boots with these binds, there—no! No. Like this, good, and tighten, excellent. This”—she handed him the other staff—“is what you use for pushing yourself forward.”

Istan examined the ashen pole. Then he looked at Skada. “Could you… show me what you mean?”

Skada sank her staff into the snow and pushed herself onwards while making a shallow lunge with her other foot. “See?” She slid a small distance effortlessly. “Quickly now, we mustn’t tarry.”

Istan dipped the staff into the whiteness and pushed.

“Lean forward. Slide your feet, one at a time.” Skada tried to remain calm but kept a wary eye on the ramparts. She was anxious to get some distance between the Kran and themselves before they were missed, but she now saw the glaring issue in their hasty escape. “You must try harder!” she hissed at the issue.

Istan held the staff as if it were a spear, and he skewered the snow with such force that looking at his efforts hurt Skada’s teeth.

“Like this?” Istan asked. “No?”

“No.” She was frustrated—no, desperate. The Hundottsman and his Hunt Master would find them here, practising skiing. She already saw the boulder, felt its weight in her hands, imagined the cold, murky water that would swallow her—

Then, before her eyes, something changed. Istan rocked slightly on the side, swung the staff, pushed and crouched—and slid a little way.

“Hey, this is like the rafts!” He sounded excited. He repeated the motion. “One, two, three, push!”

Now, he slid a little further. “One, two, three, push!”

It looked as if he was dancing. His hips swayed smoothly from side to side, his upper body swung the staff like a scythe on a busy harvest day, and he chanted the rhythm aloud. And he slid. It was the weirdest-looking skiing Skada had ever seen, but he managed to move forward. First slowly, then faster, and faster, and Skada stared at him go.

Over the edge of the slope.

He screamed the whole way down until he tripped and tumbled headfirst into the drifts.

Skada stared after him, looked up to the blackness above, said, “Why him, mother?” and pushed her skis after the stranger.

She found Istan spitting and brushing snow from his clothes. It took them a moment to find his other ski and retrieve the staff, but soon, they were all set.

“Now, I’ll go first and make you a track to follow. Try to keep your skis on it. You’ll do fine—there are no more slopes before we reach the woods,” Skada said.

“All right, um,” Istan said, removing his mitten and offering his hand. “I am Istan of Farklent, but that you already knew.” He stared at Skada, his deep, dark eyes looking haunted and tired. But there burned a fire of determination that Skada thought she recognised.

“Skada Mort—” Skada began, but hesitated. She was no longer Morttedás; his father was dead, she was houseless, and she had no husband. Falkké. She was Skada Falkké.

“Skada Mort,” Istan said, bowing. “Pleased to make you acquainted.”

Skada looked at him, then took his hand and squeezed it. “Istan,” she said, nodding. “We must go north.” She gestured towards the gloom ahead of them, where all colours had drained and darkness reigned. “We should…” She gazed past Istan, her eyes fixed on a shape emerging from the twilight on their left.

The Mistress Red, clad in glimmering crimson with an ethereal glow about her, walked across the snow like a fresh wound amidst all the colourlessness. She cradled a bundle of white against her chest. In the night, the helpless crying of a baby rang hollowly.

“Who is she?” Istan whispered beside Skada, his voice tense and strained.

Skada did not, could not answer. Horrified, all she saw was the white bundle being carried away from the Kran, from her, Valka’s, home. Whatever disdain towards the Honnúng she had felt now washed away from her as wrath rose inside her. Silently, she turned her skis towards the stealer of babies, her left hand drawing his father’s Good Knife from its sheath.

“Skada,” Istan gasped, grabbing hold of her shoulder. “What is that?”

Skada wrenched herself free, looking at where Istan was frantically pointing. There was no Kran. There was just a deep rumble, a rising hiss, before the white wall of snow screamed over them.

Gundor

“Saga was right,” the Honnúng said, gasping for air, bending over and grabbing his knees as if punched.

“Why would she help the foreigner?” Gundor said, perplexed. He could imagine no reason for Skada to aid Istan, but there was no mistake in the finhílt’s description of the maiden—of the maiden setting the Kranians’ skis alight and stealing rations from their winter provisions. “I don’t understand.”

“You…” the Honnúng growled, snarling like a ravenous dog. “You brought her here,” he whispered through his gritted teeth. “Of course you did. You brought the girl; you brought the foreigner.” Like a malevolent shadow, he rose from the floor, his eyes glinting. “What was it that you said, huh? Not”—he drew a long knife from his belt, the blade catching the pallid light pouring in from the door left ajar—“connected.”

“Jagír,” Gundor said cautiously, raising his hands and revealing his palms. “Wait—”

“How could I be so blind? It was always you. You are the connection.”

With a great leap forward, the Honnúng thrust the knife, aiming it at Gundor’s chest. The finhílt screamed, and Gundor tried to lunge aside. The blade missed, cutting only the tyrite’s sleeve.

“Valka. Where’s my Valka?” the Honnúng cried out, slashing anew.

Gundor retreated, blindly grasping for objects to throw between him and the enraged Honnúng. “Jagír, wait! Stop! Wait!”

Again and again, the Honnúng struck and missed, but then Gundor tripped on the burnt skis and fell painfully onto his back. The Honnúng leapt like a ferocious beast, landing over the tyrite and seizing his coat. Snarling, he brought his whimpering victim close to his face, the knife pressed deep against Gundor’s throat, cutting his skin.

“Where is my daughter?” the Honnúng roared.

*

The shed’s door swung open with a sad squeal.

Gundor stumbled out, his hands groping for support but finding none. He fell on his knees on the empty street, shaken and trembling. I am alive! but his hands instinctively touched his throat, which he had covered with a bandage torn from his sleeve. It felt moist. The wound was still fresh, the kiss from the Honnúng’s knife.

Gundor didn’t fully understand what had saved him. The Hundottsman had barged in and shouted something incomprehensible, and Jagír had left with him, leaving Gundor sprawled on the ashes of the skis. The finhílt was nowhere to be found—perhaps it abhorred the violent Honnúng and hid itself in the Skûd? The tomnten were crafty little things.

Gundor dragged himself up and sat on a crate reclaimed from the burnt hut. He laid his head in his hands, trying furiously to understand what had happened. How could he have failed? He raised his gaze, surveying the almost empty Hjolkran basking in the perpetual dusk. People, mostly women and the elderly, toiled further away with shovels and brushes, clearing paths into the drifts. They gave him a wide berth.

Gundor sighed. How could he not have seen this happen? A faint whiff of smoke enveloped him, and he absent-mindedly brushed his clothes free from any ash still lingering on them. The rhyme about the fool of carvéd stone rang constantly in his head.

“Was it the stranger?” he asked the empty street before him. “Was it Skada?”

The street didn’t answer him, and he covered his face anew, tears burning in his eyes. He had never failed thus—where was Valka? The questions haunted him, sinking their blunt teeth into his hide and making him tremble violently. He tried to steady himself and regain control. Closing his eyes, he inhaled. Not as deep and long as he wanted to, but even a shallow breath was better than none, and even a shallow breath was enough to make him aware.

Aware of the lingering scent of late autumn, of crisp and metallic air laced with a peaty palette, of the sweetness every decaying thing must have near the end. This was the Skûd within his protective circle, mocking him.

He had dreaded this all his life, that something would emerge from the Skûd and challenge him and that the people would turn to him for… what? For protection? He stared at his trembling hands. How could he protect anyone? For guidance? He was a tyrite but a reluctant tyrite at that. He had never chosen this path. His parents had forsaken him in the woods, an unwanted child, and it was by chance that his late master had found him—“saved” him.

The coolness of the morning caressed his chin, soothing the hurt, the doubt, and… He opened his eyes. The rage?

Gundor raised his head and leaned against the shed’s wall, his face grim and cold. Someone, someone from the Skûd, had challenged him—and won. He clenched his hands into fists, his jaw tightened, and the soles of his feet burned with suppressed anger.

Aye, he had not chosen this part, and aye, he wasn’t the best fit for it, but something had come and attacked his friend—the closest thing he had for a friend—and taken his child. Whatever doubts Gundor had about his capabilities would be secondary to the fact that Valka was taken. Taken right under his nose when he was supposed to guard her with his life. Grunting, he pushed up to his feet and was about to return to the Kran when he heard his name called.

“Gundor!” It was the Hundottsman. “The Honnúng demands your presence.” He threw a pair of skis before the tyrite.

Gundor turned his coldly glinting eyes upon the captain of the guard. “Lead the way,” he commanded, all meekness cast aside.

*

The dogs, chieftains of the Honnúng’s hunt, bayed and howled. They were restless, jumping so fiercely that Sjald, the Hunt Master, had trouble controlling them. The Honnúng stood like a storm cloud, dark and brooding, near them. He didn’t greet Gundor or speak to him, but the Hundottsman explained the situation.

“We took the dogs and our finest skiers around the ramparts. The stranger must’ve escaped over the walls, and true enough, we found something: two trails.” The Hundottsman waved north. “They followed the first trail towards the northern barrows, but before they reached them, another trail crossed the first. This one also came from the walls, but the dogs…”

“Aye,” Sjald shouted over the barking and whining, “I’ve never seen me dogs this frightened. They’re mad, jittery. Look at ‘em! More hares than hunters.”

The Hundottsman nodded. “We’re losing precious moments here, but what to do? Look what happens.” He gestured to the Hunt Master to take one of the hounds forward, but they made no further than five or six paces, when the dog cowered on the ground, yelping pitifully. Then, it sprang up, baying as if hit and hurt, and started pulling fiercely towards the village’s walls.

The Hundottsman continued, “I was ordering the men to split up and find a path through, but, well, the Honná halted me. She said you could explain the riddle.”

Saga slid beside her husband, first looking at him and then measuring Gundor. “I don’t know which is worse, Jagír’s rashness or boldness,” she said in a low voice. “The musk ox is his sigil, and what a stubborn animal that is. They’re all at a loss, such a valiant bunch, but I see this, the hounds, and I remembered all the stories Jagír has whispered of the time in your service.”

At this, the Honnúng grunted, pulling away from them. His shoulders shook, but then, he exhaled like a moose, his breath vapouring violently in the air, and he turned.

Gundor met this gaze. How his friend had shrunk, he thought. How grim and spent, how ashen his face, how gaunt his cheeks. But even in his wraith-like essence, he belonged to this hazy scenery washed with the pallid glow of the snow, a wraith on a wraith’s land.

“First, it was the tomnten who saved you; now, my wife,” the Honnúng said, nodding towards Saga. His eyes were deep with regret and sorrow, but there was a nascent gleam, like a furnace being lit, that Gundor remembered from their old days. “Let it be the truth that saves you the third time and nothing but the truth.” He stepped before Gundor. “Tyrite.”

“My Honnúng,” Gundor said, bowing low. A firm but friendly hand landed on his shoulder, and he looked up.

“I remember once when we were sheltering from rain—it was late summer if I recall it right—when there was a raging hailstorm, and in the morning, all the land was white. There was this peculiar line, this snaking trail that crossed the meadows below us, and you said…” The Honnúng gestured for Sjald to bring one of the hounds to them. “You said that among those who didn’t depart, a few are so mighty indeed that they leave traces such that only the strongest can follow without consequences.” The Honnúng handed him the leash, paused, and said, “A farmer is worried about his livestock and hears the howling.”

“Aye, but when he’s scaring the wolves away, the fox sneaks in,” Gundor said quietly. “I failed you, my friend.”

“That doesn’t matter now. Only Valka does.”

“The gról expects us to take the challenge,” Gundor said, already sliding cautiously towards where the dogs had gone barking mad earlier.

The Honnúng skied with him. “Let us hunt fox, then.”

#nordic, #fantasy, #mythical, #slow-burn, #snow, #dark, #curse, #treasure

Gundor

It snowed heavily throughout the night. Under the thick clouds and lingering darkness, dawn didn’t break, but Gundor recognised a shift in the air. The heart knows the sun, as his master had said long ago, and so it was. He rose from his stool at the gate and took a bundle of sticks and birchbark he had prepared for the morning. These he would light, nom lív, the morning pyre, and it would complete his vigil. Finally, he sighed. He looked forward to his long-awaited sleep.

The musky scent of seal oil filled his nose as he placed the roll over the embers drawing their final breath. Dark crimson and forgotten red, the lingering twilight stifled their desperate glow, and Gundor managed to stir only a few sparks as he propped the twigs into an upright position. But he knew fire, its greed; it wouldn’t take long…

First, there was a hiss, and a single flame leapt upwards as if surprised. Then another one. And then, with a roar, the fire claimed the bundle, and within that roar, a scream mingled.

But that didn’t come from the fire.

Gundor spun around. The twin doors to the Kran swung open, and people poured out, torches held aloft. Metal gleamed red in their hands. Pushing all tiredness aside, he dashed towards the great hall as a strange sense of foreboding grew within him. Soon, he began to discern specific words.

“Murderer!”

“Rogue!”

The road crept uphill, and his feet slipped on the frozen stairs as he dodged past running men, all brandishing swords or axes.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Gundor shouted, but no one answered. “Where’s the Honnúng?”

“Gundor! Come quickly!” the Hundottsman’s voice bellowed over the bustle of the agitated people. “It’s the Honnúng’s child. We must go, now!”

The towering man cleared a path for Gundor into the Kran, where a dull, oppressive silence brooded over the few people—old women and children—left indoors. Huddled in groups, they cowered near the fireplace. Everyone else seemed to be outside, running and screaming their lungs out.

“What happened here?” Gundor asked, perplexed, as they crossed the dimly lit space.

“Come,” was all the Hundottsman said. At the Honnúng’s chamber’s entrance, they halted. “My Honnúng, I have Gundor here with me.”

The door was ajar, but no one answered.

“My Honnúng?” The Hundottsman slid his sword from his sheath and cautiously stepped forward as the door flung open.

Saga stood in the doorway, her eyes red from crying. “Get in,” she said, her voice cracking.

She stepped aside and spoke quietly with the Hundottsman, but Gundor couldn’t concentrate on what they were talking about. His eyes were fixed on the scene before him.

“What… what happened here?” Gundor asked, his voice hoarse.

“You tell us.” The Honnúng walked beside him, his face ashen. “We were in the hall ’til the rooster called. They… they were looking after Valka when Saga joined us to carry the cup…”

Before Gundor was the wide bed where the Honnúng and the Honná slept. Gandá, the older wet nurse, was sprawled on the floor before the door, her face graciously turned away from it. It was as if she had fallen from a great height, her limbs arranged in such positions that simply looking at them made Gundor’s stomach churn. A little to her right, Gundor recognised another wet nurse, although he didn’t know her name. She lay slumped against the crib. The fresh hay laid on the floor before Benighting’s festivities had not absorbed all the blood, and pallid stalks were covered in thick, dried crimson.

Swallowing, Gundor stepped closer. “I’ve seen bear attacks,” he said, partially to reassure himself, partially to speak his mind, “and wolves at their work.” He gently turned the older wet nurse’s head, revealing the ragged flesh still clinging to the throat. “It’s been torn almost completely. But the limbs, her chest…” He looked at the younger maid, and the position of her head, drooping unnaturally low against her chest, implied a similar fate. “And, um…” He looked helplessly at Saga.

“Valka is not there,” she said, tears running freely from her eyes. Her mouth opened, closed, and with a forced effort, she whispered, “But there’s no blood.”

Gundor nodded, rising from the floor. He leaned to inspect Valka’s cradle, the one shaped like a ship. The white linen was unmarred, the wolf pelt blanket pristine. It appeared almost as if the horrors of the chamber had ceased to exist at the brim of the crib—but where was the baby? He cautiously lifted the pelt when something fell from its folds over the linen: a piece of bone.

“Look at the door,” Saga said, sniffing.

Gundor took the bone, turning it around in his hands, slowly realising what he was looking at. “I—”

“Gundor, look at the door.” This time, it was the Honnúng who spoke.

Gundor turned, reluctantly raising his gaze from the object in his hand. Then, he saw the door, and a nauseating, cold wave of fear broke over him.

The Hundottsman knocked and entered the chambers. “My Honnúng. We can’t seem to find him. We’ve looked everywhere.”

Gundor, forcing his eyes from the door, looked at the burly man. “Who… who are you looking for?”

“The foreigner. He has vanished.”

“Vanished,” Gundor repeated, returning to gaze at the door, still grasping the bone he had found from the crib.

“Find him!” the Honnúng screamed, saliva spraying from his mouth.

“I don’t think he’s any longer in Hjolkran,” the Hundottsman said, bowing his head. “It’s been snowing heavily. He could’ve slipped outside easily, and the tracks—”

“Use the hounds! Send the skiers! What are you waiting for?” The Honnúng picked up a pelt from the bed and hurled it towards the Hundottsman.

“I don’t think it was the foreigner,” Gundor said.

Saga raised her head, her lips trembling. “Who else could’ve done this? One of our people? Or something from the outside… but that’s impossible. You were at the gate.”

Gundor gently brushed the markings burned into the wood. His fingers trailed the hat and the three lines—vakran—and the circle drawn around it. An incomplete circle. A gate.

A gate through his protective circle.

“You mark my words, that Istan fellow did this,” the Honnúng said. “It all makes sense. He comes in the depths of Benighting, weaves this story of being cursed… He is the curse! It’s like that maggot Onok told us. From those deemed wayward, the Skûd demands the winter’s gift.”

“What if he had help?” Saga continued after her husband. “I know one person who’d love nothing more than to destroy our lives.”

The Honnúng’s eyes flashed dangerously. “If you think Fjala made this, you’re gravely mistaken. Aye, we had our disagreements, but she wouldn’t harm a child, not for any wrongdoing on my part.”

Saga stared at him grimly. “Wives and knives rhyme for a reason, my love, and bitterness runs deep in our hearts.”

Gundor looked from one to another, his hand still touching the rune on the door. “Maybe they’re not connected?”

Without warning, the Honnúng lunged at him. He grabbed Gundor by the throat and slammed him against the door. Gundor wheezed, and in shock, he tried to release the iron grip tightening around his windpipe.

“Not connected? Not connected?” the Honnúng screamed. “Is that all you can say? Saga’s dream is not connected to the wretched hermits? And neither is it connected with the Southerners? Nor is this foreigner who arrives in the darkest hour of the year, when the Skûd is at its strongest,”—he had to gasp for air—“having seen the same dream, in any way connected to these earlier events?”

Saga, her grief replaced by anger, joined her husband. “And the girl you brought here, wasn’t her home ransacked by the hilvetík?”

“That, too!” the Honnúng snarled. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard the news from Grejkran, where they found the boy’s skin shed like that of a snake’s? Gundor, the Skûd is at our doorsteps, and you’re the only one too blind to see it!”

The boy? Gundor vaguely remembered the story told by the two traders he had travelled with earlier in the autumn. Two boys gone fishing on the forbidden lake, and the other one—older?—found dead. Nothing but his skin left behind. He had never ventured to meet the boy.

The Honnúng roared and released him. Gundor fell on the floor like a rag doll.

“Find the stranger, and make him return my—”

Shouting in the hall interrupted the Honnúng, and Gundor, dizzy from the attack, recognised the words but couldn’t place them in his head. There was alertness in them. Had they found the stranger? Wait. Outside, bells started ringing—bells warning of danger. He shook his head, and then he heard what the people were yelling.

Fire.

Skada

Skada slipped outside.

It had taken her a while to weave through the revellers so that she was constantly out of sight from the Honnúng’s seat. Fortunately, the Honná had withdrawn soon back to their chambers, and the Honnúng joined a group singing at the foot of his seat. But their words remained, smiting her mind with a dull, relentless force. Her mother had been right.

Come Skûd, her mother had been right!

A stifled cry escaped her as the unfairness of it all weighed down on her like an anvil. The dense night around her leapt closer, soaking her in despair and smothering any hopes she had nurtured of her future as a Kranian. Her father, Mortte, had been a respectable man—a farmer and a free man in his rights—and as such, she had always believed that being of his stock, she would share in those qualities. Perhaps she had.

Before the Ettendast.

Before her parents were taken from her.

Sobbing, she covered her face and curled into a ball beside the door. Snow began to layer over her trembling shape. The Honná had believed the stories the villagers spread about her—that she was the hxr girl. She knew what they would do to her if something happened to Valka. They would “send her back, back to the marshes,” as the old wives said. Down, deep into the murky waters, with a chain locking her feet to a boulder she would be forced to carry there—a hxr hilk, the witch’s stone. A warning to the hxr, they called it. Returning wrongdoers to the uncanny marsh mothers, who were believed to reign over the swamps.

She was no hxr! But come Skûd, what would they care if an innocent woman were drowned?

Skada sniffed. It would not do. She had not run from the hilvetík to be marched to the marshes and be drowned for the drowned. No. She rose, shedding the white veil from her as a snake sheds its skin. If that had indeed been her mother, then she would heed her advice. Signs like these were not to be shrugged off or belittled. Glancing to her right, through the thickening snow screen, she saw the bright dance of Gundor’s fire and a lonely shadow huddled beside it. Beyond him was the open maw, the gate into the depths of Benighting.

Her mother had told her to flee before the night’s end, yet the words that Skada and every child learned early on haunted her. “None should travel alone in Benighting.” Her mother had told him to travel with this stranger, Istan, as he wouldn’t share in the doom. She smirked. There was no way she could break him free, not without risking her own escape. No. She would have to do it herself. Leave Hjolkran behind, risk the darkness of Benighting, and head south.

*

The heavy snowfall was an unexpected gift. Like a shadow, she moved among the houses, gathering her few belongings from the outbuilding next to the Kran. She had a bedroll and two large burlap sacks that she placed into an ahkó, a sledge pulled behind her while skiing. On her back, she carried her old birchbark bag. She had prepared these in advance—the nagging feeling of not belonging had only intensified with the autumn shadows—but she couldn’t leave just yet.

She left the ahkó behind, following the shadows cast by the houses to a long shed with a solitary torch burning beside the door. This was where the Kranians stored their provisions, where the Honnúng’s stock brought food and drink to the feast—and where horny couples escaped the judgement of others.

Hiding behind the corner that concealed her from the Kran’s main doors, she listened, but the shed seemed quiet. Taking a deep breath, she moved to the door, pulled it open, and stepped in. “The Honnúng requested more ale…”

But the building was empty, with only a lonely candle burning inside. Hastily, she ransacked the shelves, barrels, and sacks to find salted, smoked, and dried meats; wine, beer, and ale; carrots, apples, and onions—pickled, salted, and frozen; fish in its many forms; hard bread, honey, and sweets. Then, she pulled down a ceramic jar that slipped from her grasp. With a bright crack, it shattered on the floor, scattering leaves of deep crimson and red across the floor.

“Cock, cock, cock,” she cursed, withdrawing to the door and pressing her ear against it. If she were caught because she dropped a bunch of spices… Trying to calm down, she held her breath and listened to the soft nightly hum outside. She was alone, and steeling her mind, she confirmed it by peeking from the door. For a moment, she pressed her forehead against the smooth timber of the wall, letting out a deep breath. Then, she sprang into action. It took her two trips to her ahkó to gather everything she deemed necessary.

With the ahkó prepared and full, she retrieved a pair of skis and a long, ashen staff. Just as she was about to leave, an idea struck her. Sneaking around the various houses and sheds, she searched for all the skis she could find, piled them into a crude heap in the middle of a barn, split and shattered the ski staffs at hand, tossed them into the pyre, and finally gathered the hay from the floor around them. She knew these were not all the skis in the village, but if indeed some doom lay at hand and it would strike before the night was over—and they would accuse her!—she wouldn’t make the pursuers’ part any easier. On top of the pile, she laid the finely detailed green skis with Leif’s bookmark adorning the tips.

“Burn well,” she whispered, lighting the pyre. Slowly, tendrils of smoke curled past the tinder, then a small flame, and the kindlings caught fire. She stared at it for a moment, her escape sealed by the act. Then, as guilt overwhelmed her, she cleared the floor around the fire, pushing crates, sacks, and other wares alongside the walls as far away as possible. As the flames began gnawing at the first skis, she withdrew from the building, checked that no one was looking, and strapped the ahkó around her waist. She was ready.

The Kran’s door opened with a squeal, and out marched one of the Honnúng’s men and the stranger.

Skada withdrew against the nearest hut’s wall. She wasn’t out of sight, but clad in the hunkering shadows she hoped were enough. “You can relieve yourself there,” the man—Holkké, Skada remembered his name—said, sipping from his mug.

The stranger, Istan, looked around him cautiously, then marched in the direction he was pointed at and began to open his trousers.

“Not there! What are you Southerners, animals? You take that cock and spray it behind the shed. Come Skûd…”

Skada followed Istan with her gaze. There he was, the stranger, the man not encumbered with the doom. He walked with a jittery step, disappearing behind a shed before emerging from the other side. In the gloom, he looked bent, weak. He lowered his breeches, and Skada looked away, staring at Holkké by the door.

The man was more interested in his nails than in the night around him. “Hey, stranger, are you done yet?” he shouted, not bothering to look up. “Finish it off, now!”

Skada glanced at Istan, who was now fumbling with something around his waist. “Really, mother?” she whispered to the night. “I should go by myself.”

Istan turned—and the rusted hinges screamed behind Skada. At first, she shrugged off the sound, looking at Holkké, imagining that the impatient guard had opened the door, but it stood closed behind him.

“Who goes there?” Holkké called, peering at something behind the building Skada was leaning against. “Wait!” His hand darted to the sword at his side when a cloud, a whirlwind of something red, sped across the snow and collided with him. The impact pushed him against the door, and he fell to his knees.

Skada gasped. She recognised those tiny particles dancing over the snow, burying themselves in the squirming man, cutting him open like fangs would a deer. The red leaves in the jar—those were the red leaves in the jar she had dropped. A voice screamed at the back of her skull: Run!

She did. The ahkó slid behind her as she overtook the distance to the shed behind which Istan had just disappeared. She rounded the corner of the building, saw his back, grabbed him by the collar with her left hand pressed over his mouth, and pulled with all her strength. Istan fell backwards, and Skada dragged him away from the sight of the Kran’s main doors.

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” she hissed to his ear. “I’m here to help! Just be quiet!”

Istan nodded furiously and froze completely. A shrill scream, muffled by the heavily falling snow but still recognisable, rose from the direction of the Kran. Skada released her grip and shuffled next to the corner, peeking cautiously. She wished she had not. Istan crawled beside her, also stealing a glance.

Holkké lay before the doors as a splendid creature, draped in swirling red leaves, walked graciously towards him.

“The Mistress Red,” Skada whispered, her body trembling. An old rhyme sang in her head:

Come autumn, come dark, leave summer my lark;

In soft mounds, rocks sharp, sensing the bark;

Walks a woman in red, and lays her head;

On carcasses old,

Drags you under the cold.

The Mistress Red knelt, raised Holkké from the ground, holding him in a lover’s embrace, and kissed him on the lips for a long, lingering moment. The fallen man’s body started to twitch, arms and legs furiously shooting this way and that, heedless of the bones and ligaments that ordinarily kept limbs in their places. Slowly, he was turned into a dark red pool of steaming pulp that dripped over the doorstep of the Kran and with it, the Mistress Red and her bright crimsons and reds melted into the puddle.

For a moment, all was still, only steam wafting upwards from the blood-red pool under the lone, extinguished torch. Then, something began to protrude upwards from the redness. A crimson root.

“Run!” Skada gasped.

#nordic, #fantasy, #mythical, #slow-burn, #snow

Skada

The singing and merrymaking resumed, albeit with a more distressed, faltering note, as many of the Kran revellers eyed the stranger with curiosity. The Honnúng and his advisors had withdrawn into his chambers, leaving the foreigner alone with a mug of ale and two guards. Although he was seated far from the crowd and in the corner, he was the night’s centrepiece. Songs twisted into gossip, jokes into rumours, and soon rings of people formed around the few traders among the Kranians who could tell more of these distant lands beyond the Narrow Pass—or remembered stories of Firdún.

Skada, still cursing her poor luck having bumped into Gundor, tried to join several rings, but somehow, the people always seemed to fall quiet, huddle closer so that she got no seat, or do what Leif Moorstump was now doing.

“Well, if it isn’t the tyrite’s pet!” Leif said, turning away from the story being told.

The audience gasped as a new, hideous detail emerged, but Skada couldn’t hear any of it. Instead, she was stuck with this stouter and shorter fellow, one of the more annoying suitors she had encountered during her time in the Honnúng’s service.

“You know,” Leif continued, grabbing her arm, “being in the Honnúng’s stock doesn’t suit you. You need a proper house, keys over your chest, and your own bed.”

“I already have a bed, and I’m certainly not sharing yours,” she snapped, shrugging herself free from his malted breath. “Don’t despair. I’m sure you’re going to find you a suitable wench.”

“Wench? Cruel words from a hxr’s spawn!” Leif said loudly, reaching to squeeze her.

She was faster, and the slap across Leif’s face filled the theatrical pause the trader had placed to keep the audience on their toes. Skada stole that, and now they were all glaring at her.

“What’s wrong with you?” snapped Velja, one of the new wetnurses who also belonged to the Honnúng’s stock. “You bloody woodwose!” She embraced Leif’s burning cheek, pressing a kiss over it.

“Shouldn’t you be with the Honnúng’s newborn and not here trying to get one for yourself?” Skada shot back.

“Sod off, snailtoes,” barked another one, throwing a half-eaten meat pie at her.

“Hold on, hold on,” a third one, Mordím, intervened, placing his thin arm over Skada’s shoulders. “Look, I’ve heard that to become a tyrite, you need to forsake your manly devices—the Nonhílt replace it with a horse’s cock. Is that true? Are you afraid that Leif here doesn’t have a size that fits you after the tyrite? You know, I do, I can show you. Come now, you can feel it.” He grabbed Skada’s hand.

“Get off me!” Skada cried, tearing herself free and leaving their circle.

It had been like this the whole time—and she had dared to hope for a fresh start. Nay, it was the same as back home: with no bídr—and no name—to bring with her, all the good families turned their sons away from her. All that remained were the Leifs and Mordíms of Hjolkran. No, it was better to be a Falkké rather than being latched to one of those.

Latched like a dog.

One more year, her father had said. In three years, they hadn’t managed to save enough for a bídr. How long would it take to earn a respectable bídr on her own? Frustrated and boiling with anger, she gave up trying to join the merry groups, grabbed a mug of mulled wine, and stormed outside. She needed air; the stench of being unwanted was strangling her.

The door was heavy, but its creaking sound disappeared into the clamour sloshing inside the hall. As it clanged shut, the commotion was muffled, and her anger subsided. After the steamy warmth indoors, the crisp frost caressing her felt rejuvenating. She closed her eyes, embracing the cold and letting the velvety snow that had started falling build tiny drifts over her head and shoulders. Her right hand clenched around the hilt of her father’s Good Knife—the last concrete thing of her family.

A stolen heirloom.

“I could leave,” she said quietly to Benighting’s gentle stillness. “I’m prepared.”

For a moment, she clung to the false promise, imagined how the snow would sing under her skis as she guided the tips down from the ramparts, over the fields below, and into, well… away. Then, the cold stung her, and she opened her eyes, the mirage splintering before her. It would be the same everywhere she went.

She would remain a Falkké, and silver birches stood alone.

A shiver ran through her. She would have to get back indoors. With a sigh, she turned and placed her hand over the huge metallic ring on the door. “Soon,” she promised the night. “Soon.” Then she pulled the door open.

Only silence greeted her inside.

Aner

“Why don’t you sing with us, Aner?” a girl, hardly three summers old, asked him.

Aner raised his head, hurriedly wiping the tears from his cheeks. “I… my throat is sore.”

The girl opened her mouth, but her mother swooped her up from the floor. “There you are, Fjilá! Let’s leave him be. You shouldn’t talk to him.”

Her words twisted inside him. She had tried to whisper them, but there was a pause in the singing, and Aner heard her clearly. Then, the noise resumed, causing the Grejkran’s great spire above the hall to rattle. He lowered his head, twirling the wooden spoon in his hands, unable to bring himself to stick it into the spiced gruel, his favourite. He had no appetite. Not since his brother disappeared.

Except, he hadn’t disappeared.

Shed his skin like a snake, they said.

And who could possibly do such a thing?

Aner sniffed. The villagers of Grejkran believed his brother was cursed, and he had heard the rumours; there was no escaping them. He was a changeling. A forest spirit? A cruel joke by the finhílt, perhaps, for the house guardians were known to play tricks on families who disrespected them. But there were even wilder stories—like being caught by Jorí the Skinner—and people even whispered that the hxr had returned. The witches were said to favour difficult, unruly children.

“Aner, Aner, why are you here, alone in the corner?” a warm voice called.

He looked up. Old Moukash, the wisewoman of the village, stood before him, leaning on her cane.

“I’m not hungry,” he said, but then he realised what she had meant by the question. “I can’t sing. My throat is sore.”

“Is that so? Honey and a warm drink will help with that,” she said, taking a seat beside him. “But I doubt it will work in this case. How do you feel?” She placed her bony hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“I’m…” he began, but then he just shrugged.

“It’s hard, I know.” She sat beside him in comforting silence.

A new song began; this one had a faster rhythm, and two men jumped onto the long tables, spilling drinks and food as they put on a dance. Women wearing red scarves, marking them as part of the Grejkran’s Honnúng’s household, carried long, wooden trays filled with steaming meats, smoked vegetables, and pickled mushrooms. They should’ve smelt delicious: Aner only caught the whiff of smoke. Despite the wisewoman’s presence calming him, he sighed deeply.

“You know—” Old Moukash began, but she was interrupted by a stern voice.

“Aner, get up.”

Aner winced. His father stood above him, his eyes grim, his jawline like chiselled stone.

“Where’s your mother? I leave you two only for a moment, and here you are… with her.” He glanced at Old Moukash.

“I’m only resting my old legs,” Old Moukash said. A charming smile spread over her aged face. “Aner here was kind enough to save me a seat.”

“I’m sure he was. Aner, come, now.”

Aner picked up his bowl, nodded at the Old Moukash, and followed his tense father across the hall.

“Haven’t we suffered enough? They already talk about a curse—and now this!” He slapped Aner on the back of his head. It wasn’t a heavy blow, but it shattered the nascent warmth inside him. “Do you want to be known as the witch’s apprentice?”

“She’s no hxr, and she was only being kind—”

His father’s hand fell over his shoulder, and like a vice, it turned Aner to face him. “We need no kindness. We need no attention. Join the singing.”

Aner nodded, squeezing the bowl of gruel against his chest. Would singing wash away the mark?

He doubted it.

Skada

Skada stood in the doorway, staring into the hall that had just moments earlier bubbled with talk, singing, and arguing, the Kran barely containing the voices within. The fire had danced and crackled in the long fireplace at the centre, and the air had been thick and sweaty, lingering close to the skin.

Gone, it was all gone. Only the smoke from the fire remained, but instead of rising upwards for a release through the shafts, it now cascaded down from the ceiling. She dropped the mulled wine, the mug giving a distant thud as it landed on the doorstep.

Twilight had conquered the great hall, washing everything in shades of dark blue and grey. Yet, there was an odd, gentle glow, potent enough for Skada to see without dispelling the prowling shadows around her. Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the gloom, and she took a faltering step forward, closing the main doors behind her. With a timid voice, she said, “Hello? Anyone? Hello?”

The long benches and worn tables, laid with plates, mugs, and bottles, remained in their places. The Honnúng’s chair was a dark silhouette at the far end of the hall. The fireplace was full of ash and half-burned logs. A hush lingered in the air.

Swallowing hard, she moved deeper into the gloom. A cold trepidation swept over her, tightening the sinews across her chest and neck when she realised, to her horror, that the people, everyone she had so vehemently cursed, were gone. They had just vanished.

Her right foot caught on something, and with a yelp, she stumbled and stepped over something soft, something that groaned, before she found level ground for purchase. She looked at her feet. Dark bundles lay crisscrossed on the floor, bundles with arms, legs, and heads she recognised. The one nearest to her was the village’s butcher; beside him lay that insufferable Leif; a little further away, she recognised the woolwork of Hjanna’s coat.

Everyone was… asleep? Skada began to tremble, her breathing intensified, and her heart hammered as if a beast were rattling her ribcage to break free. The Kranians, they were all here, lying on the floor, their eyes rolled, mouths agape, drool dripping, heads lolling—

Something beat the air behind her, and, crying out in surprise, she spun around. A shadow darted past her, a stray speck of twilight. It disappeared amidst the ceiling structures only to return and flutter at her head’s level. Skada jumped back, her fright flaring into panic before she realised what she was staring at: it was a sparrow. It lingered a moment in the air, swooped around and landed on a nearby table.

She exhaled loudly. “You scared me,” she said to the little grey-brown bird. It had such dull-coloured feathers that the eerily glowing darkness seemed to engulf it, making it hard to see. Only its glinting black eyes, sharp as diamonds, commanded her attention. They couldn’t be missed. Feeling her heartbeat subsiding enough, she resumed looking around her. “I wonder if we’re alone here,” she said to the sparrow.

“My child, listen,” a quiet voice said.

Skada froze. She recognised the voice and looked around her, frantically trying to figure out where it was coming from. “Mother? Where are you?” Was she lying on the floor amongst the limp bodies of the Kranians? At the door? In the shadows near the walls? “Mother!”

“We don’t have time. Skada, please, listen!”

Feeling a lump in her throat, Skada stared at the only living thing in the gloom: the bird. “Mother?” Her voice was a ragged whisper.

“My child,” the sparrow said, and, to Skada’s horror, its beak moved to the rhythm of her mother’s voice. “I’ve looked for you for so long, my love, my little mischievous hare.”

“I…” Skada fought against the strangling feeling trying to devour her words. “I’ve missed you so much.” She had to force the words out, and the salty tears she had withheld for so long spilt with them.

“I know. I cannot describe how much joy it brings me to see you well, how much pain not to be able to be there with you. Skada, the last of my firsts, listen to me. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you—”

“Save me?” Now, Skada was crying helplessly. “Save me? I tried to save you, but I couldn’t.”

“Alas, there’s none who could,” the sparrow chirped. “But my child, be brave, and listen to me—I’m only allowed this brief moment.” The sparrow rose on its wings and flew over Skada’s shoulder, its tiny head cocked to the side. Its eyes were captivating voids gleaming with sparks of flickering white light, and Skada thought of the well in the yard of her parents’ house and how the light danced over the water far below.

“Skada, my love,” the sparrow said, nuzzling its feathery head against Skada’s neck, “listen. I couldn’t save you from losing us, but let me try to save you now. I saw you on the Northern Road when we were taken—where, it doesn’t matter—and I was granted this one wish to come and warn you. The Skûd is restless, and the North is awakening; fissures are forming over the lands and kin, separating those that once were close.”

The sparrow waved its wing, and from the floor, eight figures rose, still limp but hanging in the air like dolls, repulsive in their form and hideous in their mockery of the living beings they represented. There was Leif and the butcher’s assistant and a few more she loathed. “Some look at you with nothing but lust, and in their fury to own you, they’ve sown seeds of doubt among the people.”

The bird flicked its other wing. The eight fell, and five others rose, among them the Honnúng and Velja. “Others deem you a burden.”

Again, shapes collapsed while others were raised, including the Honná and the Hundottsman. “But beware them, for they are quick to blame others for their shortcomings. In them, the lies told about you will find fertile ground to grow, bloom, and fester—and they will harm you if they can.”

A baby cried in the twilight, her shrill voice reverberating through the shadows lingering in the Kran, bending and wobbling the gloom as if the air itself were made of water.

“You’re in a cursed house, Skada, and the doom will strike before the night’s end. You must leave and leave quickly.”

“But where?” Skada stammered. “It’s Benighting! Everything is frozen and dead… and you should never travel alone in the dark of Benighting!”

“I never said go alone, nor can I guide you, for I don’t know your destiny. I can only say that he doesn’t share in the doom weighing down these lands.” The sparrow flashed its left wing, and again, a shape was hoisted from the floor, but this time, the figure wasn’t left mid-air. No, this one was alert, surprised, then scared, and stood rigidly on a bench with a mug in his hand.

“Where… am I?” the foreigner said, slowly rising to his feet. He noticed Skada and the bird. “Who are you? What’s happening?” He collapsed, the mug spilling his beer that, for the briefest of moments, shone like amber amidst all the grey and blue. Then, he was just a shadow among the rest.

“But beware, my child,” the sparrow said. “He’s a stranger in these parts, and while he doesn’t share the doom of our kin, he is not without his shadow. A grave haunt lingers beside him, yet what that is, is hidden from me.”

“I-I don’t understand,” Skada said as the sparrow beat the air furiously and rose above her.

“Courage, Skada. Remember, you must leave this place before the night’s end. Fly away! Hurry!” And with that, the bird soared into the shadows beneath the ceiling.

In its wake, a familiar scent remained. The crispness in the air, laced with a metallic aftertaste and peaty smokiness, demanded her attention.

This was the scent of the Skûd.

In morbid fear, Skada realised that something was moving behind her. The twin doors to the Kran were ajar, even though she was certain she had closed them behind her. At first, she couldn’t see anything, but the sound of something heavy being dragged against the stone steps outside the hall drew nearer. Then, from the entrance, a long, crimson shape, like a root, slid upward along the doorframe.

Behind her, a child cried out, and the main doors swung wide open.

*

“Hey there! Looking for something?”

Skada stared wild-eyed at the man standing in the doorway—in the doorway that led into the Kran full of singing, warmth, and laughter.

“What?” Skada whispered.

“Are you all right?” the man asked. “You’ve spilt your drink. Did I hit you with the door?” He was the smith’s second apprentice, she realised.

“What?”

“Come Skûd, get in, woman. You’ve drunk too many! Go, now!” With that, he ushered her inside and closed the door behind her.

The heat, smoke, and merry cacophony embraced her, shaking her free from bewilderment. She had gone out, yes, to get a breather. She had turned to get back, and then… then… Her eyes darted to the side where he knew this stranger, this Istan fellow, was seated. He was still there, his head pressed between his hands, hands that seemed to rub forcefully against his temples. She stared at him intently, hoping to catch a glimpse of his face, to see his eyes. Damn it, she would have to ask him—

“Oh, look! The hxr spawn has a thing for the foreigner.” Velja’s voice and giggling startled Skada, and she spun around. Velja carried two fresh mugs of ale towards the table Skada had left earlier. “A fitting match!”

Before Skada could snap back, the Honnúng’s chamber door swung open, and the Honnúng, along with his advisors, strode forth. They took their places around the Honnúng’s seat.

“Bring forth the foreigner,” the Hundottsman called.

People thronged forward, but not too close to the visitor, to get a better view. Skada pushed and elbowed her way through, yet for her, the only option was to veer away from the main crowd and circle towards the Honnúng’s seat. There, she could stand on a bench and see the foreigner, who was clutching a mug tightly against his chest and looked more scared than when Gundor had led him up the stairs and into the Kran earlier that night.

“Look at me!” Skada wanted to scream. “Look at me!” she screamed, but the cacophony drowned out her voice. Only the older washerwoman in the back row craned her neck curiously in her direction. Ignoring her, Skada tried again. It was to no avail, and soon the Honnúng, and then the Hundottsman, called the situation in order. Skada couldn’t concentrate on what was said; all she saw was the pallid-faced man with dark brown hair wrestling with his trembling mug.

The Honnúng raised his hand. “So, Istan of Farklent, in the morning, we will share our knowledge of the matter at hand, how to reach the Pale Fells and seek fäll servíl, fell silver, that is, and you may continue on your journey. We will also provision you as needed. Let us now resume the festivities!”

That was the end of it. The crowd shifted restlessly for a moment before breaking down into smaller groups to discuss the verdict. Harps and lutes rang out, and with fits and starts, the merry-making leapt like flames from the embers of the long fireplace in the centre of the hall. This was how Benighting should be. Singing, dancing, and joy, yet there was a disturbing undercurrent of doubt in the air.

Skada braced herself and stepped towards the foreigner. She wanted to speak to the man. He had been there! In her… dream? Waking dream? The people blocked her way, and she turned to circle the long fireplace, passing by the foot of the Honnúng’s seat, when she halted. The Honnúng was deep in discussion with the Hundottsman, and they paid her no heed, yet his voice, that low rumble, made her glance at the man. He was heavy-set with broad shoulders, a thick beard, and a strong, beak-like nose—command glowed from him as if he were a lantern.

What if she told him?

Told what?

That she had seen… She could warn that… and she blushed. She knew the stories of Jagír Smallhands, a ferocious and cunning warrior. O’ great Honnúng, my dead mother, disguised as a sparrow, came to warn me of doom facing the Kran!

No. There was nothing to tell him. After that, she would be officially called one of the uncanny ones. Besides, he was a friend of that damned tyrite. She was part of his stock because that bald, cowardly man had denied her entrance to the Skûd to find her parents.

And where was he? Could she tell him? She glanced over her shoulder just in time to see Gundor slip outside.

Cursing silently, Skada brushed the hair from her face, noticed a beer keg on a table near the wall, and walked to it. Her hands trembled as she poured the crimson ale into a mug. She would give it to the stranger, and then they could…

The Honnúng’s chamber’s old oaken door, varnished deep red, swung open—and she heard the Honnúng’s child, Valka, cry out.

Skada had to lean against the wall. Her head was spinning, and only vaguely did she realise that someone walked past her. Had she dreamed that, that vision? But the foreigner had been there, too! He could confirm it. She wiped her face, pushed herself away from the wall—and stood still, her entire body rigid and leaning towards the Honnúng’s seat. The Honná, Saga, had emerged from the chambers, and she was talking in a hushed but urgent tone to the Honnúng.

“Valka is restless. She squirms in the crib, tossing and turning as if trying to escape,” Saga said.

“She’s a lively one, much like her mother,” the Honúng said, smiling at his wife, yet his smile waned as he noticed her face. “Is something wrong?”

Saga stood still, her gaze directed towards the merry-making. “What if he’s here for her? What if the stranger truly wishes to harm our daughter?”

The mug slipped from Skada’s grip, and she lunged after it, spilling only a little. She looked up; they hadn’t noticed. Valka was in danger? She swallowed hard. The doom will strike before the night’s end. That thing, that root or whatever it was, would come for Valka? She took a hesitant step towards them, then turned her back when a few revellers passed her. No. They wouldn’t believe her. She craned her neck, trying to hear them.

“…Onok cannot command any power inside the walls. You must trust me on this; I’ve been on Gundor’s travels in the Skûd,” the Honnúng was saying. They both seemed to look at the festivities, but their eyes lingered the longest on the stranger seated in the corner with a bowl of food and a mug.

“That thing he said, Certo Mur, do you think he serves Firdún?” Saga asked. “You shouldn’t have toyed with the idea of being called a king. People will talk!”

“Bah,” the Honnúng grunted, waving his mug dismissively. “The folks still clinging to the old traditions are fools, and that will slowly change once our business with the Southerners grows. If I’m to negotiate with the High King, I should at least have a matching title. We’re not their vassals and never will be. But to your question, no, I don’t believe he serves Firdún. Those are our traditions, our lunacies.”

“And Gundor, he’s a fool, too?”

“That’s different.”

“What if he’s the—”

“Gundor? No. No! Don’t even suggest that! I trust him—you should, too.” The Honnúng perhaps hid his agitation from most of the gathered crowd, but Skada was close enough to see how the man’s knuckles whitened as he gripped his mug. The man shifted in his chair like he was plagued by ants, but continued, “The riddle spoke of a fool of carvéd stone. Perhaps this Istan is the said fool, perhaps not. I believe he is, as he said, on his very own errand—and I agree with what you said. The sooner he gets to the Fells, the sooner we’re rid of him. But”—the Honnúng leaned closer to Saga—“should someone try something tonight… We know he’s the only one not from here.”

Saga gasped. Istan was also the only one who could vouch for her story. She turned towards the stranger, still oblivious, still eating from the bowl on his lap.

“Not the only one. There’s also the one they call the hxr girl.” Saga’s voice cut through the merry-making like a knife.

The hxr girl.

Skada.

Saga jerked her head upright, her gaze sweeping the crowd. “Where’s the girl Gundor brought here?”

Skada had already started to move as the Honná said her piece, and she slipped behind the two large beams holding the roof as Saga turned. Keeping to the more shadowy side of the hall, she crouched low, as if trying to collect something from the floor, mingling in hopes of disappearing among the revellers as she rushed for the door, a solitary thought screaming in her head: Run!

#nordic, #fantasy, #mythical, #slow-burn, #snow

Istan

A loud creak woke him up. Shuddering, Istan rolled onto his side. “Farsch, it’s cold here,” he muttered, groggily searching for his blanket. He was tucked deep underneath it, but it felt weird, coarse, almost brittle.

It was frozen.

With a yelp, he sprang up. Frozen? How? He swung his bare feet onto the floor, his warm soles snapping the frosty hay, scattering it over the cold blanks. Light javelined through the cracks in the walls, but it wasn’t the silver of the moon; this was red and fierce. Fire.

He blinked.

There had been fire in his dreams, too. It was the same dream he’d been seeing throughout the autumn; the dream from his childhood. A nightmare he thought he had left behind with the wounding of his finger. He instinctively flexed his left hand, the nameless missing the bit after the last joint. He had been five summers old, and the axe had been too heavy—

Banging on the door interrupted his thoughts. Angry shouts pressed inside with the fire’s glare as Istan hurried to the door, his feet slipping on the ice. He was baffled—he had never seen ice. Not like this, not here. Up in the mountains, yes, but on these lower slopes… never.

“Come out!”

The order slammed against him as he forced the door open. The hinges groaned, and he stepped into a ring of torches. The glare blinded him, and his head hit something cold that snapped and fell at his feet, shattering loudly. An icicle. Bewildered, he looked up. Like teeth, the icicles grew from the edge of his small house’s roof—a roof upon which snowflakes fell from the darkness.

“There he is!”

“Witchery!”

Istan looked around. The villagers of Farklent, they looked scared yet fierce, brandishing axes, bows, and other tools suitable for harming.

“Istan,” a man said, stepping before him. He was the greying mayor, and he beckoned the guard captain and the local clergyman to follow him. “What’s the meaning of this? The bells ring wildly like there’s some worry, the wind screams over the rooftops, and the rivers flowing from Faragrim lie below an icy crust. And have you seen the torches! What have you done?”

Istan gaped at the torches. Their flames looked as if they were trying to tear free, and they all pointed towards his hut—towards him.

“Batteran here,” the mayor said, nodding at the clergyman, “told us that you’ve been having these visions.” He and the guard captain spat over their shoulders. “Is it true?”

“Yes, but…” Istan stammered. He had confessed that in private!

Batteran, a slender man like a dry-summer squirrel, peeked at him over the captain’s shoulder. “It’s my belief that this man, Istan, has been cursed, and that the curse is now spreading from him—”

“That’s nonsense!” Istan exclaimed.

“The smithy’s furnace turned to ice just last week when you passed his house!” a man from the crowd called. It was Feldin, the Smith’s first apprentice.

“An accident, like you well know! I’m not cursed—I’ve just been having nightmares. And this…” He faltered, unsure how to continue.

“Yes, this is why we’ve come.” The mayor took a step forward. “This is undoubtedly related to your business with the Duke—”

“But I’m just drawing maps for him,” Istan protested.

The mayor raised his hand. “Istan, this is dire. If the river remains under ice, we can’t fish, our fields will dry—and the wells! The wells are frozen solid. You understand? You must leave with the captain and Batteran here.”

“Leave? But, but… where?” Istan retreated a step, his heels crunching the frost over a puddle.

The mayor nodded at the guard captain. “You will take this curse with you. They’ll help you to sort it out. Now, go!”

*

There were four on the cart: Istan, Batteran, the guard captain, and one of his men guiding the ox down the narrow path into the lower slopes. Istan had tried to ask where they were headed, but the clergyman only wrung his hands, and the two guards stayed silent. The fierce northern wind screamed at them all the way until they found shelter among the linden and maples growing near Lake Farln at the foot of the Faragrim. On its shore, the guard halted the cart.

“This is where we stop. Batteran,” the guard captain said, “where next?”

The clergyman looked like a frightened hare, his eyes darting from Istan to the captain, then towards the lake. “That way. Not far. At the shoreline, there’s the… the stone.”

Istan’s heart sank. There was an old ritual stone by Lake Farln, unused, its origin hidden in the past, but everybody knew the stories that it was a place of sacrifice, a place of death. The heathens of old had brought food, drink, animals—wrongdoers?—and sacrificed them for the good of the harvest, game, or other needs. He glanced at Batteran, then over his shoulder at the grim captain. The clergyman carried a large pouch slung over his shoulder and a torch in his right hand; the captain had his sword.

Maybe the pouch held something for the stone?

They took a winding trail littered with roots, rocks, and holes that preyed on their steps, until they reached the shore where the broad, grey slab awaited them. The shoreline was glad in wandering sheets of mist, its damp kiss caring little for Istan’s light clothes.

Batteran approached the boulder, patting its surface. He lifted his torch and looked at the captain. “This here… this is where we’ll do it.”

“You sure it’s going to work?” the captain said.

Istan noticed the man kept his eyes on him, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. “What… am I supposed to do here?”

“Ah, well…” Batteran looked at him, then at the captain. “I’m sorry. This has to be d—”

A scream unlike any Istan had heard before shattered the stillness over the lake. It was answered by the scraping of a sword being drawn from its sheath.

“What was that?” the captain said. “What did you do?”

“Me? It was him!” Batteran squealed, hurrying behind the captain.

A new shriek, this time closer. Something strong beat the water in the darkness where the clergyman’s torch couldn’t reach.

“Quickly, it must be done now! For the King!” Batteran cried out.

“What?” Istan stared in horror as the captain leapt towards him, swinging his sword. He dodged, the blade missing his back and only tearing a hole in his loose shirt. “Wait! Please!” He sprang towards the rock to get something between him and the captain. He stumbled and fell—crashing against the stone. Sprawled over the clammy gravel on the shore, he stared as the captain raised his sword.

And halted.

A violent shriek blasted above Istan, and a dark shape darted over him towards the captain and the clergyman. The sword fell on the ground, and the two men, crying out in surprise and agony, turned and ran. Soon, their torch disappeared into the darkness.

Groaning, Istan got up, raised his head, and stopped. A pair of gleaming eyes stared at him. Then he made out a shape, bent, like a crouched man, but it wasn’t a man. It was a swan. Black as coal, its neck elegantly held high, the bird moved closer to him.

“Istan of Farklent,” a strange voice said, the words starting and ending with a prolonged hiss that slithered through the air.

Istan turned around, half-expecting to see some malevolent creature standing atop the stone, but there was nothing there. Only the sparkling mist, painted by the crescent moon peeking through the ragged clouds above, slid slowly over the placid lake. Then, he looked back at the swan. “You… you can talk?” His voice was an alien croak, as if a toad had learned to speak.

And swans ate frogs.

“How observant,” the swan said, as Istan now noticed its sharp beak moving. “Listen, they’ll return here, and next time you won’t be as lucky. I’ve been watching you from afar. It’s time.”

“Aha,” Istan said.

The swan was talking, the bird… and he had eaten swans! But that was surely… it was… but everyone else had eaten them, too! Was that why he had seen swans lately, always from a distance? And always thought they looked dark because they had been far away, flying over the fields when he inspected his parents’ empty house, swimming in the river when he fished, circling the Duke’s estate when he drafted the maps—away yet present. Throughout the autumn, even after they should’ve migrated. And never more than one.

Ever since the dreams returned.

“I’m sorry,” Istan stammered. “Time for what?”

“You’re called, Certo Mur.”

No.

No, no, no, that he had left in the past, in his childhood, cut it of—by accident, but still!—with that heavy axe, a clumsy child. The dreams had disappeared. The clergy had been satisfied. He was a respected member of the community, a cartographer in training.

Not a string of meaningless words snarled at him by his crib when he was born.

Words said after a spiteful bout; a leavy set to cover deeds undone. For thirteen coppers left unpaid.

“The wind has turned north, and it’s calling for you. Have you seen it? In your dreams, a dark hall with a steep roof, with large black steps…”

In surprise, Istan blurted, “…black steps leading to twin doors of battered wood and great ironworks.” He inhaled sharply. “You’ve seen it, too!”

“And inside?”

“A great, dark space, with a long fireplace in the middle, and at the end, a stone chair upon which a carved statue sits. A man, a king, an iron crown upon his brow,” Istan spoke softly, the dream awakening inside him.

“Yes, you’ve been called.” The swan bowed its head. “I feared as much.”

“And then… wait…” Startled, Istan shook his head. “Feared? Why?”

The swan blinked. “What else did you see?”

“I saw a child,” Istan said, swallowing. “In her lap, she had the skull of an ox, and a black knife with a wide blade, and she stared at the statue. I… thought she was dead, but then she looked at me, and her eyes…” He shuddered involuntarily. “They were all white, as if she were blind. She began to chant,

Hail, Fool of carvéd stone;

Cannot lie hidden and gnaw a bone;

Sing forsaken children: present, present!

So wanes a shadow under a moon crescent;

The trail is lost in cold, hard ground;

A payment we take or none are found;

Awake, vagabond of land.”

And when she did so, the fireplace in the middle lit up, but not with fire, at least I’ve never seen fire like it. It was blue, sparkling, and there were creatures inside it, fish… no, well, maybe… and then…”

“Yes? And then?”

“She cut her palm with the knife, and raised the hand towards me,” Istan whispered. “‘Work the chains of Fäll Servíl, lest Firdún escapes again.’ And then, the hall collapsed, and I woke up.” He stared at the swan. “What does that mean?”

With swift strokes of its black wings, the swan leapt over the stone, its beak knocking the grey surface. “It’s told that the giants of old brought these boulders here, setting in them such spells that none can now remember. The Firstcomers’ chimes, they were called, dragged from the depths of the north to warn us if Firdún ever awoke…”

From the slope behind them, rustling and cursing broke free from the foliage.

“Well, they’re daring,” the swan said. “Look, there are people better versed in these matters further north. Search for the Narrow Pass, cross into Filgentýr, and tell them about this dream of yours. They can help you. And Istan,”—the bird flicked its wing—“do take that sword. The roads are perilous.”

“But I can’t just leave! I have nothing, no provisions, clothes—direction!” Istan grabbed the sword. More sounds of approaching people sounded, and he glimpsed the first torch. “And I’m not a smith—I’m a cartographer! His second apprentice! I don’t… I can’t… I…”

“Your Certo Mur. You can, and you will. You must. There’s nothing here for you. Even your parents’ home is nothing but a homestead of ghosts. Go north. I will arrange help for you if I can. Now, go!”

Gundor

A blast of wind battered the main doors to the Kran as Istan recited the verse, and Gundor and the Honnúng exchanged looks. Saga, the Honnúng’s wife, stood white-faced beside her husband, clutching her cloak tighter around her. But it was the name that sent cold sweat over Gundor’s brow—Firdún.

And the man claimed he was awake! Or awakening. Gundor took hold of a nearby chair, his hands trembling.

Istan was still continuing his story. “I looked for the swan, but I haven’t seen it since. In the villages I arrived, people said a stranger had warned them of my arrival, and they fed and clothed me, but very few could give me any better directions until I reached the harbour city of Taun…” The longer the tale went, the more people seemed to withdraw from him. “…and finally, the traders guided me to ride north-east from the mouth of the Pass, and to look for the lights—and then, I saw the smoke rising from your hall.” As he finished, the brittle silence shattered.

“Chains of Fäll Servil!”

“Firdún has returned!”

“No! Wasn’t he still asleep?”

“Cursed, he’s cursed!”

The blast from the Hundottsman’s hunting horn did little to silence the agitated crowd, and it took three low moans before people settled and allowed the Honnúng to speak. He stared gloomily at Istan. “Under ordinary circumstances, you would’ve been welcomed as a guest, but under Benighting, and with such a story riding on your shoulders… Well, it’s said that only dark tidings and grim people wander in the shadow around us.” He rose from his seat, his gaze sweeping over the Kran. “This is… a dire matter. Istan of Farklent, for now, you should rest, drink, and eat, and let us discuss among ourselves before we can give any judgment or guidance to aid you.”

Istan was led to sit alone near the fireplace. He had been given food and more ale—and much to his amazement, two guards to keep an eye on him. Gundor was about to question the man further when the Honnúng called him.

“Gundor, come with us.” The Honnúng was moving towards his chambers with Saga, the Hundottsman, and an older woman, Sigra.

“Aye,” Gundor responded, turning away from the stranger—and from the peculiar sense of trepidation that the man had brought with him. There was something in him, in his presence, something that reverberated in the air. And the name, Firdún, hung like an axe’s blade over them all. Lost in his thoughts, he bumped into a woman passing him by.

“Sorry,” she said, and Gundor noticed Skada glaring at him. Then she turned and disappeared among the folk.

“Ah, no, it was my fault…” Gundor said to her back, irritated at losing his thread of thought, but also feeling the sting of guilt. She had never forgiven him for not helping her find her parents, nor understood why he had denied her the passage into the Skûd. Only after a bitter argument was she convinced that the hilvetík would feast on her just as gleefully as they would with her parents. After that, she had turned cold, unresponsive. Perhaps he had been too explicit?

Gundor sighed. He had brought her here to be part of the Honnúng’s stock of maids—a maiden living alone in the woods was not proper. Here, she would be looked after and, in time, she might find a suitable husband. She could build a new, more orderly life, instead of returning to that lone mound where now only shadows reigned?

“Gundor!” the Hundottsman barked from the door to the Honnúng’s chambers, waving his hand furiously.

“Yes, yes,” Gundor muttered and scuttled past the long fireplace and the Honnúng’s seat.

Now that they were all gathered, the Honnúng began, “You heard him say it.”

“Aye, he spoke the name of the one buried underneath the Pale Fells,” the Hundottsman said.

“The whole hall echoed his name,” Gundor said. “People are reckless!”

“You can’t hide a name like Firdún,” Sigra, the older woman with gnarled skin, a few teeth, and such knowledge that only a few possessed, said, smacking her lips. “It was bound to come up.”

“But from a stranger?” the Hundottsman said. “And what was that rhyme about? And chains to capture Firdún? And what does that, um, Certo Mur mean? We should’ve asked him.”

“La Certo means a king, so it must be Firdún’s title. This is… Ah, but I haven’t told all of you. Saga?” The Honnúng glanced at his Honná, then briefly told Sigra and the Hundottsman of her dream.

Saga looked over her shoulder. In the corner, the cradle shaped like a ship stood in the shadows, Valka’s whining breath barely audible. “It was the same song. Hail, fool of carvéd stone… He saw Valka, but she was there, in Firdún’s Kran—”

“It was a dream,” the Honnúng said, placing his hand over her shoulder. “And nothing more.”

“Nothing more?” Sigra shook her head, her threadbare white locks dancing over her face. “A dream shared by our Honná and this stranger from the south; the name that should be kept underfell shouted out loud; this thing about smithing the chains… I’m sure our dear tyrite here knows better, but isn’t it always the stranger who sets in motion unforeseen events; havoc rides on their shoulders, as the thanes say.”

Gundor looked at Sigra, then noticed everyone staring at him. “Yes, but—”

“He’s the one after my child?” the Honnúng said, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

“Look, we don’t know that,” Gundor said. “Yes, it’s perplexing that both Saga and this Istan fellow shared a similar dream, but my Honnúng, we must consider the message, too.”

“Have you interpreted the verses?” Saga asked, hope sparkling in her clear blue eyes.

“No, not yet, my Honná, but I can’t connect the lines to him—can you?”

Saga’s gaze faltered, and she lowered her head. The erratically dancing candle on the table nearby cast a shadow over her face.

Gundor continued, “And I was referring to these chains that the child ordered him to create. Never have I heard anything like it, and besides, Firdún has been asleep for hundreds of years. It’s not like he can just wake up and go about his business. No! He was bound deep and hard, locked under the Pales. He cannot come out, not by any means we have at our disposal.”

“My Honnúng, if I may?” the Hundottsman said. “For now, let’s assume he’s on an honest journey. He’s seen a vision, and he heads for the Pale Fells—”

“Where Firdún sleeps,” Sigra said, but Gundor glared her into silence.

The Hundottsman bowed his head slightly. “Yes, there. Why can’t we just let him go on his way with his business? I mean, what fäll servíl can be found are all ancient. When was the last time you heard anyone searching for it?”

“He’s right,” Saga said. “These”—she touched her earrings—“and the bracelet around your wrist, my husband, were made over two hundred summers ago.”

The Honnúng crossed his arms. “And if he’s somehow connected to the threat on Valka? What then, if I just let him leave? I fear that what Sigra just said, that the stranger has ever been the source of change. Well? What change will happen to us if I let him leave?”

“What punishment do you think the Skûd will send our way if you, wrongly, decide to hold him here?” Gundor said. “He’s our guest, and guests have rights. You can’t confine him to Hjolkran, not unless he breaks our laws.”

“Gundor speaks the truth,” Sigra said. “Besides, only a few can tell the difference between real silver and Firdún’s Shine. Nay, fäll servíl and how to gain it are sung beside the fire, but only a fool would attempt such a feat. To catch it is one thing; to bring it back from the Pales, and from the Skûd—if it’s even possible anymore—another matter entirely. A fool’s errand. Be rid of the stranger, my Honnúng.”

The Honnúng looked at each of them in turn. Then, turning towards Saga, who had withdrawn beside the cradle, he said, “What will you have me do?”

Saga caressed the sleeping baby in the crib. “You are the Honnúng: decide in the best interest of your people. Send him to the Fells. If he succeeds, he’s found true and may do with the silver as he pleases. In failure, well, let the Pales take care of him.”

*

Gundor returned to the gate, relieving the four jumpy guards that had taken his place when he took Istan into the Kran. With overflowing politeness, they left him alone. It had started snowing. Large, lazy flakes powdered the region, hissing angrily as they landed in his fire. He was troubled, stirring the pot absentmindedly, caring little for the lumps brushing against his stick and the sides, not adding any snow to make it run more smoothly.

A lone rider in Benighting was unheard of, and his story… It was a tall order to go and find fäll servíl, the fell silver. And to forge chains from it! He shook his head and stared into the flames, his brow furrowed. The skill of crafting fell silver was all but a dead trade, and such knowledge had been buried as the Fell King was locked deep inside the Pale Fells.

And yet…

Gundor frowned as the mocking rhyme danced in his ears.

Hail Fool of carvéd stone;

Cannot lie hidden and gnaw a bone;

Sing forsaken children: present, present!

So wanes a shadow under a moon crescent;

The trail is lost in cold, hard ground;

A payment we take or none are found;

Awake, vagabond of land.

The words made no sense. He could not connect Istan to any of it—nor to Firdún. No. This was something else, like bones falling over his drum, the moment before they would settle and form a shape. He looked up, letting the snow land over his brooding face. In the morning, he would speak with the stranger. He had thought the lines were about the Honnúng and the Three Mounds, but now he was afraid, afraid that he had misinterpreted the verse.

Weekly appearing Nordic Fantasy serial by Valtteri Sievänen. Here’s the table of contents of the publication; for those new to the story, chapter 1 HERE!

#nordic, #fantasy, #mythical, #slow-burn, #snow, #dark, #curse

Part II

Were still the lands, lay all in silence;

White gowns on firs, white gowns on pines;

Grew shadows dense and night’s quickening;

For Benighting was here and grim its touch.

Took men to Krans in heads twenty;

Sang songs, played harps, food a’plenty;

But one would stand in vigil if silence;

Came calling in on this Benighting.

Gundor

Far above, the stars glinted cold silver. The world was calm under the billowing cover of snow, sleeping the winter away in the soft twilight that caressed the region for months. The full moon washed the few clouds, turning their grey into an almost translucent chalk as they slid slowly over the deep void. There was no wind. The air was thick with silence, disturbed only by the creaking as the frost made the wood sing and by the gentle hissing as the lazily falling snow occasionally dipped into the torches’ flames or Gundor’s fire.

The houses of Hjolkran were empty, the village quiet. The villagers and those living in the nearby lands had gathered in the Kran, the great hall atop the mound in the centre, to pass away Benighting. This was the Hjelkvít, the Precipice, the deep dark of the year. The previous sunset was as far away as the next dawn—still five weeks of darkness ahead.

Gundor sat alone on a three-legged stool beside a fire turned to embers, absentmindedly swirling a wooden spoon in a charred pot filled with reindeer blood. Somewhere behind him, the twin doors of the Kran swung open, and a burst of sound escaped into the night. He glimpsed a flash of orange light play over the roofs before darkness resumed. He adjusted his cloak and yawned. It would soon be time to make his rounds. The walls alone would not keep Valka safe.

He poured some of the blood into a bowl he had produced from under his seat, filling the pot with fresh snow. It would’ve melted by the time he returned, keeping the red liquid flowing. Tossing another log onto the embers, he followed as a cloud of sparks rose from his fire, only to disappear into the gloom. It was time, he should—

Soft, halting steps that made the faintest crunch on the snow threaded through Gundor’s thoughts, prompting him to turn. A small, teetering figure, clad in a poorly fitting coat, braved the waist-high drifts with something clutched against the chest, while a lantern swinging from a short pole was tucked under the armpit. Why the shape wasn’t following the cleared pathways was strange.

“Who goes there?” Gundor called, and the figure halted.

“M-My mother thought you c-could use some warm wine,” the figure stammered.

Gundor rose to meet a small girl who was struggling with the mug, the lantern, and the oversized coat. “Ah, thank you, dear. What is your name and your mother’s name?”

“I’m Kila,” she said, handing over the mug with a lid and hopping over the last snowdrift to reach the warmth. “And Heddá is my mother.”

Gundor sniffed at the snaking trail of steam that escaped beneath the lid. “Ah, you’re a treasure, and your mother is a kind soul. Thank you!” He took a long sip, relishing the warm shivers that the sweet, spiced wine brought as it sloshed inside him. “Come, join me by the fire. You’re shivering, and no wonder. Why didn’t you use the path?”

“I’m not cold,” she said, but before she answered to her choice of road, her gaze darted towards the twilight beyond the walls. “Why is the gate open?” she hissed.

Gundor raised his brow. “Why? It’s customary to keep the gate open on Hjelkvít. None should be alone on a night like this, and the travellers should reach the safety of the krans even while people huddle inside the halls.” Of course, they had argued about it with the Honnúng. What about the Grey Hermits?

It was a question of adhering to tradition or risking the wrath of the Skûd. The gate remained open, and the hermits, well, they were feeble old men. No. They wouldn’t dare enter through the gate—they wouldn’t dare travel during Benighting. But they might send someone to do their bidding.

Someone from the Skûd.

She craned her neck, shuffling her too-large sealskin boots closer to the fire. “But they could get in!”

“Who?”

“The grim nightlies! And trolls! And all the other dangerous creatures!”

Gundor smiled and raised his mug. “Ah, well, I’m here in case something like that would happen.”

“You?” She glanced at him. “You don’t look like you could stop a frightened hen.”

Gundor was in the middle of a long, long sip when he started coughing. Clearing his throat, he said, “Eh, I can assure you I can manage.”

“How?”

“How? Don’t you remember anything they tell you about tyrites?”

Kila shrugged, her oversized coat barely moving. “I don’t know; they don’t tell us much about tyrites. My father says it’s not something a young girl should be interested in.”

Gundor frowned. “Does he now?”

“He says you’re a glorified hermit.”

Gundor squinted and asked in a low voice, “And what does your mother think?”

“She thinks,” Kila began, tossing another log on the embers, “that you’re a kind old man who’s always there with advice and help.”

Gundor bowed his head and smiled. “I’ve done something right, then. Well,” he said, leaning conspiratorially towards Kila. “What would you like to know of the forbidden lore of the tyrites?”

Her eyes sparkled as she gasped, “Everything!”

“Everything?” Gundor chuckled. “Would you like to join me—and go outside the gate?”

Kila stared at him, her face white as chalk. “Out…side?”

“But only if you dare.” Gundor turned and marched through the gate.

The soft footsteps followed him.

“We should start from the gate,” he said, dipping a long, whittled kindling into the bowl, and painting the mark of a settlement on the wall. Three upward strokes side by side and a hat over them. The warm blood steamed only a moment before the frigid air and frozen surface tamed it. “This is vakran. We tell the Skûd that here is a village, and we, the Latecomers, own it.”

“I see,” Kila said softly.

Gundor glanced at her. The girl’s gaze was fixed in the darkness beyond Hjolkran, and she nervously fiddled with her coat. Perhaps this was a mistake, he thought.

“Why are we called Latecomers?”

Delighted that she was paying attention, Gundor led her across the road to the other side of the gate, painting another vakran on the wall. “When Filgentýr was old, and the first people crossed the Narrow Pass, and when there were no krans, roads, or a harbour in the Nigh-Thawn Sea, this was the land of the Nonhílt. You’ve heard of them?”

“They were giants?”

“No, something far more terrible than giants. The Nonhílt were mighty creatures, kind and terrible in ways beyond our understanding, but they were also fond of us. At least, such is the story in the Tan Linnit Nonhílt—the lay that tells of the first men and their encounter with the Lord of the Nonhílt. These men we call the Latecomers, for the Nonhílt were here first. Come.” He led Kila away from the gate, walking by the rampart and stopping occasionally to paint a vakran on the wall.

Kila scuttled after him. “How does it go, the song I mean?”

Gundor halted. He began to hum a sad tune, the melody undulating like mellow waves on a lake. “It’s a long song, and I will not sing it here, not when Benighting has brought the Skûd so close to us, but it tells the story of how the Nonhílt took great interest in us.” He resumed walking. “Yet, these great beings decided that, despite their love for the land and its creatures, they wanted us to have and govern Filgentýr. So they left us and took with them such creatures that lived here and were of devastating might, for they loved them dearly.”

Kila grabbed hold of Gundor’s thick coat and glued herself to his side. “But… my father says there are all kinds of nasty creatures in the wild woods around Hjolkran.” The gate was far behind them, and Kila seemed to notice it, too. “They don’t come close to villages, right?”

“They might,” Gundor said, and instantly regretted it.

Kila’s high-pitched shriek of “What!” cut the brooding silence around them. “A giant could just come and snap us like twigs!”

“Calm down. We’ve seen no giants since they were driven into the Shattered Peaks hundreds of years ago, or since the Mothers were turned to stone—”

“But a troll or a nätter or a noík could come and skin us!”

Gundor dropped to a knee, placing his hand over her shoulder. “Kila, it’s all right. They won’t come. Even though these creatures you named did not leave with the Nonhílt, they shun the villages. For as long as the circle is complete”—he rose, and patted the wall beside them—“the Skûd honours the pact the Latecomers and the Nonhílt made. Filgentýr is ours for as long as we follow our traditions.”

They continued their round in silence, Kila huddling to his side like fomes to a tree.

“But… doesn’t the Skûd hate us?”

Gundor raised his brow. “Hate us, why?”

“Because of Firdún.”

Gundor’s hand stopped on the wall, the vakran still missing its hat. “How do you know that name?”

“That’s what the folk says here. What my father tells me if I don’t behave. The grim nightlies or Firdún’s folk will come and get you. They take you to the Pales, and put you into a cauldron the size of a fell.” She stared straight at him, her wide blue eyes dead serious.

They measured each other for a moment. Gundor glanced at the wall, and with two swift strokes, finished the symbol. “It’s only a story. Come. Our round is at the end.”

Back at the gate, Gundor poured the remaining blood into the pot, where the snow had already melted.

Kila peered curiously at him. “So, you’ll just stay here the whole night?”

“Aye. That is the role of a tyrite. We’re the keepers of the pact between us and the Nonhílt. We guard the gates during Benighting when people gather and make merry so that the sun can hear us and return in the spring.”

“And you protect us from the grim nightlies?”

Gundor smiled at Kila. “That we do. The marks we painted are like a ring of fire for the Skûd.” He winked. “The creatures out there don’t dare cross it. We’re safe here… and you should get back indoors. I can hear your teeth chattering.”

He watched as Kila’s back disappeared behind the nearest houses. A curious child, he chuckled to himself, but then he frowned. People were talking about Firdún? Talking about the Pale Fells but not about the role of a tyrite—not teaching their kids about the Latecomers and Nonhílt! Had he been away for so long?

Deep in thought, Gundor tended the fire. He might have to frequent the krans more often, as he had when he was younger. However, back then, there were real issues. There were the hxr of the marshes, the witches wreaking havoc across the land. There had been incidents with the hilvetík, with nätter attacking lone travellers.

Munnuth had walked among them.

And he, Gundor, had seen to her execution—

A cold shiver rattled his teeth. Come Skûd, he wished to forget all that. Nay, it had been good these past decades. He had helped to grow things, maintain, and advise; he had been allowed to keep to himself, alone in his woods.

He raised the mug Kila had brought him. The mulled wine was still warm. Despite his worries, Benighting was going as it always had: the people in the hall and he at the gate. There had been no sign of the Hermits. He was prepared, and the circle would keep the Skûd at bay. The entrance was guarded by blood, flame, and himself—regardless of Kila’s doubts. He chuckled, recalling the disbelief in her eyes.

“You will not cross the boundary, not this Benighting.” He toasted to the sulking quietude wafting outside the walls. “I see you. You’re not welcome—”

A form appeared in the middle of the gate, a deeper hue of darkness that didn’t want to blend into the gloom. Gundor stirred, the mug falling from his grasp and his hand flying over the shaft of his axe.

A lone rider entered from the gate.

*

“Settle down, settle down!” the Honnúng called, hitting the table before him with a small smith’s hammer. “Quiet!” Despite being seated on a pedestal, his voice barely carried over the cacophony.

On the Honnúng’s right-hand side, the people thronged in a bubbling mass of excitement. Across the long fireplace in the middle sat a dark-haired man in worn, black clothes, rubbing his arms furiously as he leaned as close to the crackling fire as he dared. Behind him, Gundor stood with his arms crossed over his chest, staring keenly at the newcomer.

The Honnúng signalled to the master of his guard, the Hundottsman, who produced a horn and blew into it. The low but powerful moan silenced the villagers, but they still eyed the foreigner, some curiously, others fearfully, and a few grimly.

“Now then,” the Honnúng said, coughing a little to clear his already hoarse voice from all the singing that night, “who are you, and from where do you hail?”

Before the man could answer, muttering erupted anew from the crowd.

“None should travel alone during Benighting!”

“What is he, a witch, a conjurer—a spiritwalker?”

“Look at his clothes! He must be one of the cursed since no one else could withstand the cold wearing such—”

“Quiet!” the Honnúng roared, glaring at his sheep. “Please.” He gestured for the man to begin.

“These are foreign lands for me, so begging your pardon, how should I address you?” the foreigner said with a low yet proud voice. “I am told that beyond the Narrow Pass, there is the land which some call Filgentýr, where the thanes rule.”

“Thanes? We’re not Joviks near the shore, nor those living in the western hills, and you’re not from here. You can call me a Lord if it pleases you.” The Honnúng, despite his jumpy underlings, remained polite.

“My Lord… but, you’re not a king?”

A ripple of muttering spread across the hall. The Honnúng, a king, surely not! Gundor smirked, the obscure idea bringing a sour taste over his tongue.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind that, either,” the Honnúng said, grinning over his people—and a gasp went through the crowd. “But we’re not accustomed to call ourselves kings, not since… well, old history. What difference does it make?”

The foreigner rose to his feet and bowed his head. “I suppose none. My Lord, then, I am Istan of Farklent, and I come to you in great need.”

“Indeed.” The Honnúng waved at his cupbearer to carry the man a drink. “People shouldn’t wander alone in Benighting, even a child knows that—but that appears not to be true in Farklent. Tell me, where is this Farklent of yours?”

Istan accepted the offered mug. “To your health, Lord,” he said, taking a long drink. “Most gracious of you. My bones are melting, and now my insides, too. Farklent, yes, I suppose the name is as obscure to you as the notion of riding alone in winter. Farklent is a village built on the lower reaches of a mountain range called Shearback, and near the crown of one we call Faragrim is where my home village lies.”

“You’re one of them Penny Kings, then?” said a man from the front row.

“The Peasant Kingdoms, I’ve heard ‘em called,” chimed in another one.

“Ah, yes, despite our Earl’s furious efforts, it seems we’re stuck with the nickname,” Istan smirked. “We are the westernmost earldom, but yes, I’m glad you’ve heard of the Penny Kings, even if only by name. It’s a long way from here, sailing across the Horseshoe Coast and honest riding more than I care for.”

“But during Benighting… It’s madness!” called a woman’s voice from the crowd.

“Quiet!” the Honnúng ordered. “Yet, I’m also surprised. Seldom do people from the south stay with us over the winter; rarer still are the ones who seek us out. And none to my reckoning has come under the shadow of Benighting. What’s your business here?”

Istan flinched. “A desperate man cannot choose his time of arrival. Please, hear my story…”

Weekly appearing Nordic Fantasy serial by Valtteri Sievänen. Here’s the table of contents of the publication; for those new to the story, chapter 1 HERE!

#nordic, #fantasy, #mythical, #slow-burn, #snow, #dark

Skada

Gundor sat beside the fire, munching what he had declared to be his salted pork and glaring at his unexpected visitor. Skada sat opposite him, hugging a cup of beer, her eyes following the dance of the flames she had lit earlier. They were both bent forward as the ceiling hunkered low near the fireplace, and for a moment, the cramped space echoed from Gundor’s sloppy eating, puffing, and grunting. He took a long sip from his mug, burped, and then laid down the plate and the drink, leaning inquisitively closer.

“So,” Gundor began, the beer and the pork having softened his tone, “tell me again, who are you, and why have you sought out my house?”

Skada flinched, the cup clasped in her hands trembling a little. “I’m called Skada,” she said with a wavering voice. “I grew up at Mortte’s house near the Old Solitary.”

“Ah, Mortte. I know your father. A good man, strong, and not the least interested in my advice on caring for the crops.” Gundor smirked.

“Aye, he was a stubborn man, a proper block of wood,” she said, smiling, but then tears choked her.

“I’m… sorry, Skada Morttedás. I don’t quite follow. What do you mean by ‘was a stubborn man’? Isn’t everything all right? Has he fallen ill?”

“He… my mother,” she began, trying to squeeze the dancing mug tighter but spilling ale all the same.

Gundor leaned forward, placed his hand over the cup, and took it cautiously from her. “It’s all right, take your time.” His voice was warm and reassuring.

“They were taken,” she gasped. “Two nights ago… or three? Could be longer, I don’t know; I’ve lost count of the days. I’ve been just so lost.” She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled loudly. “Three days ago, I was sent to collect mushrooms”—a sob tried to interject, but she forced it down—“and I did. And I took a knife…” The thought of stealing from his father cut deep.

Gundor kept his steady gaze on her, letting her fill the tiny hut with her story.

“I was out in the eastern woods, beyond Old Solitary. I encountered these creatures with torches. I don’t know where they came from, but they were these short, hooded ones with long, thin arms and crouched backs. They moved fast but, like, scuttled more than ran or walked upright, if you get what I mean.” She sniffed and slowly allowed the events out, trying to remember them in as much detail as possible. “And they took the poles, and the people—there were more than ten poles—away, into the forest.”

She fell silent, burying her face in her hands. She was so tired, utterly spent, that she wished the earth would open up below her and let her sleep for eternity.

“I believe you saw the Ettendast,” Gundor said, sighing and placing his hand over her shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

Skada raised her head, her red, tear-soaked, swollen eyes squinting at the man. “But the Ettendast is past us. It was already a moon ago. I… I don’t understand.”

“Aye, but it might be different in the Skûd. The seasons are the same, but the creatures there hold on to their own ways.”

“The… Skûd.” Skada jerked upright, away from Gundor’s reach. “You mean that they were, that I was…” Her hands began to tremble, her breathing intensified, and she started to examine her palms, arms, and feet.

“Calm down, calm down,” Gundor said. “You know who I am, right?”

Skada, still hysterical, sprang up, bumped her head, but continued to feel her body for things that were not there before. “No, should I? Come Skûd, but I was in it! I was in the fog, in the light. I don’t want the mark. I don’t want it!”

“Please, Skada, sit,” Gundor said, now with a deeper voice.

“What good will that do? If I’m marked—”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“But they say those touched by the Skûd can be told apart, that the mark is on their flesh. Lesions, boils, deformities. What if it’s still within me? What if it’s growing and doesn’t—”

“Skada Morttedás, sit!” Gundor barked. “Be quiet and listen, or I’ll whack you with that poker until you do!” He glared at Skada.

She stared at him, looked at the iron poker, remembered that her father’s Good Knife was lying in her beaten birchbark bag by the door, and decided to sit. “Sorry. I’m afraid of the Skûd. I’ve heard… I’ve heard such terrible things.”

“I know,” Gundor sighed and scratched his bald head while staring at the roof.

Skada expected him to continue, but the man stayed silent. This peculiar, gaunt man in whose house she had entered seemed to be lost in his thoughts, but just as she was about to open her mouth, he began.

“What do you know about the Skûd?” He glanced at her, his left brow arched high.

“It’s the underworld where all the evil creatures reside, and they’re constantly trying to escape to our side.”

“Ah, no, good gracious, no! Who told you that?” Gundor stared at her, his brow furrowed.

“My father, my mother, Old Villea and her midwives, Stiiruna, the hostess at Vakjér’s Inn, our neighbours’ boys—”

“All right, fine, ah,” Gundor said, rubbing his head and muttering, “I should frequent people more often.”

“But the Skûd, isn’t that like the world of the dead?”

“No, no, no! The Skûd… er… see, look at that, that flickering thing there. What do you call it?”

Skada stared. “The… fire?”

“Correct. And those black things on the walls?”

“The shelves?”

“No! The shadows. They are exactly as the Skûd is to us. Before people came to Filgentýr, everything existed under the shroud of the Skûd, just like everything in my home was clad in shadows before you lit the fire. But just like here, the light from the flames leaves plenty of space for shadows—we cast a shadow behind us—and so it is with the Skûd. There are, hm, pockets, certain places with a strong presence of the Skûd, just like all those little cracks on the walls and floor that stay in the dark. And just like this”—Gundor raised his hand between Skada and the fireplace—“leaves your face in the shadow, so too, there are things that can bring the Skûd closer to us. Like the fog and those torches you encountered.”

Skada stared at him. Her hands had stopped twitching, and her skin no longer felt like ants were crawling over it. “So… where do the stories come from, then? Why are some people visibly marked? I saw Rustlá, one of the fishmonger women, last summer, and she had a boil the size of my fist behind her ear, and it was mighty painful, according to her.”

Gundor’s face softened, and a new look of worry entered his eyes. “I know people say that the Skûd has marked this or that one, but what they really mean is that something from there, from this otherness, has wounded these people. And these are serious injuries to us; we’re but children in this land of giants. Most often, like in the case of poor Rustlá, we don’t even know why it has happened. However”—the furrows over his brow deepened, casting his face in the dark—“sometimes, creatures residing there enter our side and then… well.” Gundor lowered his gaze. “This is what I fear has happened to your parents.”

Skada stared at the embers. They were dying, like her hope, but then she understood something. “You’re a… tyrite?” Seeing him nod, she exclaimed, “But you could save my parents!”

“I’m afraid that won’t be the case. I cannot be sure, of course, but I believe the hilvetík took your parents. They are”—Gundor grunted—“nasty creatures. Usually, they live among themselves in the eastern marshes, but something has made them bolder recently. I’m truly sorry, but I believe there’s nothing we can do.”

“Hilvetík, hilvetík, in the meadows that sway; silently, silently, bending stalks of grey,” Skada hummed in a low voice. Then, she cried helplessly.

Gundor

Gundor threw a log—a spruce, but he barely noticed—over the embers and stared at how the nascent flames leapt joyously. Soon, the play of crackle and spark filled his tiny hut, covering the snoring of his surprise guest. He had bid Skada to use his bed, and she had covered herself with the pelts, the pile of fur trembling as she sobbed beneath them. Mercifully, exhaustion quickly overcame her. Glancing over his shoulder, Gundor spied only the curly mess at the top of her head, peeking beneath the covers.

He sighed, returning his gaze to the fire and muttering, “Why now? Why here?”

For years, Gundor had enjoyed tending to this region with works dealing with happenings on this side of the divide, things like herbal lore, curing ailments, and performing the tyrite’s part in the festivities that dotted the year, lighting the midsummer’s pyres, asking for a bounty on jottekúl, and thanking for the plentiful Ettendast. The Skûd had been silent and, apart from minor incidents and rumours that one could easily shrug off, of no great concern.

It has not been too silent, mind you, he reminded himself. Yet, these recent events had a clang to them. They rhymed, rhymed like the verses of—

Thud.

Gundor winced. Had something hit the window overlooking his tiny yard? Squinting, he rose and leaned against the round, slightly smudged glass pane. Outside, the night prowled freely, and the waxing moon painted everything in shades of soft silver. Mist drifted in wandering sheets among the dark trunks, but nothing else moved. Shaking his head, Gundor returned to his chair.

Where was I? Oh yes, the verses… he drew his hand over his head, ruminating over the situation. It wasn’t that his thoughts tried to elude him; perhaps they just found nothing to hold on to on his bald scalp. “Why her?” he repeated the question to the starlight pouring in from the window.

“Sing forsaken children: present, present!” the child in the dream had told Saga, and here comes this woman—a girl; she wasn’t wearing the band married women used to tie their hair, nor did she carry the keys to a house—speaking of hilvetík raiding lone homesteads.

“So wanes a shadow under a moon crescent.” He rubbed his eyes. Yes, the growing moon. Not only did the words describe the hilvetík—the crooked children, named so after their stature and manner of moving—but they also were accurate in the timing.

“But again, what’s her part in all this? Is she the fool of carvéd stone who was hiding and gnawing the bone? Hardly. Yet, she has lost her way… but she’s not homeward bound, quite the opposite! Damn it!” Startled, he realised he had spoken aloud to the embers.

Skada shifted in her sleep, groaning loudly. Gundor turned around, already an apology bubbling on his lips. She didn’t move, and soon, her gentle, whining breathing again mingled with the fire’s crackle. He relaxed, took a sip from his cup, and resumed thinking.

No, he was certain that the riddle didn’t mention her. What was it that his master had told him all those long years ago when he had been a mere apprentice? “Rôin is a great river, but only because it’s fed by the smaller brooks and rivulets that race down from the frigid springs within the fells.”

Skada, then, could she be a rivulet?

He mused on the idea. No. She was a young woman who had suffered greatly, but it wasn’t uncommon for lone homesteads to fall prey to the raiding hilvetík. Unfortunate, yes, but not connected to Saga’s dream.

Was Valka a rivulet?

Hardly. The birth of a child was a great change, but he had to agree with what the Honnúng had told him about Onok and the Grey Hermits. Valka was the gift of an unlawful—he cringed at the thought—marriage, and thus, the old, buried traditions could demand the winter’s gift…

He would not let that happen. Nor would the Honnúng.

So who was the Rôin? And could he see the rivulets? Were the other signs? He sighed.

This was hopeless.

Gundor leaned in his chair and glanced out from the round window. He didn’t see the stump of an oak standing guard between his yard and the forest, but he knew it was there; he knew Uuti was there, too. Had he heard something in the Skûd, something that made him rebel against a direct order from Gundor? The word order caused some uncalled-for twitching. Uuti wasn’t his to command. Rather, they shared a home. Yet, that would explain why Skada was allowed to find his hut and why the forest had not just gently guided her back on the road and wished her luck on her travels. “I was invited,” she had said and told him how Uuti had appeared to her—a rare occurrence in itself—and bid her to take refuge in Gundor’s home.

A low, booming thud, like a heavy footfall, made a few of the pots, pans, and other lighter wares in his hut jump. Something big moved outside, and momentarily, a shadow darkened the window. Gundor kept staring at the round pane as the shape moved past his fragile home, and he could once again see the coiling mists turned silver by the moon. Things were on the move, large things, and the season was turning to winter when the Skûd was at its strongest—and it all made him wonder just how worried he should be…

Weekly appearing Nordic Fantasy serial by Valtteri Sievänen. Here’s the table of contents of the publication; for those new to the story, chapter 1 HERE!

Skada

Daybreak had come and gone, and then another one, and another one—or just one? Thick clouds rolled over the forest around her. Which forest, Skada didn’t know. They all looked the same. Aspen, birch, spruce. Hard, cold, painful. She had abandoned all roads, staggering over moss and grass, roots and stones, only to emerge from the thicket onto a new road or trail crossing her path. They were like fire unto her, and she immediately forsook them, fearing they would lead her back…

Home.

Where her mother would rise early and tend to the few animals they had.

Where her father would work the field.

Gone.

There were no more tears to shed, and the skin under her eyes had dried in the wind. Hunger and thirst eluded her, but habit made her nibble at the dry meat in her birchbark bag and sip the beer in her skin. Reluctantly. Not tasting anything. She was a shell, a chime, and whenever she crashed against a branch or hit her foot against a rock, the dull emptiness inside her echoed. Not of pain. Of loss of sensation. She didn’t care anymore.

She waded through a thicket of young willows, stepped into a ravine, and again, found herself standing on a road fit for carts. It made a slight bend before escaping the steeper slope on the opposite side, but there was no one in sight.

Cold bit through her numbness with tiny white teeth, and she blinked. It was snowing. Hönkä, the first snow was upon her, and it startled her from her stupor. Not enough to make her consider where she was headed—or where she was—but to usher her under a large linden growing at the foot of the slope. There, she stared at the slow descent of the whiteness.

She shivered again, and the weight fell from her shoulders, bending her knees and bringing her down to lean against the bole. She cried, not with tears for there were none left, but with sobs like convulsions rocking her uncontrollably. Then, it passed. All-pervasive exhaustion coated her, expelling the foggy numbness from her mind, and she became acutely aware of her surroundings.

“Where… am I?” she whispered. It was good to hear a voice, even if it was only her own. “I need help.”

The gently falling snow didn’t answer as it shrouded the forest around her with a grey veil. Sun tried to pierce the ragged clouds above, but it only made the greyness lighter, more treacherous. Slowly, details of the world beyond the road disappeared, and she was left with the linden at the foot of the hill.

*

Skada jolted upright. Had she been sleeping? It was dark around her, nightfall, with a line of blazing orange cutting the western horizon. She staggered to her feet, leaning against the linden, feeling for her aching back and bony shoulders. She had to do something to prevent the night from claiming her. Shelter, fire, food—but not here; the road was too exposed. If the wind turned, whatever warmth she could conjure would be lost. She would need to go deeper into the forest.

The hillside looked steep, but manageable if not for her protesting feet. Deciding to head east, she chose a gentler ascent through the barren birches dotting the slope, looking for a suitable place to build a lean-to or find a thick-enough fir to offer a hideout under its bushy branches. A cave? A cave would be too much to even hope for. In the failing light, she made out the looming shape of another hill in the distance—a dell between the two would be perfect.

She could smell the junipers before she saw them, their rich, bitter resin forming a cloud she stumbled into. It stung her eyes, but it was a pleasant sensation. Strong. Determined. Very unlike the snow-dampened autumn forest around her, with its subdued but not extinguished rot and decay lingering in the air. The wet leaves under her feet, almost black in the gloom, squished as she picked her trail away from the road—only to return to it.

She stared at the muddy tracks crossing the clearing, and there was the linden, too. The snow still lingered on the ground, and the western wind whistled as it licked the boles and leafless branches, chilling her further. Only the sun’s glare had disappeared, replaced by a gently glowing grey line like smoke on the horizon. Frowning, she turned around. She was tired, dead tired, but to go in circles? She had barely left the road. Sighing, she bowed her head and ventured back.

Birches, the smell of junipers, wet, damp ground, moss-covered rocks and roots and—

The road.

She blinked. The linden was now well to her right, its barely visible long branches reaching over the cart tracks. Grunting, she turned around. There, the birch with a wide, pale conk at waist height; she made her way to it first. Glancing over her shoulder—the road remained there, now just a lighter blotch of dark—she chose a new marker. Another birch with three dark stripes, resembling claw marks, near the ground. Once there, she picked a new one, a juniper with a bent crown, then another, and another—all in a straight line away from the road.

And in the dark, she came to a clearing and stumbled upon something.

Cart tracks.

Muddy cart tracks.

She grabbed a tuft of wet grass and moss, tearing them free and tossing them into the air. “No!” Her frustration fell short in the damp air, and the chilling west wind lashed at her back. “Please,” she whispered, bending her head. “Please, stop. I need help.”

“Help?” a soft voice answered her.

Skada sprang up, her hand reaching and unsheathing her father’s Good Knife.

But there was no one there. The road was empty, and the forest was a black wall of nothingness.

“Help?” the voice repeated, and there, in the midst of the pitch-black, something glowed faintly. A yellow light, like the sun’s reflection on a pond, glimmered at her.

Skada took a hesitant step forward. She knew, and everyone knew, of the many stories told across Filgentýr, of odd lights, nightly whispers, meetings of the uncanny sort. One should tread carefully, but then again, she was cold, she was miserable—and she was obstinate. The forest had denied her entrance; it would not do.

“Please, can you help me?” she said to the night as she cautiously approached the glow, peering into the darkness opening on both sides of her. Yet, her eyes were drawn to the light, and she knelt beside a tiny bolete, a penny bun, that emanated a soft, yellow glow. She touched the mushroom, and the light died. “Wait. Wait! I didn’t mean it!” she cried out and jumped to her feet.

In the distance, another yellow flame leapt.

“Who… are you?” she asked from the night as she crept closer to the new light.

“Help,” came a timid reply.

It was another bolete, and it, too, stopped glimmering once she reached it, but already a new light flared in the distance, and she picked her way towards it. It was difficult to tell where she was being led, but after six or seven glowing boletes, she came to a dark hut with a leaning roof. This time, the bolete next to the hut continued to glow.

“Help,” the voice said.

And the door to the hut swung open with a metallic screech.

Gundor

The first snow, hönkä, kept Gundor company as he began his journey. Part of him paid it no heed; part of him kept a weary eye on the whiteness gaining ground around him. Sometimes, even in these lower-laying regions, the drifts might soon tower over the smaller children—or they could just melt away. It was no wonder the word for winter, vihür, closely resembled that of treachery, viür.

Luckily, he met a farmer returning from Hjolkran. Riding in his cart to his farm, the man offered him lodging in his stable for the following night. It was customary to offer a place to stay to reputable travellers at no cost, but with tyrites, people were hesitant to invite them to stay. Respected and all, the thought of inviting someone touched by the Skûd to one’s house made most people squeamish—none wished to invoke the curiosity of the otherness upon themselves. Leaving a pouch of herbs and a copper coin in his resting place and saying his thanks to the empty yard and to the two stray geese eyeing him curiously, Gundor left the farmer and his family in the dark morning hours. He still had two days of travel ahead with nothing but his brooding mind to keep him company.

And brood he did.

Saga’s dream tormented him, but no matter how he wrung the verses, he seemed to get nowhere with the riddle. Who was the fool? And what did the “carvéd stone” imply—a cave? A statue? But there were no statues of fools, at least none he could think of, nor caves for them unless the lines referred to the tribes dwelling in the Upper Mounds. That didn’t make any sense. And who couldn’t hide—the fool? The gnawing of a bone had to do either with the upcoming winter when food supplies ran tight, or with someone having a bone to pick, but again, with the fool or with someone else?

Am I the fool?

Gundor shook his head, resting against the trunk of a birch, as he gnawed on salted reindeer meat. The riddle, like the meat, was sinewy and unyielding. The forsaken children could well mean Onok and the Grey Hermits, and was the Honnúng’s child the present? Vihür falle, the winter’s gift? But if she was, why the echo: present, present?

The following line, “So wanes a shadow under a moon crescent,” appeared contradictory. A crescent moon should cast weaker shadows, not stronger. Maybe it was a nod to the passing of time? And what about this nonsense about the “Awake, vagabond of land?” It was an invocation, but to whom?

This was hopeless.

At least the snowing had ceased, leaving the region partly covered. The slate-like greyness had drawn a white, piebald skin that sucked the last colours from the scenery surrounding him. Just as he was confining himself to the arduous trekking, Gundor encountered two other travellers, fur traders returning from Grejkran, and once again, he found himself bouncing at the back of an empty cart. This time, however, he was glad to abandon the verses for a moment to hear what was happening in the village farther northeast.

It had been the summer of scales: many a trading party had reached Grejkran; a long-standing dispute between the villagers and Sávik, the travelling herders, saw a resolution, and the rivers and lakes had been bountiful.

“Aye, the Sávik matter was a boon. They won’t be feeding on them crops no longer, especially with the poor years we’ve had,” said the older trader. “But a petty issue it was, all in all, I reckon. Was solved with five a penny and a mark for recompensation by the Sávik.”

“Really?” Gundor raised his brow. “Imagine that. Two summers ago, the Grejkran farmers patrolled their fields with orders to wound any reindeer wandering over their borders.”

“Times change,” the younger trader commented, guiding the two oxen up a narrow path. “From now on, they may use the eastern slopes; everything from the Old Solitary to east and north is free rein for their solks.”

Yet, there were also tidings that Gundor was less keen to learn. The Grey Hermits had been sighted around several villages. Something had driven them from their eastern lodgings, and there was also talk of wolves and other beasts prowling near settlements.

“And then, there was that boy—” the younger trader began.

“Be quiet!” the older one snapped. “He wants to hear none of it.”

“But he’s a tyrite; he should know!”

“Well, I’m not saying a word about it!”

Gundor peered at them curiously. “What boy?”

Startled, the younger trader looked first at Gundor and then at the other man. Then, with a lowered voice, he began, “This is all some hearsay, and I want to make it clear that we”—he gestured himself and his companion wildly—“have had no part in it. Reckon it could all be just bored womenfolk spinning tales, but it’s just, well… We knew them boys. Two brothers, good little rascals, much like—well, much like what we were as kids.” He nodded at the sulking older man. “They caused all kinds of trouble.”

“Rascals, aye,” the one not supposed to talk chimed in.

“They were always up to something,” the younger continued.

“Mischief,” the older added.

Now, they were both talking, seamlessly picking up the story where the other had paused, commenting, adding, and disagreeing.

“So we were staying at the Vakjér’s Inn, and people talk ‘bout this grave mystery. It’s all hush-hush, but it’s on everyone’s mind. See, these two rascals, Bern and Aner, good lads from Grejkran, they went missing.”

“One afternoon, nobody seems to recall where they are. Not that there’s anything alarming in itself, we were told—they come and go as they please. But the night draws near, the dark, and still no news of them. Now, that’s peculiar.”

“Very peculiar.” The older trader wagged his finger. “They be rascals, but them boys, they’re wicked smart. Know how—and when—to move in the woods. And now that the night’s closing in…”

“People, their parents, that is, got worried, and they went all around Grejkran.”

“All around.”

“But just as they’re speaking to the merchants on the market—the boys loved the market—a shout is raised at the gate. The younger brother, he’s back.”

“He was shivering like a leaf. All wet, all freezing, crying helplessly: ‘They took him! They took him!’ Now, the people at Vakjér’s Inn, well, they claimed that…” The younger trader frowned. “Was it Aner whose idea it had been?”

“No! Bern, the older brother, had convinced Aner to go fishing with him, but not just on any lake—on Hîlev.”

“The Grey Crossing,” Gundor whispered, and the two nodded. Lake Hîlev was a shunned place, and for a good reason. The Grey Crossing, with its remnants of the bridges, was said to be haunted, and it had a history of unsavoury things occurring there. It was one of those pockets where the Skûd roamed free, despite the attempts by the tyrites to rein it in. And then there were the Mothers…

“Aye, like I said, rascals,” the older one sniffed.

The younger one nodded. “So the folks pick the bits and pieces, and they agree that the boys, indeed, had gone fishing on Hîlev; Aner had caught a fish but fallen into the lake…”

Gundor grunted at this.

“…and when he got up and swam to the shore, his brother pulls him under a fir, and orders him to be quiet. Says something is moving in the woods.”

“Something big, something bending trees as they go”—the older trader leaned closer to Gundor, glancing at him—“snapping them like they be twigs, he claims.”

Gundor looked at the older trader, then at the younger’s back, but he was all occupied with guiding their oxen. “And what were these things, trolls?”

“Nobody knows.” The older trader shrugged. “They sent a search party to look for the boy. He kept repeating that the Mothers had collapsed—”

“Impossible,” Gundor said, his eyes narrowing.

“Aye, so the boy said, but he was wrong. They stood there, all right. Well, a few stones had fallen,” the younger trader said. “They said that some rubble had collapsed into the lake.”

“Kids and their imagination. Reckon it was a landslide or something. Perhaps the younger kid hit his head—I don’t know. But that’s not what I was ‘bout to tell you, no. The older brother, Bern, they found him.” The older trader swallowed. “Part of him.”

“Part of him?” Gundor’s jaw clenched.

“His skin. Nothing more. A husk, sprawled over the forest floor, like one left behind by a snake.”

“And the tracks,” the younger one reminded. “Tell him about the tracks.”

Gundor’s head was spinning. Skin. Nothing but skin? “What about the tracks?”

The two traders shared a worried look.

“They said,” the younger one said softly, “that at least two large creatures—larger than trolls, judging by the tracks—had crossed over the Mothers, chased the boy down, and…”

“No one had seen tracks like them before,” the older one concluded.

The oxen drawing their cart moaned sorrowfully.

*

They continued under grim silence, lighting two lanterns that tried to brave the gloom. After a few hours, Gundor bid them farewell.

“Will you go see the boy, that Aner, I mean?” the younger trader asked when Gundor lowered himself off the cart.

Gundor glanced above them. The overcast sky was donning a new night. He knew he should; a tyrite should be there to console the parents, to ensure that the boy wouldn’t bear the mark of the Skûd—a mark that the black waters of Hîlev undoubtedly left on him. And he should see the tracks, yet he was afraid. “Of course,” he said, waved his hand, and disappeared into the shadows that would lead him to his hut.

The squeaking of the cart’s wheels soon disappeared into the night, replaced by the sluggish dragging of Gundor’s feet on the unkempt trail that wound under the barren birches. Not bothering to light a fire, he took his time, arranging the story of this boy swimming in the waters of Hîlev with what the riddle had told him—and decided that they were probably not connected.

Sure, the boys had been fools, and there were the cliffs, the Mothers, but they were not carved. No. This was something else. An unfortunate event where something from the Skûd had accidentally stumbled upon the two rascals. Poor luck, that’s what it was. Pushing the story from his mind, he continued.

His home lay in a pocket of a dell between two small hills, and the road went around the place, forcing anyone seeking an audience to circle counterclockwise around the hideout. Now, deep in thought, Gundor made it halfway when he halted anew.

Now this was something he recognised.

Smoke. He could smell smoke.

Hastening his step, he soon spied the dark outlines of his small hut with leaning walls. The peat-thatch-moss roof was free of snow, and from the one round window a welcoming, warm glow shone, making the thin crust of snow covering the yard glimmer pink. The light and the snaking line of smoke creeping upward from his chimney with gusts of sparks perplexed Gundor. Had he not specifically said that he wasn’t expecting visitors and that everything should be kept in order?

Warily, he approached the door. Someone was moving inside, clattering pots, moving things, undoubtedly making a mess of his carefully laid wares. The last thought made the air in his lungs heat up, so he placed his hand on the handle and pulled ferociously, bellowing, “Who dares enter my house?”

Somebody had slept in his bed; the pelts were laid all wrong. Somebody had spent his firewood; the spruce burned fiercely in the fireplace, crackling as if it were laughing at him. Somebody had eaten from his provisions and drunk his beer; salted pork, a score of this autumn’s apples, and a freshly opened keg were laid on the table.

That somebody crouched before the fire, holding a poker in hand. “I’m, I’m sorry. I was invited!”

Weekly appearing Nordic Fantasy serial by Valtteri Sievänen. Here’s the table of contents of the publication; for those new to the story, chapter 1 HERE!

Gundor

“State your business,” a man seated behind a long table called as Gundor strode in from the Hjolkran’s gate. “Hey! I said— oh, blimey, my apologies, Master Gundor. We haven’t seen you here in ages.”

“Last Benighting, yes,” Gundor replied, stepping before the gate warden’s booth.

There was one additional guard standing beside the warden, but the entrance, muddy from the previous night’s rain, was nearly deserted. It wasn’t a market day, and people had left for the fields opening all around the village hill, preparing them for winter.

The warden got up, sticking his thumbs under his wide belt, and strode to stand before Gundor. “How can I be of service?” The man was a little jittery, his eyes darting from Gundor’s eyes to the open gate and back.

“I’m here to meet the Honnúng,” Gundor said. “Where can I find him?”

“Ah, ’tis a shame you came today. He has visitors. People have been running to his seat so frequently we should’ve collected a coin from all wanting to do so. Important visitors, mind you. From the south.”

“From the south?” Gundor glanced towards the stables nearby, but all the animals were still inside. Traders, he assumed. The trading season was nearing an end; most southerners would leave before the winter. The Narrow Pass, a winding canyon fit for a small cart to push through, and the only reasonable route to the region, would soon be covered in snow and ice. The northern seas were barely navigable during the summer, and the eastern wetlands, well, nobody dared to use those roads. “I believe I’m expected. Could you lead me to him?”

“Ah, well—”

“I am expected.” Gundor nailed his eyes on the warden, who took a hesitant step back.

“Let me, um… boy! Come here!”

A boy with a smudged face and a chicken hugged against his chest raised his head from a nearby pen.

“See Master Gundor here to the Kran. Find the Honnúng, you hear me. All right, he’s a good lad, a cousin of mine. He’ll take you to him.” Backing hastily behind his table, the gate warden regained some of his authority. “Move along!”

Gundor followed the boy, who had thankfully left the chicken in the pen, through the village. The long houses with thatched roofs like hems sweeping the muddy ground stood in neat order on both sides of the road, but behind the first line, a jumble of sheds, barns, and poorer huts dotted the hillside. They crossed an empty marketplace where a handful of the townsfolk scurried on their errands, the clanging of the smith’s hammer echoing from the open-ended stall at the far end of the yard. The whiff of freshly baked bread reached Gundor’s nose briefly, before it was swept away by the western wind that had found him again.

Then, they took the stairs leading to the Kran, up to the great hall of the Honnúng. Like a giant, the building loomed over the village, perched atop the hill with a single, round window above its massive twin doors, forever gazing west. Built from gigantic felled pines, grey and polished, it gave the impression of being made of stone, and its turfed roof rose like the axe’s blade, reaching towards the skies. Fit to house hundreds, this was where the people from the village and nearby farms and homesteads would gather, and there, his old friend had his seat.

If only he could be sure it was he who had sent for Gundor…

He would find out soon enough.

On the side of the great hall, looking over the ramparts towards the north, stood a group of people. Two guards stayed a little farther away, and Hundottsman, the Honnúng’s captain of the guard, was just joining them when he spotted Gundor. He glanced briefly over his shoulder and strode to meet them.

“Thank you,” Gundor said to the boy, handing him a dented copper coin.

“This little? Should’ve led you to the pig stalls instead,” the boy said and dashed off.

Gundor stared after the boy. Little? Pig stalls? But before he could reprimand him, the Hundottsman reached him.

“Hail, Gundor, such a pleasure to see you,” the Hundottsman said in a low voice, offering his hand. “What brings you here?”

Gundor gripped him from his wrist, the Hundottsman squeezing from his, and nodded. “It’s been too long.” He peered past the Hundottsman. “I need to have a word with the Honnúng.”

The Honnúng, the ruler of Hjolkran, stood with his back turned towards them, deep in discussion with two foreign visitors. He wore a fine grey tunic—a gift from the south, undoubtedly—and his beard was uncustomarily braided. However, it was the bright yellow scarf thrown loosely over his shoulders that stole the attention.

“The man speaking to the Honnúng,” whispered the Hundottsman, “is one Josen de Baildon, the emissary of the High King René the Gracious. The other one is his aide. Give me a moment, and I’ll ask if—”

Gundor stepped past him. “You do no such thing. I am a tyrite of the land, and I will have my audience with him when I see fit.”

“…and we haven’t even told you of our stonecraft!” Josen de Baildon was saying as Gundor approached them. “These, how do you call them, walls of your great city, ah, what we could do with a few of our Master Masons from the lodges. They craft marvels. Turrets where the, ah, the crown, the top, rotate; palisades, yes, that was the word I was looking for, palisades like precipices of glass. So fine the travellers must shield their eyes when the sun is at the right angle.” He laid his hand over Honnúng’s shoulder. “We would prosper, my liege, to a degree even the ancients would envy us.”

The Honnúng nodded. “I must say, I’m intrigued. The trade has been vibrant; we keenly await your caravans next spring. Perhaps we could arrange a more formal meeting with the King? To discuss further—”

“I’m afraid our King is greatly preoccupied with matters far from your borders,” de Baildon said, bowing his head a little. “But let me assure you that he’s with us in thought. In fact, the Narrow Pass is one of the most profound issues on his mind. It is, quite literally, the bottleneck between our common future.” His crimson clothes rustled gently as he moved.

“Well, what can you do?” The Honnúng spread his arms, turning towards the gate. “It’s a mountain, cracked by the, how do you call them, gods if you believe the old stories.” He noticed Gundor—and looked as if he was staring at a ghost. “And winter is ferocious up here; if the first snow doesn’t bury the Pass, the second one surely will.” He turned his back on the tyrite, his left hand signalling something.

“I’m terribly sor—” the Hundottsman said, taking hold of the tyrite’s sleeve, but Gundor wrenched his hand free.

The emissary raised his hands as if an idea had dawned on him. “Ah, we have a saying in the Capitol that ‘what was given by the gods, a God may amend.’ Perhaps our Grace could help you defeat the winter.”

The Hundottsman caught Gundor anew. “Please—”

“My Honnúng!” Gundor said loudly. “I must speak with you.”

The emissary’s aide peered past the Honnúng and said, “I’m so sorry, my liege, but who is he?”

The Honnúng and his visitors stared as Gundor disentangled himself from the Honnúng’s captain of guard and marched towards them.

“My Hónnung, I must speak with you. It’s urgent.”

“Gundor…“ the Honnúng raised his voice, but the emissary laughed in delight.

“Marvellous, what a coincidence! If I may be so rude as to ask, but are you a wizard?” The emissary’s eyes were twinkling, and he took a step forward, offering his hand for Gundor.

“No!” said Gundor.

“Yes,” said the Honnúng. They exchanged looks. “Insofar as I understand the word, Gundor here is my spiritual advisor, whom we call a tyrite. He is our bond between the world of the living and the Skûd, the Other.”

“I see, I see,” the emissary said. “How intriguing. A pleasure to meet.”

Gundor stared at the man’s outstretched hand but didn’t touch it. “My Honnúng, you called me—”

“Gundor! I’m in the middle of something; I’m sure it’s important, but it can surely wait.” The Honnúng glowered at his insolent seer.

“My liege, please,” the emissary said, still eyeing Gundor, “The ancestors demand your time; you must heed them when they call. Besides, I have already stolen too much of your attention. You have a city to oversee. As I was saying, we depart before noon; my aide here is turning restless.” He leaned closer as if to share a secret. “He’s never seen the snow and wants to keep his score.” Then he laughed and clapped his hands. “As a parting gift, I wonder if it’s customary for the… tyrte, was it?”

“Tyrite,” Gundor said, annoyed.

“Tyrite,” the emissary tasted the word. “Would it be too much to ask to see, how do you say, magic?”

“Magic?” Gundor repeated the word slowly and narrowed his eyes.

“Yes, ah, you know, disappearing items, fire, a ghostly image of my long-lost loved ones.” The emissary stared keenly at Gundor.

Gundor returned the gaze. “I don’t do magic.”

*

The pallid light of the autumn noon brushed the stairs leading down from the Kran, the great hall at the heart of the village. A cold north-eastern wind that had faintly caressed the ramparts in the morning had turned into a gale, ushering a host of low-hanging clouds to cover the crisp-blue sky. First, they cast a milky shade over the sun, lingering just above the hills rising in the west, before their torn shapes covered everything behind a pewter-grey screen. And as the light failed, so too did the Honnúng’s mood.

“You just couldn’t keep your distance, but had to come and do your little entrance. I mean, what’s with the rags and all? If you wanted to present us as the forest people they think we are, well, congratulations, you’ve accomplished that.”

Gundor looked down at his clothes. He wore a customary long krít, a tunic, and thicker vél, breeches. His clothes were weather-stained and muddied, but hardly improper considering the journey from his hut to the village. Grunting, he raised his gaze. Down below, across the main market with a score of people on their errands and between the tall, sharp roofs, he spied the emissary and his aide on horseback as they exited through the main gate. The last rays of the sun lingered on them, but as they disappeared behind the slope, the light turned to gloom.

The Honnúng slapped Gundor on the arm. “Well?”

“You can’t be seriously offended that I stopped those charlatans?” Gundor said sullenly. “The man in crimson was honeying you as if you were a stew to be seasoned. Only a moron would think that Hjolkran is a great cit—”

“I know that, you idiot!” The Honnúng’s outburst drew curious glances from his two guards and the few people within earshot. “Of course they try to slither into my graces; the man’s a bloody emissary! But you must get to your thick skull that we need them. The Southerners buy our furs, timber, tar; they covet our silver, our gold—come Skûd—we grow richer with them.”

“We grow… or you grow?” Gundor snapped, but he regretted it instantly. “I—”

“Say that again, and I will chop your head off,” the Honnúng growled.

Gundor grunted, sulking under his eyebrows. “I apologise for my sharp tongue. You’re right. These matters with the south are your domain; I should stick to mine. Which is why I’ve come.”

The Honnúng steamed briefly, but then he turned towards the Kran. “Look at this.” He waved at the great hall. “Have you ever wondered if this is all there is? Wood laid atop wood, a long hearth in the middle, and a roof like a mound; do you know what a palace is? No, of course, you don’t. I didn’t. They have fabricated fountains within their halls; their castles compete with mountains in size; they have walls of glass, and the sun and the moonlight dance among the guests wearing bright colours.” He sighed. “We have a round pane of glass the size of my shield above the Kran’s door, and we call it a window.”

“We have castles, too,” Gundor said, but his voice died under the Honnúng’s glare.

“I want the people of my Kran to have that wealth, too… but enough about them. Tell me, what was so urgent that you wedged yourself between me and our bright future?”

“I…” Gundor looked at the Honnúng’s guards loitering nearby. “Could we speak somewhere more privately?”

*

They followed the main road through the bustling village and ascended the ramparts. The Honnúng continued to speak of the many tidings the southerners had brought him, largely to himself as Gundor failed to feign interest. However, once they had dispatched the watchman nodding against his spear, the Tyrite interrupted the overly enthusiastic Honnúng.

“I was, hm, summoned,” Gundor began, fiddling with the coarse fabric of his borrowed garments. “Never before have I received such a call, and I’m still in the dark on who wanted me to come here, but here I am.” He briefly told the Honnúng of the splintering log and the message it had brought him. “So, a child is in danger, but I’m still in the dark about whose child.”

The Honnúng’s child-like excitement melted like fresh snow, and all the colours drained from his face. “Impossible.”

“You know why I’ve come?” Gundor peered at the Honnúng. “Or perhaps you guess something?”

The Honnúng took hold of the wooden rampart. “Saga had a dream… but that can’t…”

Gundor knew the Honnúng had remarried. He had also heard the rumours about how the Honná, the Honnúng’s previous wife, and the children were driven from their home and into the snow. Outrageous lies. “The child… is Saga expecting?”

The Honnúng turned his eyes towards the Kran, and Gundor followed his gaze. There, standing by the twin doors, stood a shape—a woman, by the looks of her green cloak and the freely flowing, long blonde hair—holding something against her chest.

“How old is the child?” Gundor asked.

“Twenty-nine days ago, before the rooster called on the day of the Ettendast,” the Honnúng replied softly. “I… didn’t call for you when she was due. She’s a girl. We named her Valka.”

“Congratulations, old friend.” Gundor patted the Honnúng on his shoulder, but worry like a leaden crown fell over his brow. Ettendast. The year was full of celebrations, most of their roots lost to time, but some, like Ettendast, Benighting, and Midsummer, sucked deep from the streams of the Skûd. Carelessness in such times could cast a long shadow, especially over a child’s life. “And who delivered the baby?”

“Old Gandá.”

Gundor sighed. Old Gandá knew her trade; the child would be healthy. “That’s good.”

“The name fits,” the Honnúng said, his face lighting up a little. “She’s like fire herself, quick to laugh, well, giggle, and smile. And her cries could shatter mountains. But her birth…” his voice faded.

Gundor gave him a pause, but then said, “You mentioned something about Saga seeing a dream.”

The Honnúng nodded, but instead of saying anything, he began to sing, softly,

“Hail Fool of carvéd stone;

Cannot lie hidden and gnaw a bone;

Sing forsaken children: present, present!

So wanes a shadow under a moon crescent;

The trail is lost in cold, hard ground;

A payment we take or none are found;

Awake, vagabond of land.”

The Honnúng sighed. “She saw a dream on the night before Valka was born. In the dream, she was standing by a lake, holding a rope. There was fog drifting over the dark, still surface, so she couldn’t rightly see where the rope led, but she tried it gently. It was attached to something, so she pulled from it, drawing a wooden contraption from the mist—a cradle. It was a cradle.”

Gundor’s eyes narrowed.

“She told me it was shaped like a ship, and the cradle slid effortlessly to her. Inside it, there was a child, a baby girl, a few months old at best, with a ghost-white face and placid stare, dead and unmoving, but just as she was about to lift her, the child sang the song I just sang to you.”

Gundor began to pace around, the shattering log and its stammering voice ringing in his ears: the child needs you, and the child will be harmed—but who would harm a newborn? And why?

“The child vanished; the cradle remained, but it rotted and disintegrated before her eyes. Then, she said she heard two sounds, like metal falling over stone. Behind her, on the ground, lay two objects that she picked up only to drop immediately. They were hot, as if straight from the smith’s furnace. A belt buckle, with the head of an ox adorning it, and a knife, with the symbol of Three Mounds etched into the handle.” The Honnúng turned to stare at Gundor. “You don’t have to be a tyrite to read the warning to my Kran.”

“Well,” Gundor began, placing his words carefully, “Dreams are fickle things. Perhaps there’s something I don’t see—”

“But I do,” the Honnúng said. “The cradle. I recognised it. It’s the one I made myself. There’s also one thing I didn’t mention. Saga saw a wreath of white berries placed at the prow.” The Honnúng shifted uncomfortably. “I was out hunting when a stranger, a trader from the south, or so we were told, brought a gift to us, to one of our maids to give to us: a wreath to decorate the cradle. By then, Saga and I both had forgotten all about the dream.”

Gundor stopped and leaned, too, against the rampart, scratching his beard. “White berries? Currants?”

The Honnúng shook his head. “We thought it a beautiful gesture, but I have to admit that unease was growing inside me. Then, these Southern visitors saw them and, especially the emissary’s aide, urged us to remove them. Baneberries, they called them. Poisonous, deadly. They grow in shadowy places beyond the Narrow Pass, deeper in the south.”

Gundor frowned. “So… the gift-giver was a southerner, but then this emissary fellow warned against them?”

“One last thing,” the Honnúng said. “We had a visitor of our own. Onok and his Grey Hermits were here just after the Ettendast. The following morning, that was.” He spat over his shoulder.

Gundor looked at him, surprised. “Onok? Well, he’s a nuisance.“

“Nuisance? He and his mumbling rags-with-bones; they’re a disease. But he is a crafty one. Somehow, he knew I would have a child.”

“My Honnúng, I assume you haven’t kept it a secret?”

“No. Why would I? But it’s a long way to the marshes. He stood there,” the Honnúng said, pointing at the road before the gate, “with his retinue, calling loudly that ‘Perjurer’s child is vihür falle—winter’s gift.”

Gundor swallowed. He could see it now, the why if not the who: oathbreakers of old would suffer the winter’s gift. The Honnúng abandoned his wife but didn’t return the bídr, the bridal price—or so the rumours claimed. Yes, some might say he owed the land vihür falle, but those traditions had largely been forsaken; the previous Honná had other means of seeking justice. Yet, there was something in the story, something that didn’t sit quite right. It was there, lurking behind the Honnúng’s tale, mocking him…

“Gundor, somebody wants the baby’s death to look like the Southerners made it. Onok might be a fool, but he’s a dangerous fool. I instructed my guards to be on the lookout for anyone not from here, but now, this dream… How am I supposed to interpret it?”

Gundor pursed his lips, but he felt compelled to speak his mind. “It might be completely unrelated to Onok and his hermits.”

“You say that dreams are fickle. I say it is a warning for me, and I will prepare for it, even if it fills me with great fear.”

“But what about the riddle?” Gundor said, noticing how the pewter-grey clouds rolling over the village were washed with darker shades from the east.

“Perhaps that’s why you barged here and interfered with my business?” the Honnúng said.

Gundor, feeling ashamed for not having thought of it himself, said, “I can’t connect the lines to the child nor to you, not yet, at least. There are too many questions here, but I share your unease and will do what I can to help you. Jagír”—Gundor used the Honnúng’s real name—“Onok will not lay a hand on your child.”

The Honnúng nodded, but the lines under his eyes were drawn deep.

*

With downcast eyes, Gundor strode for the gate. He would have a wait before him. Too long, for he longed for a resolution; too short, because he was unprepared, and didn’t know where to start. He had seen the Honnúng’s child, a healthy girl, wrapped in the arms of her mother, Saga. She and the old wet nurse had described the delivery, and all was as it should have been—except it wasn’t.

Gundor was troubled, and a sense of being lost clung to him. There were too many moving parts; his mind itched like skin on midge bites. This message he had received, Saga’s dream, the Grey Hermits and their sudden interest in matters outside their marshes—and now the Southerners.

Despite the late afternoon, the morning’s mist still clung to the fields surrounding the village hill. With a glance behind, he saw the Honnúng still standing on the stairs of his Kran, looking at him. Gundor waved and walked under the gate, the unresolved riddle coiling in his mind like an adder ready to bite. The Honnúng’s men would watch over Valka, and he would take care of Benighting. It would be enough; no harm would come to her.

Above him, the first snow fell from the hunkering grey clouds, quietly covering the region in its featherlike whiteness.

Aner

Aner lay beside Bern under a thick spruce. The evening was drawing near, and the lake beside them donned the shadows eagerly. A black void, a fissure of nothingness in the middle of the forest, it looked malevolent. Yet, the grim water was the least of their worries.

“Where are they?” Aner whispered in shock. He stared at where the cliffs had stood—at the empty, shell-like casing gaping on the hillside, pale stone rubble and debris scattered in the place where he had stood over the hem. Gone. They were all gone. “And you saw them?”

“They came just after you fell into the water,” Bern said, barely containing his voice. “They just, they just crawled through the stone. No, I don’t know. It was so weird. Like, at first they were not there, then I suddenly saw their features on the rock as if they were statues, eyes, teeth, and all, and then the stone crumbled around them, and they leapt forward and, and…” He started crying, pressing both hands over his mouth, gasping between the sobs. “They sounded so cruel.”

“But what are they?” Aner huddled as close to his brother as he could. He was warm. He was safe. But even he knew that they would have to do something—the cold darkness already spread around them.

“I don’t know.” Bern sniffed. “Can’t remember any of the stories Old Moukash or anyone else told us. I’m sorry I brought you here. We shouldn’t have come.” He grabbed Aner’s hand and squeezed it tight. “We need to go.”

Something heavy crunched underbrush somewhere on the slope above them. The trees creaked as if in the throes of a great wind, and the lumbering steps got closer. With them, a pungent stench rolled over their hideout. The clammy mist and the damp ground seeped through the clothes, and Aner tried to squeeze himself even closer to his brother—Bern shuddered like a bent string on a bow.

“What is it?” Aner whispered, but to his horror, Bern didn’t answer.

He bolted.

Out from their hideout, away from the cliffs that were not there, a shriek bubbling on his lips.

Aner was left there. Alone. “Bern!” he gasped, got up, but a screeching cry from the other side of the lake stopped him in his tracks.

The crowns of the tall firs across the lake swung violently. Something big raced through the woods, heading for the Grey Crossing. Behind Aner, heavy footsteps like an earthslide rumbled past him, felling trees in their wake. A pine collapsed between his hideout and the vanished back of his brother.

He lay still for a moment, the shock and horror grappling inside him, when a thought broke through the cacophony: home. He had to reach home. “I’ll come for you, I’ll come for you,” he blabbered, crawling out from under the fir, and sprinting away from the shoreline. “I’ll come for you, I’ll come for you.”

Home. He had to reach home.

Weekly appearing Nordic Fantasy serial by Valtteri Sievänen. Here’s the table of contents of the publication; for those new to the story, chapter 1 HERE!

Skada

She ran heedlessly up the slope. A branch had torn the basket from her, a root tripped her, but she barely noticed. The fear of those shadowy shapes whipped her onwards through the junipers, firs, and pines. The rich resin and the earthy scent of the forest couldn’t dispel the fog rising all around her and the peculiar odour it brought with it. Crisp and metallic, its sweet, almost peaty whiff reminded her of the first winter nights when frost claimed the region. Yet, this was something else, something more. There were traces of decaying grass and decomposing forest laced with revolting dampness.

Death. It smelled like death.

She crossed a dry riverbed cutting across the ridgeside. The wind blasted her, playing her like a lute, and it brought her voices from downhill: sharp, barked yells like orders, though Skada didn’t understand the language, and softer, prolonged snarls. Yet, the high-pitched cackle was the worst; it echoed hollowly among the trees as many feet trampled over twigs or brushed carelessly against branches. Whoever the shapes were, they weren’t concerned with making a racket.

She reached the top of the ridge, the Old Solitary greeting her in the distance. It was painted softly grey by the crescent moon peeking behind the ragged, low-hanging clouds, standing proud—firm—over the coiling mist. Skada walked briskly towards it, searching for an opening to descend to his father’s fields below, but the western slope was a thorny thicket. She reached the boulder, collapsing against its cool surface while straining to hear whether she was followed. It was useless. Her raging heart and ragged breath drowned out everything.

The rush of the run wore off, and she became acutely aware of her burning calves, of the stinging cuts and slashes across her cheeks and palms. She had no idea what those shapes were, but she cursed herself—she had stayed too long. The forests of Filgentýr were a dangerous place after dark, and one should respect that. That’s what the older people always said.

Something snapped in the dark near her, and in the distance, someone laughed, but the sound wasn’t coming from behind her—it was coming from ahead. She squinted, trying to make out any shapes in the dark, and soon, she spied two—or more?—fires, cutting her off from the fields, her father’s fields, below. She was surrounded, and like a frightened hare, she pressed herself against the boulder. Would they pass her by if she stayed still?

Behind her, on the slope below the Old Solitary, footsteps crushed sticks and undergrowth. Once again, the sickening laughter echoed in the dark. It sounded more like snickering, with other voices joining in—rough snarls and hooting that made her skin crawl with disgust. Soon, they would reach the boulder, and then—

She spun around and crept alongside the Old Solitary to its northern end. There grew a lonely ash, an old tree, almost dead but still standing, reaching above the huge stone. She leaned cautiously past the rock and, seeing no fires yet, pressed her left hand and foot against the pale trunk and her right hand and foot against the Old Solitary. As if she were a child again, she began climbing. It was an easier feat than she remembered, and it took her no time to reach the top of the boulder, push herself over the rock, and slide into a small crevice there.

“Hide, hide from the Hag; hide from the Hag that sings,” rang a children’s rhyme in her head as she flattened herself against the moss-covered indentation. This used to be her favourite hiding place when they had played the Singing Hag as children. The warm memories were coldly brushed aside as the lights reached the boulder. If anyone tried to follow her, her father’s Good Knife would meet them at the top.

She had never seen lights like these. They appeared orange and yellow in the distance, but the glow was so intense, so pervasive, that it seemed to bend and twist the forest around her. It was almost as if she were watching things happen underwater. The silvery birches nearby looked sickly and old, and the crescent moon dipped into a murky orange haze, forming a dome above the boulder.

The disturbing lights concentrated around her, casting flickering shadows against the wall of fog that now rose above the boulder. Skada’s eyes watered from the peculiar stench the mist carried, and the clamminess sank into her bones. She pressed a hand over her mouth to prevent herself from gagging aloud. One by one, shadows appeared, cast over the glow hovering above her like long, wavering ghosts. The creatures, whatever they were, had surrounded the boulder.

Then, they started drumming.

The owners of these distorted shadows began singing and dancing, circling the Old Solitary, hooting, growling, clapping, and stamping with such ferocity that she feared they might shatter the boulder beneath her. The fog swirled around them, and the stench intensified—she was suffocating. The voices grew louder, the movements faster, and the ethereal glare of the torches banished all but the moon’s thin silhouette from the sky.

Her head was spinning from the fright, the lights, the stench, and the arrhythmic clamour throbbing through the night. Suffocating, she was choking as this weird ritual pressed her flat against the damp moss and hard stone. Beads of sweat trickled down her brow, and she was twitching involuntarily, her hands reaching for her thighs as a warm sensation spread from between her legs upwards, sliding over her abdomen, licking her sides, brushing her breasts before it seeped into her throat. She forced her jaws shut to silence the scream building inside her. She whimpered, turned, arched her back, rolled onto her side; whatever it took to stay silent, but she was losing it—she would have to surrender. Release. She needed a release.

The dancing ceased, the clapping stopped, the sounds fell silent. For a moment, the forest stood still. Then, the lights withdrew from the Old Solitary, retreating westwards towards the fields. The footfalls of many a creature left the ridge.

Skada gasped for air, and the crisp autumn night ran like ice inside her. Cautiously, she crawled to the edge of the furrow. Brushing her tangled locks from her face, she raised her head to steal a glimpse of her surroundings. There was nobody there. The torches were already moving farther away, like a fiery pearl necklace, across the fields below. They appeared to sway this way and that, as they snaked away, but then they halted. Slowly, they formed a line, and with a single blast from a horn, the line began to advance up the hill.

Skada thought they looked like people on a fox hunt, but then she realised where they were climbing. She dropped down from the boulder and ran to where the descent began. Her parents—they were heading to her home.

She didn’t want those fires to reach home.

Hastily, she flung off her back, grabbed a small cauldron, and started hitting it with the hilt of her father’s Good Knife. “Hey!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. “Hey! Here! I’m here!” She yelled, jumped, dented the cauldron, and scratched the handle. Her father would be angry with her, but it was working.

The fires wavered.

Then, they stopped.

She cried out to the torchbearers, cried out to her parents, cried out to the night to alert anyone nearby—the fires should not reach her home. “Come and get me, you stinking beasts! Wake up! Run! Hey!” Her voice felt hoarse, but she kept making whatever noise she could.

The line of torches shattered. Some yellow flames darted across the opening—towards her—like angry fireflies, while others resumed climbing. At times, the torches painted crouched, hooded silhouettes scuttling across her father’s fields. She kept making the clamour a moment longer—then she understood what she had seen.

“Oh no,” she said aloud and dashed into the woods, the dented cauldron falling from her grasp.

Not too many trees grew on the ridgeline, and Skada felt as if she was flying. Her steps were light, and she sped up and down the gently undulating ground, passing the stunted junipers, proud spruces, and pale birches. This was, after all, her forest, where she had grown and played, and as surefooted as a deer, her strides carried her away from the dreadful lights.

Yet, after a while—and sooner than she had hoped—she heard the pursuit. The quiet forest amplified the snarling and barking echoing eerily behind her. With a frightened look back, she spied a hooded silhouette painted by the crescent moon perched atop one of the rises. It was hard to estimate the creature’s height, but it had disproportionately long, thin arms and smaller legs—or perhaps it was crouched to study her tracks? She didn’t know.

Still running, she turned and blinked in the gloom when something reached for her face. With a gasp, she sprang sideways, trying to avoid an impact—it was a branch of a nearby birch—and her feet slipped, finding no purchase. Aided by her speed, she plunged headfirst into a shadowy maw, but there was no impact.

She flew.

Then she crashed into something, and everything went black.

*

Dazed and gasping for air, Skada crawled through the thicket of sapling willows. She didn’t know how long she had lain there, sprawled among the trunks. It was still dark, and the moon had not moved much. She couldn’t hear any sounds of pursuit, and with a throbbing headache, it was hard to see clearly in the gloom. Perhaps she had lost them with her little flight; perhaps they got bored with the chase. Slowly, she slunk from tree to tree, inhaling the refreshing night air and the scent of the woodlands.

After a while, she came to a clearing, probably a meadow, although it was hard to tell in the dark. She leaned heavily against an aspen marking the edge of the forest. The patch of land before her was bathed in deep blue, barely illuminated by the crescent moon, but she could make out a structure farther ahead. It was a bridge, and sure enough, the gentle gurgle of water lazily streaming somewhere in the darkness filled the air. This had to be one of the crossings of the river Latewash, then.

Her feet buckled, and she slid down, resting against the aspen. Tears welled in her eyes as desperation and fright overwhelmed her. For a fleeting moment, she wept alone, with only the cold eastern wind for company, rustling her curly locks. What could she do? Those creatures had chased her from her home. There were so many of them—she could do nothing alone. The last image of the torches creeping up the hill where her parents slept tore at her insides. The sickening terror of what would happen to them reigned unopposed, but it ignited something nascent inside her.

Wrath.

Blinking away tears, she clenched her fists and struck the ground as hard as she could. She could do nothing for them if she just sat here and cried. With a painful groan, she rolled up, taking support from the aspen. Then, she wavered awkwardly on her weak legs.

“Can I save them?” she whispered to the night. There was no one there to answer, but the warm bark of the tree felt reassuring under her palm, and she patted the aspen. “I’ll make for the Vakjér’s Inn. The Honnúng’s riders often stop there when running his errands; perhaps I’ll get lucky.” Sniffing, she dried her nose with the back of her hand. “Not that luck seems to favour me.”

The aspen was silent, and the forest hummed gently around her.

“To the south,” she whispered, and she emerged from the shadows of the woods onto the meadows.

A horn sounded somewhere to her left, where she knew the Northern Road ran, one of its branches leading to the crossings of Latewash before they took the travellers south. Skada turned, startled by the noise. The wind ceased as if it had been completely drained, and a thick, heavy mist rolled over the meadows. Like an avalanche, it burst forth from the shadows of the eastern woods, smashing against the ridge behind her and drowning everything in its velvety dampness. Yet, this was no ordinary fog.

Skada stared in amazement as it challenged the darkness of the night, turning everything into a smudgy, deep blue haze with a peculiar glow of its own. The trees beside her appeared sharper, yet even they looked alien. Their bark resembled cracked hides that were constantly breaking and shifting over their cores made of a whiter substance that crackled like fire, and the air was filled with their whispering—their warnings. Even the moss growing on the small boulder amazed her. Bloated, bushy, filled with pulsating dark green in which tiny yellow sparks moved this way and that, it looked like the rock was crowned by a green flame.

Then, there was the smell. It was similar to what she had experienced when hiding atop the Old Solitary. However, it lacked the disgusting pervasiveness of the decay prevalent earlier. This was fresh, crisp—metallic, too—and invigorating. It was akin to the coolness of the night, offering exhilarating freedom and daring. Straightening her back, casting away the fright and tiredness, she embraced this novel sensation. This was her moment.

At the same time, away to her left, where the Northern Road lay, the yellow torches emerged from the wooded slope of the ridge. The creatures were jumping, dancing, and singing with their crooked voices while carrying tall poles among them. Skada stared in horror at the ever-growing troupe. Their procession reminded her of how people celebrated Midsummer—or a return from a hunt. Suppressing a frightened squeal, she fell to her knees.

People, squirming and alive, were hoisted onto the poles carried by these hideous beings. They were tied to them like trophies, and to her horror, she recognised them. There were her neighbours’ boys, Gound and Fjellé, and the older brother, Mikkél, the last potential husband; the farmers from the long house behind the hill she called home; Attá, the lone hermit living in his small hut and fishing all year round, was tied like a hog taken to the market. Amidst them all, at the centre of the revelling party, she recognised the strong, brown curls of her mother and the defiant, stern stare of her father.

“No,” Skada whispered. “No, no, no!” she cried out, but either the dampness swallowed her screams, or the creatures made such a racket that they paid her no heed, and she was left staring as the group crossed the road and slowly disappeared into the eastern forest. First, the glow of the torches blurred before the woods swallowed them. Then, the singing ceased.

The thick fog rolled back over the meadows, and just as abruptly as it had appeared, it disappeared, leaving Skada kneeling alone on the wet grass.

“Father,” she whispered. “Mother.”

Something inside her shattered. She got up as if in a dream, and seeing nothing, she turned south. In silence, she started, not knowing where to go or what to do.

Aner

The water was cold. Bitter, death-cold. He had to get out, now. He released the fishing rod, spun around, hoping to see the glimmer above the surface, but the surface…

Which way was it?

The dark algae clung to him, making his fingers all slimy and numbing his skin. Yet, the worst part was that he was blind. There was no up, no down—and he was running out of air.

Which way?

He couldn’t have dived too deep, now could he? Aner didn’t know, but he stuck out his hands and legs and, like a star, found no air greeting his limbs. Panicking, he thrust his arms the way he thought was up and kicked his legs down—nothing. How deep was the lake? How far had he gone? His pulse hammered on his temples, and the cold began to sink into his bones, pouring lead over his clothes.

Around—I must turn around! The thought flashed across his mind, and he curled into a ball, raised his chin like Bern had taught him to pivot underwater, and kicked and thrust with his legs and arms.

His feet hit the ground, propelling him upwards. For a moment, nothing. Then, his hands broke the surface, along with his arms, hair, and head, and he shouted, “Bern, help!” He went under again, but now he knew which way to go. Kicking with all his strength and scooping the water furiously, he resurfaced. “Bern! Help! I can’t—”

The water filled his mouth, and he started coughing uncontrollably.

Nobody answered his cries. The lake was unlike any water he had swum in before. It barely carried him, and he had to fight to keep his head above the surface. His sight was almost gone, and everything was blurry, brighter smudges here, darker ones there. With a furious effort, he headed towards what he hoped was the shore. Soon, his toes touched the lakebed, and he collapsed forward, his freezing fingers desperately groping for anything to hold onto, finding a smooth, stony surface and relief.

Groaning and cursing, Aner dragged himself over the rock, rolled onto his back, and vomited the filthy waters of the lake. Coughing and gasping for breath, he wheezed, “Bern! Help! Bern!” He started to wipe his face clear of the algae, shivering as the disgusting thing seemed to spread rather than come clean. Slowly, he managed to regain his sight. “Ber—”

A hand pressed against his mouth, and Bern’s voice hissed in his ear. “Shh! Be quiet! They might hear us!”

She was denied her future. He’s cursed to live his.

With fell silver, they could reforge their fates.

But something ancient stirs under the fells…

And it knows they’re coming.

Here’s the table of contents of the publication.

Part I

Came summer’s death, came three beginnings;

And in fall’s heat three threads woven;

Echoed lakes and beds of grass;

Under shadows green whispers travelled.

Aner

Let’s keep it a secret.

That’s what Aner’s brother used to say, calling him for some new mischief.

The warm summer still lingered in this late autumn afternoon as the two boys crept amidst the dark green firs, their brown-green-grey clothing blending with the woods around them. They rounded a moss-covered boulder and picked a winding path downwards to a vale where the boys had to push themselves through rows and rows of junipers not much taller than themselves. A few pines among the dwarfish trees looked lost, but provided a general idea of the direction they were headed. Finally, the thicket ended as the ground levelled, and they entered the shade of green-gowned spruces.

“Are you sure we’re on the right track?” Aner, the younger of the two, whispered.

“Of course I am,” hissed Bern, untangling a fishing rod from the grasp of a nearby willow. “I can almost see the—ouch!” He glared at Aner, who had stumbled against his back.

“Why did you stop?” Aner hissed.

“I was giving you instructions.”

“I know we’re supposed to—”

“Shh!” Bern placed his hand firmly over his brother’s mouth. The wind rustled the needles, and somewhere, the rapid knocking of a woodpecker cleaved the thick, warm air. “I think I—”

Three furious strikes of wings slammed right above their heads, followed by three more, and two green shadows darted past the trees. The boys crouched, their hands shooting up to protect their heads, but nothing touched them.

Aner recovered faster, and he forced a laugh. “You idiot! Those were goldcrests. See, there’s one still right above us.” He pointed at a tiny green-grey bird with a blazing yellow streak on its head.

“I knew it,” said Bern.

“Liar. You thought the grim nightlies were here to get you!”

“I didn’t! It’s not dark, you moron. I was just surprised that they haven’t fled the north already.” Bern glared at his snickering brother. “Shut up; we’re almost at the lake.”

The boys moved westward. The crisp yet sweet scent of the junipers clung to them, but it soon meddled with the more sober smells of crushed needles and resin from the spruces. After trudging a good while in the shade, the forest ended abruptly, and the last trees were either leaning or had collapsed into the murky waters of a sheltered lake.

Hopping on one of the fallen trees and balancing on it over the water, Bern looked across the lake. Aner cautiously placed his right foot over the trunk but didn’t mount it. The calm surface looked grim under the overcast sky, and the dark, unkempt forest surrounding them cast a gloomy spell over the shore. Only his determination not to show his unease in front of his brother kept him from running back home.

“There, see? The Mothers.” Bern pointed at the three cliffs looming at the lake’s northern end.

Aner nodded. He was tense, and his hands twitched at the slightest sound from the forest. He didn’t want to be here. They should not be here. The lake was forbidden to all, but his brother had insisted…

“Let’s go,” Bern said, returning over the solid ground and turning away from the Mothers.

Aner stared at him at a loss. “Aren’t we going there? But I thought you said—”

“Remember Old Moukash’s stories? Always circle the lake and take the left-hand path.” Bern started following the shoreline.

“What path?” Aner muttered.

It was a big lake, but soon, they reached a narrow strait. A series of small islands, some hardly more than grinning rocks, spread across the water with the remnants of ancient bridges jutting from them. Most of the planks were rotten, full of rusty nails and rivets, and frayed ropes and limp chains hung from once erect poles.

This was the Grey Crossing, and Aner shivered as he stepped onto it. He remembered all too vividly the stories he had heard about the place, of the vicious things prowling the waters and islands. He was about to abandon the whole enterprise when he saw something disturbing the water. “Bern!” he hissed anxiously as the calm surface broke a stone’s throw to his right.

Bern, already standing on the first rock, halted. Sheets of mist drifted over the surface, shrouding the opposite bank. Directly across the water, the Mothers loomed above the fog, observing their transgression in solemn silence. An uncanny silence gripped the lake.

Between the boys and the Mothers, the rings marring the serene surface grew larger.

Blub.

The surface broke again, this time closer to them, and Aner imagined he saw something dark and beak-like tasting the air before withdrawing below. Bern returned hastily over the rotten walkway but stumbled in the middle. He fell onto the wood, but their fishing rod flew into the water.

Aner rushed to his side and thrust his hand after the rod. Cold water bit his skin, but as his hand sank deeper, a layer of something thick—a slimy carpet of algae?—enveloped it, sending a wave of repulsion through him before his fingers grasped the wooden shaft and pulled the fishing rod back up to the surface. “Are you all right? We need to go!” he squealed, not as bravely as he would have liked.

“Ah, my knee,” Bern wailed. His trousers had a fresh hole in them, revealing a small bleeding scratch. “That stings!”

“Cut it out,” Aner snapped, grabbing a hold of his brother’s coat. “Come on, we need to—”

Blub.

They froze. The sound had come right next to the haphazard bridge they were lying on, and these new rings were already mingling with the ripples caused by Aner saving their fishing rod. Holding their breath, they stared as something long moved just beneath the murky surface. It approached them, shifted direction, and brought itself to where they stood. What little light escaped the clouds and seeped into the black lake now found something glinting within. The boys stared as a dark green shape with yellow specks, like nuggets of gold, slid into their view. It had a strong black jaw, bulging eyes, and moved with killing determination.

“It’s a pike,” whispered Aner, his eyes widening. “A pike!” Then he laughed.

“I told you so,” Bern said, still clutching his knee. “I came here last week, and I got one!”

Aner watched the majestic fish vanish into the underwater gloom. He was no longer afraid; he was eager to begin. He had had his doubts. After all, Bern was known to say all sorts of things, but his story of catching a big pike from the forbidden lake had to be true then. He lifted the rod, released the hook from its bind, and was about to unroll the line when Bern stopped him.

“Wait, no, not here. We’re out in the open. We should head for the Mothers. The pikes prefer shallow water and reeds for hiding. We want a bigger catch than that.”

Aner stared after the fish. It had looked big enough for him, but he nodded and reattached the hook to the rod. The slimy, dark growth lingering beneath the lake’s surface still clung to his right hand, and he wiped it against his jacket. The stains looked like dried blood.

Soon, they were back balancing on the rotting planks and managed to get across with only wetting Aner’s left foot, as a slippery stone betrayed him on the last crossing. Then, they pushed through another patch of densely growing forest before reaching the cliffs.

The Mothers were pale grey and tall, and their lakeside walls were void of fissures or purchase for any growth save for what the slounkul, the ghost lichen it was called, covering things in small, white, dot-like patches, had managed. The clouds above seemed to hunker ever lower, and with the mist wandering in flickering sheets over the dark lake, it was almost as if nightfall herself had arrived early in this place. Even the air carried a sharp, cool brush of frost, dispelling the warmer, sweeter scent of the surrounding woods. It was quiet, eerily quiet, and even the boys’ panting sounded muffled and stiff.

“Okay,” Bern whispered, his face pale. “Now, all you have to do is get to the hem, and you can start fishing.”

“To the hem?” Aner looked at the Mother on the left, the cliff’s lower end forming a folded slope before it disappeared into the water. “I’m not swimming there!”

“The water is shallow here,” Bern said, nudging him forward. “You don’t want the line to get tangled in the trees, now do you?”

Squirming, Aner agreed. Removing his shoes, he lowered his left foot into the cold, dark lake and sank almost to his knee.

“See, it’s not deep.” Bern looked around nervously. “Hurry up.”

“You get into the water if you’re in a rush,” Aner snarled, his teeth chattering.

He was now standing in the lake. Carefully, he moved across the smooth lakebed, his shivering toes finding little to avoid. However, the floor sloped, and soon, he was waist-deep in the freezing darkness. With a few strides, he reached the cliffs. He placed his hand on the stone—and it shifted. Startled, he leapt backwards, almost falling into the water.

“What are you doing?” Bern called.

“I…” Aner frowned. He edged closer, staring at the pale stone. Cautiously, he poked the rough surface. It couldn’t have moved. He stared up. The Mothers, the tall cliffs, loomed above him, grim, cold—and unmoving. A shiver ran through him. He had imagined the movement. It was the cold making him believe that! Hastily, he clambered over the hem.

“See, it wasn’t that bad!” Bern cheered from the bank.

“Easy for you to say,” Aner muttered, trying to squeeze his trousers dry and hopping around to get warm. “How can the water be this cold already?”

“I don’t know, and don’t shout! Just get the pike, and we can go home.”

Using many of the curses Aner had overheard from their village smith when he had burned his fingers, Aner released the hook and unfurled the fishing line, and in a long arc, the bait and the cork flew into the lake.

Blop.

The cork bobbed almost immediately back up, and the brothers began their wait. Bern lay on his back, caressing his wounded knee; Aner held the rod while trying to stay warm. The overcast sky was unmoving, and when the ripples caused by the cork disappeared into the mist, the lake and the forest looked frozen in time. This placidness, this dragging wait after all the excitement, ushered in a mocking dullness, reminding Aner constantly that he was miserable and cold.

There was also very little he could do about it. Jumping up and down might scare the pike, and he had to hold the rod as there was nothing he could use to prop it up, no cracks or loose stones. Biting his lip to keep his teeth from chattering, he squatted, got up, squatted, got—

Something nipped at the bait. The cork bowed curtly, and the rod quivered gently. Alerted, Aner stood still and firmly placed both hands on the rod.

A slightly firmer pull; the cork briefly submerged.

“Bern!” Aner hissed as loudly as he dared.

A fierce tug nearly tore the rod from his hands, but he held on tightly—and plunged headfirst into the lake.

Skada

They said the giants built the mound her home sat upon, and perhaps they were right. Grass, twigs, and moss had spread over the boulders, hiding the grey rock underneath a brown-green cape, but here and there, these large rocks grinned like broken teeth from the slope. Tall enough to hide behind. Tall enough to hide her.

“Skada!” her father shouted like a giant, his voice booming over the hill. “Where are you?”

“I told her to go pick us mushrooms and lingonberries,” her mother called, her voice distant. She had been inside the house when Skada had slipped past the doorway, sneaking her birchbark bag outside.

“You did? When did she leave?” She could hear her father’s footsteps retreating from her hiding spot. He had been so close. Now he was talking with her mother, but she didn’t quite catch what he was saying. “But she took my knife!”

That she heard.

His father loved his knife.

And she had marvelled at it, too.

The knife had a bone handle and a smoked grey finish. It shone silver in the late afternoon light as she turned it in her hands. Its seal-skin sheath bore the symbol of their district: three triangles, the Three Mounds, but it was the wide blade that kept her eyes the longest. Black and left a little rugged, it was sturdier than her father’s other knives, menacing.

“Skada!” His father knew how to use his voice.

She tucked her prize under the wide leather belt strapped around her waist. Then, she snuck away, down this hill full of nooks and crannies where she could hide from sight, down to his father’s fields that awaited below. The harvest was over, and the winter preparations were underway, so she slipped among the firs and pines governing the clearing, avoiding the open ground.

She had agreed to fetch the mushrooms. She had asked if she could borrow a knife. Her father had said yes—and maybe something about not to take the Good Knife.

Fathers say all sorts of things.

Like next year, season permitting, they might have enough for a bídr, the bridal price, and she could earn the keys to a house with shears hung from her neck. A house, a hem, a husband. He had said that the first time, three years ago. They had experienced some lean years, but next year would be better, he promised.

Or she could stay and look after her parents as they grew older. Skada Falkké, they would call her, Skada Silverbirch, who, like the tree, stood alone.

She pushed the thought aside and entered a meadow where the afternoon sun still lingered. In its warm, orange light, the red clovers were like purple embers among the dry grass, the heathers like leaping flames, but she didn’t linger—she would find no mushrooms here. She needed wetter, more damp ground, and to find that, she should cross over the Old Solitary’s ridge.

The Old Solitary, a massive grey boulder with a hat of moss and a wave-like pattern crossing its surface, loomed above her as she climbed the slope. It was the only boulder on this side of the ridge, hence the name, where it lay mid-slope, clinging precariously above a dell on the other side. Reaching it, she patted the smooth surface, whispered a greeting as if to an old friend, and turned east, following the ridgeline before descending to a patch of marshes opening underneath her.

It was a poor afternoon, and as evening grew nearer, she found herself far from home with a basket only half-full, mostly bay bolettes, yellowfoots, and a few woolly milkcaps that would need extra preparation. She gazed at her catch gloomily—perhaps she should’ve spent a little less time on whittling kindling with her father’s Good Knife?—but it would do no good to linger. Sighing, she turned and began her journey back home.

It was an entirely different ordeal to cut through the Small Damp, as they called the marshes, in the fading light. Despite moving cautiously, she mistook a protruding pillow of moss for a rock, and her right foot shot through it into the cold sink below. It took her a moment to free her boot and pour out the water before she could continue. The closer she got to the Old Solitary’s ridge, the more loose stones lurked beneath the puffy green carpet covering everything, and she had to choose between risking another wet plunge or twisting her ankle, but she finally reached the slope.

Something hooted in the deepening darkness, and she stopped. It wasn’t an owl. This was a deeper, more guttural sound, and she had never heard anything like it. She gazed over her shoulder. Everything was still, as if the entire forest were looking away. A new scent, metallic and peaty, like frost, tingled her nose. The scrawny birches and gnarled firs growing in the swamp faded behind a mist that rolled in from the east. The world beneath the treetops, still basking in the last light of the day, turned first hazy blue and milky grey, but already murkier patches of deep shadows were spreading across the undergrowth. Disgusting clamminess enveloped her, sending shivers down her spine despite her thick deerskin tunic. It cut to the bone.

Something moved in the fog, a short shape—or was the mist merely swirling? There! Another one. And another. A cold cackle echoed in the descending twilight, followed by another hoot. Snarls, cries, sharp voices and the clink of metal. More moving shadows. They came directly towards her.

And she just knew it: they shouldn’t catch her.

Gundor

Gundor opened his eyes. Morning poured in through the solitary window, flooding the dark grey interior of his hut. Coughing, he tried to clear his throat of the smoke that had kept him warm through the night as he rolled onto his side and got up. His foot landed on something sharp, and he jerked it back. He should’ve cleared the bones and other pointed objects from the hay-covered floor to the shelves on the walls.

Maybe tomorrow.

He reached for a mug and poured himself a drink from a keg beside the small fireplace with no embers left. The ale wetted his eyes, clearing the last remnants of sleep from him. An involuntary shudder ran through him, and he searched for his thicker deer-hide tunic, finding it rolled under his bed. He had no memory of putting it there—had Uuti done that? He wasn’t sure. Pulling the warmer garment over his head, he caught his breath steaming in the light. The weather had turned cold almost overnight, heralding what was to come when the sun would leave for her travels. He would need more firewood.

The door opened with a sad squeal. Autumn, with its dark green of the firs, the blazing yellow and orange of the birches and aspens, greeted him as he crossed over to the well in his yard. He splashed cold water from a pail over his face, drying it with his sleeve. The air tingled in his nose, the metallic, sharp scent of frost demanding his attention. His nose wrinkled, and he smacked his lips. He wasn’t particularly keen on winter. The dark period brought all kinds of complications to his life; people would expect things of him.

Things he tried to avoid.

The axe fell, the wood shattered, the pieces fell from the trunk stump behind Gundor’s hut. He was no longer wearing his woollen tunic—his breeches were thrown over the cart, stationed close at hand—and covered in nothing but a loincloth and sweat, he worked through the morning. He preferred birches and ashes. They burned with a bright, yellow flame, providing a light-hearted warmth apt for the autumn chills. Firs, pines, junipers, and other dense, resin-rich species, as well as alder with its pinkish, tar-filled streaks near the core, he saved for winter. They burned with a fierce, red glow, gushing out thick, velvety smoke that would linger and comfort both his hut and him when the frost made the timbers sing.

Gundor picked up a stray alder log and placed it on the stump.

“This one’s for the scent,” he mused and cleaved into it. But as the log was ripped apart, his axe sprang from his hands, falling on his left foot, the blade, thankfully, missing the flesh. “Oh, cock,” he cursed, picking up the shaft. It wasn’t slippery—and his grip had been firm—nor were there dents or faults on the blade. So, it was the log; had he hit a branch or what?

Frowning, he picked up the halves. Nothing on the one on his right hand; nothing on the one his—

“Hail, Gundor,” said a voice so thick and muffled that, at first, Gundor didn’t understand it. He stared at the cleaved surface of the wood, the grain and streaks moving as if the log itself mouthed the words.

Yelping, he let the wood fall, his hand going for the axe now lying on the ground. He raised it above his head. “Who,” he stammered, “who are you?”

“Come,” the log said, the grain dancing on the pale surface, ushering forth protruding forms, cracking the wood, splitting it further into pieces. “Come to Hjolkran. The child needs you.”

Gundor swallowed. “Why? And which child?”

“You… the Honnúng… she’s in danger…” Now, the log splintering before him was stammering, too. “Hurry.” And the voice was gone, leaving a heap of twigs no thicker than Gundor’s fingers wriggling and coiling on the ground before they ceased and lay still.

Gundor, clutching at the shaft of his axe, still poised to strike with it, stared at the tormented wood, then searched wildly around the trees circling his hut. Was someone playing tricks on him? The forest was silent, and he returned his gaze to the shattered half of the log.

There it lay, cleaved yet complete—untouched.

*

“Listen,” Gundor said softly, leaning against a hollow stump of an oak that stood nearly as tall as he did. Its dark brown hide had donned a lush green coat of billowing moss, and, jutting from its soft husk, several oxen tongues with their shadowy, deep red caps and white underbellies seemed to reach towards him as if searching for a new decomposable host. In spring, a bluethroat had built a nest inside it, but it had been abandoned for a while now.

“I wonder if you could look after the hut for me? I’ll be gone for a few days, a week at most. See that everything is in order if you can, and keep the place tidy. I’m not fond of visitors, and I’m expecting none. Well, I must be off now. I wonder what this is about…” Gundor straightened his back, picked up his birchbark bag, and headed south, where the forest would soon end, leading him to a road that would take him westward to Hjolkran.