by Scott Oden
What cannot burn | are the tangles of Fate
Spun by the hands of Urðr.”
Even among the vættir, all things were foretold; every life was apportioned by the Norns, those weird sisters who dwelled at the base of Yggðrasil; every triumph and every doom woven from birth. None within the Nine Worlds, not even the Allfather, were beyond their reckoning.
“Look to your own threads, | Járnviðja’s daughter,
Free you are not from reproach;
The skrælingr’s taint | drapes your eyes and ears
And hides the nearness of doom.
“From beyond the fences | of this Miðgarðr
One comes to collect his due;
The Grey Wanderer, | enchanter of old,
Whose eye has marked you as foe.”
This revelation by the vættr caught Halla off guard. The Grey Wanderer—one of the Allfather’s myriad epithets, a guise he assumed when traveling among mortals—was coming here, for her? “But that’s not possible,” Halla said. Her milky eyes narrowed. “Not anymore.”
It started, she reckoned, with the Nailed God; the divine made flesh, his arrival, death, and eventual influence over the sphere of Miðgarðr had thrown off the old order of things. This was why the prophecy was so crucial: the Nailed God’s dominance was strangling the world, a ligature around Miðgarðr’s neck that slowly throttled it. Already its effects were profound: the sorcery that permeated the Elder World was all but dead; even the Ash-Road, those points where the limbs of Yggðrasil pierced the veil between worlds, had withered and died. Without these two forces, without the Ash-Road and the magic that powered it, the so-called false gods could no longer walk the earth. That was what Grimnir meant when he called Miðgarðr the Nailed God’s world.
What’s worse, Halla knew what the death of sorcery meant for those creatures who thrived from it: creatures like herself, or Grimnir, or even this vættr—creatures who failed to heed the harbingers of doom and flee Miðgarðr—were destined for the shadows. They would diminish and become a mere mockery of their former selves, until madness and eternal death claimed them. Or until the prophecy came to pass, with Ragnarök and the breaking of the world.
“The ancient ways are closed,” she muttered. “Even to the Grey Wanderer.” She blinked, her brows knitting together in a frown of concern. “Unless,” she said, licking her lips. A cold tightness gripped her chest. “Unless he’s chosen a vessel to bear his hamingja?”
Hamingja was a word most men translated as luck. Halla, however, knew it as far more than that. It was that part of the Self that encompasses wit, mettle, inborn skill, and strength; it was an entity in its own right, living beyond death until a worthy descendant was born, a name-bearer or some other of its blood, destined for Glory. And all beings possessed a hamingja—even the lord of Ásgarðr. If the Allfather had chosen a mortal to bear this part of himself, that was a gift far beyond measure—and a cause for concern. The hamingja would grant its bearer a measure of the Allfather’s power; power they could then use to take an active part in the affairs of Men, either to guide and shape the future of the North or merely to settle old scores.
And if he’s coming after me, Halla thought, I’ll lay my wager on the latter. She shivered again, and came back to herself. “I know what fate awaits me,” she said. “It was ever thus: my folk sprang from the loins of Ymir, the Primordial One, first and greatest of the frost giants slain by Odin and his brothers. The stones beneath our feet are the bones of my mighty ancestor:
“Out of Ymir’s flesh | was fashioned the earth,
And the ocean out of his blood;
Of his bones the hills, | of his hair the trees,
Of his skull the heavens high.
“Miðgarðr the Gods | from his eyebrows made,
And set for the sons of men;
And out of his brain | the baleful clouds
They made to move on high.
“I have seen the ages of the Gods, the ages of heroes and of myth. Those days are all but gone. Despite your hatred for skræling-kind, it is their sorcery which has kept this small corner of Miðgarðr rooted in the Elder Days. The sacrifice of Raðbolg Kjallandi’s son, the witch-sense of his elder brother, Gífr, and the swift blade of Grimnir Bálegyr’s son has made this a haven for the likes of us, great vættr. But even this enchantment cannot hold the Nailed God at bay forever. These are the days of prophecy, of Fimbulvetr and the deep cold before the world-consuming fires of Ragnarök. If my end is woven into the fabric of the world and I am to be judged by my associations, then grant me one last boon: help her, if you can,” Halla said. “She is the Day who gives way to Night. Let her live so she might fulfill the promise of our kind, to strike a last blow before the ending of our world.”
The homunculus shook, branches rattling.
But in answer, hundreds of roots and tendrils crawled up Dísa’s arm. Serpentine, they wriggled over the edge of the stone slab to wrap themselves around her torso, her legs. The homunculus floated over her then slowly came apart as the roots that created it descended and wrapped themselves around Dísa’s broken skull. An eerie green light suffused the cellar; an odd smell rose from the root-bundled form—a smell of honeysuckle and fresh-turned soil, wet grass and hyacinth. A tremor ran deep beneath the earth, a faint temblor that touched even the deep-delving roots of Yggðrasil …
Halla rocked back on her haunches. Grimnir was right when he’d said something had slipped. Something had … but his suspicions were wrong about from whence it came.
The Grey Wanderer is coming.
Halla closed her eyes. And in this place of magic, she prepared herself to fight the chosen avatar of a god.
8
SKARA, IN THE PROVINCE OF WEST GÖTALAND, SWEDEN
The man with the colorless eyes shuffled down the nave of the cathedral at Skara, and the dead followed.
No one could see them. Not by the pale light filtering in from the clerestory overhead, nor by the flickering glow of immense candelabra. Even to the man, they appeared as half-sensed shadows, ripples of darkness glimpsed out of the corner of his eye. But he knew they were there, even if the smoke coiling from copper censers and the steam of every breath had more substance than these grim and tattered wraiths. Motes and jags of light marked their stern gazes. And from them, the man did not quail. For if he did not have the courage to face his victims—all the half-remembered men, women, and children he had put to the sword at Constantinople, on the long and fruitless road to Jerusalem—he feared they might try and claim him.
The man shivered; despite the cold, he wore only a moth-eaten pair of breeches, unbelted and ungaitered. Hair the color of milk hung about his shoulders, framing a face that bore the same haughty grandeur as the bust of a Caesar—broad forehead, falcate nose, and strong beardless chin, all rendered in flesh as cold and lifeless as Carrara marble. Only in his colorless eyes was there life, feverish and bright; they caught and reflected the reddish gleam of the candle flames.
If his face was a sculptor’s work, then the canvas of his body belonged to a different sort of artistry, for it bore the brushstrokes of war: purple braids and red craters and pale trenches of scar, a scumbled veneer wrought by blade and dart, whip and ember.
The man staggered on. The naked sword in his fist scraped the stone tile underfoot as he lurched from column to column. Frost rimed the cathedral’s sandstone walls. Its benches of dark polished wood stood empty. And yet, sound filled the vast open spaces, plainsong rising from throats unseen. The man did not understand the chanted words, but the eerie echo hammered home the realization that he stood in the presence of the Almighty.
There, in the shadow of the great altar, the man bent his knees and collapsed. Only his hands, draped over the cross-guard of his sword’s hilt, kept him upright. “Why?” he said, voice cracking as he raised his face to the altar. “Why, O Father of Heaven, do you send these fevers to torment me? Have I not repented? Have I not suffered for my crimes? Have I not done all that you h
ave asked, O God? Have I not taken up the Cross? Why, then? Why have you forsaken me?” The man’s chin sank to his breast; he closed his eyes …
No answer came from the heavens, though all of a sudden the multitude of spirits rustled and moaned around him. Their cold breath set the candle flames to flickering as a hundred voices assailed him at once. The man’s shoulders slumped; he cocked his bowed head to the side and listened as they told him things he could not know. Someone had come.
“Do not be shy, my friend,” he said, after a moment. “You are … Father Nikulas? Yes?” A dim silhouette moved in deep shadow beneath the arcade. “You’ve come from…” The man paused, brow furrowed as he sought to make sense of the myriad voices only he could hear. “From Lund. You’re the Archbishop’s man. Come to save my soul, eh?”
Indeed, the newcomer who stepped into the light wore the cassock and cape of a priest. His every movement was a swirl of rich black wool, soft as silk and trimmed in fox fur; of black cloth, too, was the sash girdled about his waist, and gold glinted from the small pectoral cross resting on his breast. “Lord Konraðr,” he said with a faint bow, smoothing his beard to hide his discomfiture. “Your spies are clever, indeed, if they warned you of my coming. I told no one…”
The man called Konraðr clambered to his feet. He turned to face Father Nikulas, a smile flirting with the corners of his colorless lips. “Spies? No, my ecclesiastical friend,” he said. “I heard your name spoken on the wind, whispered in the crackle of ice. Nikulas of Lund comes, it said, and he brings a request from that insipid wretch, the Archbishop. Tell me, does he still lick my cousin, the King’s arse?”
Nikulas blinked; with aplomb to spare, he merely shrugged and nodded. “Daily, lord.”
“I am no lord.” Konraðr turned back to the altar.
“As you said, you are the cousin of the King, lord. To address you otherwise would be disrespectful.”
“Title by association, by the thinnest claim of blood, is no title at all. I am Konraðr the White, priest.” Konraðr turned and leveled his sword at Father Nikulas; the priest’s eyes widened. “I am the Ghost-Wolf of Skara, and I need neither association nor blood to take what is mine!” He stared down the length of honed steel at the goggle-eyed priest a moment longer before the tip of his blade wavered and then fell. “But you are not my enemy.”
“I am not, lord.”
“No.” Konraðr gestured with his sword. Steel rasped on stone as the blade’s tip dipped and scraped the floor again. He staggered back a step, his brow damp with sweat. The dead rustled; they moaned. They spoke to him of secrets and plots, harbingers of dooms yet written. Konraðr swayed, disoriented. “But soon … you will be my ally.”
“Here, lord,” Father Nikulas said, putting forth an arm to keep the pale man from falling. “You’re burning with fever. Come. Sit here while I go and fetch your servants. You should not be out of bed.”
The dead whispered, and Konraðr listened …
“Lord? Konraðr?”
“Your errand,” he said, after a moment’s pause.
Father Nikulas shook his head. “It’s of no importance at the moment, lord. Please, sit, at the very least.”
Konraðr allowed the priest to guide him to the nearest bench. He sat, shivering, his sword locked in his fist; with a flourish, Nikulas unfastened his cape and draped it over his naked shoulders.
“They tell me your master is devising an army,” Konraðr said.
The priest, who’d turned away and was on the verge of calling out for aid, stopped. He came back around to face the thin albino, his eyes narrowing. “They?”
“They tell me the Livonians, the Brothers of the Sword, have called for aid in their crusade against the pagans of Estonia, on the shores of the Baltic Sea. The Holy Father in Rome has given God’s blessing. Now your master, the Most Reverend Anders Sunesen, Archbishop of Lund and Advisor to my cousin, the King, wants my support—and the five hundred men at my command. I will give him neither.”
Father Nikulas sniffed. Though his careworn brow and full beard lent him the aspect of age, he was perhaps a score of years Konraðr’s junior. “If someone had told me your spies were so accurate, I would not have bothered making this journey. Your refusal could have been dispensed with a letter and I could have stayed warm and dry in Lund…”
“I told you, I have no spies.”
“Then how—”
Konraðr caught the priest’s wrist in an iron grip and pulled him down beside him. “The same way I know your mare is a bay roan with a hard mouth who favors her left front hoof; or that she was a gift from your mother’s brother, who supported your desire to take Holy orders. The same way I know the truth of your heart: that you despise your master as a politician rather than a devout man of God. And the same way I know he sent you here, to me, to get you out from under his feet—your righteousness sickens him, for he is a man of politics despite all his posturing. He … He hopes you will offend me and I will kill you, then he can seize my lands—”
“What sorcery is this, lord?” Nikulas, his face gone as pale as Konraðr’s, tried to pull away. The fever-stricken albino held him close with a strength that belied his thin frame.
“The dead,” Konraðr hissed. “My dead … they wait just there, beyond the veil. The dead of Constantinople. Christian dead, killed by mine own hand. They speak to me, priest! They tell me things that would make a sane man blench…”
The priest looked up; he scanned the nave of the cathedral with eyes that gleamed like lamps of righteous fervor. Though he saw nothing amiss, he did not doubt the broken lord of Skara. “And what do these Orthodox heretics want, eh? Retribution? Surely not justice, for you were absolved of those killings in the eyes of God—”
“Be silent,” Konraðr commanded. “They want you to listen: an evil wind is poised to blow from the north. On it will be borne the stench of pestilence and death. An apocalypse, carried south upon pagan shoulders:
“Sköll bays aloud | after Dvalin’s toy.
The fetter shall break | and the wolf run free;
Dark-jawed devourer | of light-bringer’s steed.
And in Vänern’s embrace | the earth splits asunder.
“The end is coming. An end not seen since the days of Noah.”
“‘But there were also false prophets among the people,’” Father Nikulas quoted in earnest, “‘even as there shall be among you lying teachers, who shall bring in sects of perdition and deny the Lord who bought them: bringing upon themselves swift destruction.’ The heretics are wrong, lord. There is no pagan apocalypse. Cleave to the words of the blessed Saint Peter, himself. The Lord Most High has made a covenant.”
Konraðr’s reply rose barely above a whisper: “True, but the Gods who came before made no such bargains:
“Wolf shall fight she-Wolf | in Raven’s shadow;
an axe age, a sword age, | as Day gives way to Night.
And Ymir’s sons dance | as the Gjallarhorn
kindles the doom | of the Nailed God’s folk.
“I know what the Scripture teaches, but I also know this to be true! An end is coming.”
“And you think I could be ally to this?” The priest’s brows beetled into a thunderous scowl. “Your words reek of blasphemy!”
Konraðr laughed then; he laughed until his voice trailed off into a coughing fit. “You think me blasphemous?” he said after a moment. “Then what I say next will put me beyond redemption in your esteem, priest. For in the circle of the world, there are but two men who can stop this. I am one. You are the other, Nikulas of Lund.”
The priest tore himself free from Konraðr’s grip and stood. “You would do well not to patronize me, lord! You can barely walk. By appearance, alone, you seem neither to sleep nor eat. ‘The mind’s inclination,’ as Galen put it, ‘follows the body’s temperature.’ You are choleric and sanguine, lord, feverish and imbalanced. There is but one savior of this world, our Lord Christ, and it is blasphemy to suggest otherwise. Let me fetch your
servants and I will leave you to your delusions!” The priest turned away and made to leave, but a sudden weight on his left shoulder forestalled him. He looked down; in the razor-edged length of steel resting there he saw his own fear-widened eyes reflected back at him.
“Sit.” Konraðr’s tone brooked no dissent. “Sit and I will tell you precisely how you become ally to this blasphemy, as you call it.”
Father Nikulas opened his mouth to protest, but the diplomacy of steel—the position of a hard honed edge mere inches from the apple of his throat—scattered his arguments. The priest did as Konraðr bid.
The albino said nothing for a moment. He sat with sword in hand, blade across his lap, and shivered. Nikulas watched as he bowed his head—though whether deep thought or in prayer, he could not say; pale hair veiled Konraðr’s face.
“Do you recall Magnus of Saxony?” he said, at length.
“No, lord. I was but a boy when he took the Cross and left for Outremer.”
“Aye, I was little more than a boy, myself. I was his squire. Our company took the Cross at Halberstadt, in the year old Archbishop Absalon passed.”
“You have surely been through a great ordeal, lord,” Father Nikulas said. “Without a doubt. But I don’t see what—”
Konraðr rapped the priest across the knee with the flat of his sword. “Patience! Is that not one of the virtues you priests tout? Then be silent, be patient, and attend.”
Nikulas bit back a decidedly un-Christian curse as he sat straighter on the bench, clutching his knee with white-knuckled fingers. He said nothing, preferring to stare straight on; his eyes focused on the play of candlelight and shadow, on the half-sensed forms milling just beyond his sight. He watched, and he listened.
Konraðr’s voice grew soft and heavy. “We joined the crusade in Venice the next summer…”
A city of murky canals and gilded domes emerged onto the canvas of Nikulas’s imagination, painted there by Konraðr’s words. A city of rot and intrigue. In the swirling shadows, he saw tall-masted ships filled with the warriors of God, black crosses sewn to their rich surcoats. Earnest men, they were, with eyes that shone as bright and clear as their swords. And behind them, across the broad Piazza San Marco, crept the sinister figure of the Doge, the de facto king of the Venetians—aged and blind and as cunning as the old Adversary of Heaven. He spoke words of venom, words reeking of false piety, and shackled the Crusaders to his will with chains forged from penury and debt. And though the Pope forbade it, the wily Doge pierced the armor of faith shielding the Crusaders and guided them against his Christian rivals.