“Err told us of reports of a wyrm-head ship by sailors in Fishergate,” Gurid said in a low tone. “The word is that my husband’s brother Karl returns home….”
Ruinda nodded—she knew of his murder payment and the uneasy truce between the Alfenson and the Magnuson clans.
“And the wedding…” Yeru mentioned.
“Yes, the wedding is upon us.”
Agne raised his eyes, “We need your skill, Silverhair, we need to uncover the truth of this rumor and end this curse. I will pay whatever price you name. Any price you name.”
Gurid’s eyes brimmed with tears, “Any price…”
Chewing slowly, the quiet old crone brushed strays of gray hair back from her face and sipped weak ale from the leather mug set at her place. “Let me take soundings and measure the depth of your loch. Once we know how black and deep runs this water, whence it comes and whence it goes, then we shall know how to pierce the dam and drain away this sorrow. No more talk of price ‘til we understand the nature of this river we seek.”
“Do you want me to fetch the boy?” Agne asked earnestly.
“Ah,” Ruinda took another bite and thought a moment. “Nay, I don’t need to see the boy.” She turned to Yeru. “I will find him in my own way, if a vardoger he truly be. I need assistance and a private place.”
“You shall have our private room, there at the end of the hall. None shall enter at my command.” Agne puffed and bang the table with his fist. “You are a welcome guest; this hall is yours. You need only ask, and it shall be given.”
“Leave us be until we call.” Ruinda took a bite of the sticky porridge and pushed up from the bench, reaching for Yeru to steady her. “Hear me, Agne Alfenson, do not interrupt us until we call for you. You will break the spell.” The two slowly walked to the end of the hall where the door to Agne’s private room stood ajar. With a tallow held high, Yeru ushered the seer into the room and closed the door behind them. Divided into two sleeping alcoves, with chests against the far wall and a round table with three wicker seat chairs in the middle of the space, the comfortable space provided privacy. Yeru moved a parchment map from the table top and set her candle in a few drips of wax to hold it straight and light the room.
Her legs loudly creaking as she eased into a chair, Ruinda grimaced as she sat. “Ah, age is not so kind to me.” Curtains hung in each alcove to hold in body heat at night. On the back wall hung Agne’s shields, spears and sword, Wolftongue, glittering in the dim light. Most of the room shadowed by their shapes in the guttering candlelight, its circle only illuminated the table and the women’s pale faces hovering over it.
“We two shall call upon the Vanir.” Ruinda said, “I shall chant the call, but as I am old and frailer than I admit, you must steady me while I voyage where the Vanaheim direct.” She shrugged off her shoulder bag and untied it, rummaging inside for items which she set out on the table, a silver platter a hands breadth across, a sharp knife with a horn hilt, a small glass jar with a wooden plug and a tiny glass vial, a set of rune sticks and linen towels. She took a leather flask with a rune painted red on its side. “I must protect both of us from harm while we call upon the gods.” Pulling the plug from the leather flask, she spilled a few drops on the table top.
“Take this blade and hold it over the flame,” Yeru noted the runes scratched in the horn of the handle. “Yes, that’s it, get it nice and hot.” She took the small vial and pulled its stopper, dripping a single drop of viscous fluid into the puddle on the table top, the drop separating into a yellow film on an oily base. Ruinda nodded in satisfaction. She set the small plate directly before her and unplugged the small jar. Muttering to herself, she tapped out powder in the middle of the plate. Carefully fingering the flat rune sticks, she selected four from her set and arranged them on the compass points around her plate. She unfurled one towel, laying it carefully between herself and the plate. The knife edge smoldered in the candle flame, a smudge of black forming along its edge. Holding her breath, she held out her hand and gestured for Yeru to hand her the knife.
“When I have finished the call, you must stand behind me and hold me steady until I bid you stop. Beware, it may be a long vigil.”
Holding the blade over the platter, she began to chant. She lifted up the blade in her right hand and pricked her left index finger with its point. She held her hand over the splash of water and oil and let a drop of blood fall. Then she held the blade up to Yeru, who reached out with her left hand and pricked her finger in the same manner, dripping blood onto the table. Turning the blade, Ruinda deftly scooped up the bloody mixture which began to sizzle on the hot metal. Carefully, she moved the liquid to the powder on the plate and began to mix it, her chanting growing louder and more forceful. Kneading and turning the substance with her practiced blade, the powder turned to a grayish paste. Satisfied, Ruinda set aside the knife. Using her forefinger, she dipped it in the gummy substance and reaching over to Yeru, she put a mark on her forehead and under each eye. Then, with the same finger she drew a rune symbol on her own forehead, circled each eye and her mouth, and marked a gray dab on each earlobe. She continued making marks on her face, smearing the sticky paste over her cheeks and chin, forehead and temples. Soon a mask of symbols covered her face. Picking up a spare linen, she wiped her hands clean.
Reaching back into her bag, she drew out a different blade, this one longer and in a leather scabbard. The chanting now a sing-song drone, she pulled off the scabbard to reveal a silver blade with no hilt, sharpened on both sides. Ruinda laid the silver shard on the plate and continued her chant. Yeru watched in the flickering candle light.
Ruinda took the blade and wrapped it carefully in the linen towel laid out in front of the platter. With her head carefully bowed, she passed the swaddled blade around her back from hand to hand, six times. She placed the wrapped knife on the silver platter and finished her chant, the room suddenly still.
Yeru stepped closer and squinted at her in the dim light—Ruinda’s eyes were focused on a point in the far-off distance, seeing beyond the walls of the small room. She grew rigid, seemly in a trance. Stepping close, Yeru placed her arms around the thin elderly woman and pressed her against the table top. As Ruinda warned her, this may be a long night….
Chapter 8
In Between
Sleep came fast to Finn, his white hair tied back with a leather string, his lips parted slightly, his breath shallow and regular. His hug awoke to find the pit house empty, Cub still drinking and gaming in the long house, and his brother Sorven bunking in the men’s dormitory. Because he found his hug awakes dressed as he was when he laid down to rest, he began to wear a thick belt with a leather frog looped to it, and upon waking, he pulls his sax from his lich and slips it into the belt loop to carry at his side. Leaving his sleeping lich behind, he wanders into the courtyard. The stars twinkle in a dark night with no moon yet risen. Bats flit in the starlight and tree frogs begin to tentatively chirp and whistle. Summer creeps into the land, trees sprouting leaves and the fields tilled muddy for planting season.
Raga waits for him on the palisade wall, facing the South away from Jorvik. Finn jumped to his side.
“Good evening, Thorfinn,” Raga spoke quietly.
“Hello, Raga.”
His demeanor unusually quiet, Raga watched the tree line at the end of their fields. He says nothing, standing still and pensively scanning the woods. Finn stood patiently for a while, then began to fidget, squirming in his spot, poking his hand through the wooden wall and wiggling his fingers on the opposite side. Raga shushed him and pointed.
“There.”
A towering figure slowly rose over the treetops.
Finn gasped—man shaped with humped shoulders as big as their boat house, topped with a misshaped head and bristly hair that stood like the brush on a boar’s back, its eyes sunken holes to either side of a beak-like nose. A hulk, it moved with little grace, slumped forward and limping as if favoring an injured leg. Passing through the Realm Between
, it neither notices the forest that rises to waist height nor the buildings and roads of men. The creature does not mark them—it hobbled to the Northeast, headed to the sea, away from the River Ouse.
Raga leaned close to Finn, “Come, young student, we shall follow.”
“Oh,” Finn backed away from Raga. “I can’t, I …”
Raga frowned at his hesitation. “We will follow at a safe distance.”
“Wha…what is that?”
“From Jotunheim,” Raga whispered, “That, Thorfinn, is a true giant. Let’s see where it goes….”
Raga leapt over the wall to land lightly in the clearing below. Finn continued to stare the lumbering shape receding into the distance, his heart beating loudly in his ears. He realized he held his breath. Finn gripped his sword hilt and pushed against the stockade wall, his mind working furiously--ghostly shapes wandering a forest, walking a crowded city at night, these were surprises, even adventures, but this, this is a monster, a real giant from one of Yeru’s stories. If it catches us, it will crush us with a stamp of one foot!
“Psst,” Raga motioned to him from below. Finn carefully climbed over the wall and dropped to the field next to his guide.
“Quick now, little Thorfinn. We must hurry. It will outpace us, and we shan’t see where it goes,” and he began to run through the forest, Finn struggling to keep up, wondering why anyone would want to follow such a monster, why anyone would want to see where such a thing goes... Down on the forest floor, they lost sight of the giant, which seemed just fine to Finn. As they had practiced many times, they slipped rapidly through the wood, through thickets, past farmsteads and thatched huts, dodging long houses and leaping over streams. Finn fell behind, his sax catching on vines and thickets. Fairy fire lit their path. They traveled for what seemed to Finn a long time, Raga leaping ahead and Finn stumbling through the underbrush. Suddenly they stepped free of the trees and found themselves at the edge of the sea, on a low hillside facing the east. Still within sight, the giant followed the shoreline north, clearly dragging one foot behind him. The hunched shape paused where a cliff rose sharply from the shore. It backed into the surf, standing in water up to its knees. It clearly sought something, casting its eyes from side to side. Raga placed his hand on Finn’s arm, slowing their pace. They crept slowly closer, until Finn could see the creature’s ashen hide, pockmarked and scarred.
Raga held Finn’s head close and whispered in his ear, “He seeks a gate…” The giant bent forward, and they heard it speak, a low rumbling voice distinct in the night despite the roar of the sea.
“Gran-korack! Gran-korack!” A shimmering light flashed from the cliffside, as if a curtain had been pulled aside. “O-yan, o-yan, Gran-korack!”
Silently Raga gripped Finn’s arm and pulled him quickly across the hills toward the glowing light. The giant bent lower and, the sea erupting in the wake of his kicking feet, he crawled into the bright gate that had opened in the face of the overhang. As they watched, the huge shape squirmed through the hole and disappeared into daylight brightness on the other side. Finn glimpsed a landscape beyond the portal, craggy mountains and shaggy evergreens. The shimmering gate shrunk down, growing dimmer and indistinct until it flickered out in the shadow of the overhang.
“Hurry, now,” Raga rushed to the bottom of the cliff. There, in the deepening shadows, they found a flat rock an arms breadth in circumference, circled with carved runes that still faintly glowed with the same harsh light as the gate.
“Here,” Raga pointed, “You heard the words of power to open this gate. We both heard them. Commit them to memory, young Thorfinn, for now you and I can pass through the Land Between to Jotunheim.” He bent to study the carvings in the rock face and pointed at a symbol. “Not that I have any desire to travel to Jotunheim, not a friendly place as I recall from tales and stories. Look here, this is a rune of high magic. I have seen this rune before, it is a summon of powerful forces. Learn to recognize it, Thorfinn.” Raga placed his hand on the flat face of the stone, “This is not a Jotun gate, this was opened by another.” He began to look around the rocky shore line. Finn leaned close to inspect the fading symbols on the boulder.
“Ah, here,” Raga called to Finn. “See here,” he placed his hand on another rock that stood like a post, propped askew the rocky cliff face. With a flourish, he tapped it and a rune appeared, sparkling yellow and red.
“This is another rune you must learn—this is a ward, a warning symbol that means evil roots here.” Raga grimaced and waved at the flat round gate stone. “This is a warning set by a wizard. Whether it was he who first opened this gate to Jotunheim, or one who came later, they set a warning for those who are smart and careful enough to discern it. This gate is an evil place.” Finn backed away from the gate stone, whose runes had completely faded and disappeared in darkness. No moon had yet risen, the shore splashed with rough surf, chilly and midnight dark.
“What’s this?” Finn noticed a blue reflection, a thin glow by the side of the flat, rune pocked gate stone. He gingerly moved a few small rocks aside and uncovered a tiny salamander. Freckled with white spots on its back, it shimmered with an internal light and its eyes reflected a deep ruby. The creature didn’t wiggle away as he expected, instead it cocked its tiny head to the side and looked curiously up at him.
“Can you catch it?” Raga jumped forward, interested. Finn reached down and carefully picked up the salamander, cautiously cupping it in his hands. “That is not from Midgard, it must have slipped in from Jotunheim.”
“Do you know what it is?”
“I have not seen its like before,” Raga shook his head and peered closely at the little, smooth skinned creature. It wiggled in Finn’s hands, not frightened or pressing to escape his grasp. “What have I told you about objects here in the Realm?”
“If I can hold it here, I should save it.”
“Yes, collect what one finds, they always serve one well in the real world.”
“How can I keep him?” Finn held his hand up to his eye, peeking into his loosely cupped fists.
“I know a way. We will seek it on our trip back to your home.”
Raga skipped along the rugged coastline in a happy mood. “What luck, eh? A Jotun here, moving between realms, slow enough that we could follow and learn his secret ways. To find a rune of high magic and a ward against evil, that was a great lesson for you, boy, a great lesson. It’s not often we see a giant or a dwarf, or for that matter a dark elf.”
“Elves and dwarves? Are they real too?”
“Of course. Elves, dwarves, all the hidden folk, and much more. The old stories, while sometimes confused, hold a kernel of truth. If you spend as much time as I have here in the between, you will see many amazing things.”
“How long have you been here, I mean, in the between?” Raga paused before he replied.
“I last walked the earth almost three hundred years ago.”
“Three hundred?”
“Generations lost. As one so young, you won’t really understand but it seems only yesterday I was at the university, researching the arcane universes, chasing pretty girls and drinking with my friends. You see, time moves faster the older one grows.” Raga looked wistfully at the moon, a sliver rising over the horizon. “As a child I escaped a tragic war, where the mighty massacred the weak and whole tribes were displaced, or worse, enslaved. My parents murdered, I followed my clan into the wilderness. When we started our trek Constantinople was some unknown, unattainable goal, a rumored empire to the west where there were no Valabhi or Hun knights, and finding myself in the greatest city in the world after wandering and nearly starving to death to cross Persia, well that was a reward beyond a king’s ransom.” Raga pointed to a stand of trees ahead. “See there, we need to find a walnut tree.”
“A walnut tree?”
Raga nodded. “I know the true name of that particular tree, and we can command it. As I have told you, one’s true name is a word of power. Know it, and you can command obedience. It
was the learning of my own true name in fact that was my undoing….”
“What do you mean? I thought your name was Raga?”
“Ragacheep Nanawan, just as your name is Thorfinn Alfenson. I believe I have mentioned this before. That is my given name, but that designation is not the true name that labels my essence, the word that titles my hug. You see, young Thorfinn, I was a war orphan from an exotic, far away land. I had risen from street urchin begging at the gate to a favored servant through sheer will, a quick wit and the nerve to speak to any and all. And, as many things are in this life, luck played a big part. After years of hard labor for a grinding bore, I was sold into a household of a senator of the Holy Roman Empire. I was willing to do any job, for to have regular meals and a safe place to sleep, this was a reward in itself. I was never afraid of hard work, and this was recognized early. Then, as I approached an age when an apprenticeship should be decided, my aptitude was recognized. I found my duties cut to free my time and I was enrolled in the university to study mathematics in support of my master. I was to join his counting house, and manage his affairs under a dominating and exacting old warrior, but the studies, oh the studies and the knowledge, it was a wonder to me, and to tell you the truth, while many clung to religious doctrines and the philosophical arguments of the day as the core of their learning, I loved the science of arithmetic and the arcane arts. Alchemy in particular was most engaging. Initially I was drawn to the discipline of forecasting, the art of the prophesy, thinking, yes, I could do wonders for my master and his family, become a respected and trusted councilor and perhaps even earn my freedom. My skills became renowned. Even the Emperor himself heard of my prophesies.
“It was a Saracen wizard that was my undoing—an old codger called Madisgar the wise, although he seemed to be most ‘wise’ at begging drinks. He did not attend the university—he hung around the forum and tagged along to follow our oft long and drunken debates after a long afternoon of erudition. My closest friends, like me, sought knowledge in every form, from the orthodox to the allure of the profane. I believe the old wizard liked to listen as we recounted the lessons and argued finer points and broad theories. He had some skills, and after a particularly resounding lecture on the conjecture of a multitude of worlds, Madisgar convinced a more than tipsy me that he could help me pass through the physical world to another place and, as you would say in your Norse tongue, use the skeins of fate to foretell the future. Of course, I agreed in a heartbeat. Private and always wary, the old warlock pulled me aside to his tiny apartment, and employing obscure spells and enchantments, forced an imp he had imprisoned to tell me my true name. Under his tutelage, I used words of power and my true name to enter the Realm Between, seeking the skeins of fate.” Raga sighed. They wandered quietly through the trees, Finn watching his companion’s face. For the first time in Finn’s recollection, Raga looked sad.
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