by Scott Oden
An oathbreaker. Grimnir’s lip curled in disdain. The old oak wight in the Sallow Wood had mentioned an oathbreaker, but he’d thought it confused. Now, though, Grimnir understood. Somehow, one of their own had turned on them. He could not fathom it, nor could he see how he might use it to his advantage. Could the landvættir but crack open the gates—
Suddenly, Grimnir felt a groundswell of otherworldly power, stronger than anything he had felt before in this cursed land. The spectral voices fell silent as a single challenge stirred the breeze to a gust—a pulsing cry that shook the earth like thunder: “The oathbreaker! The oathbreaker! Bring forth the oathbreaker!” Grimnir fell backward and scrabbled away from the edge of the ridgeline. “Bring forth the oathbreaker!”
In its aftermath, the world fell silent.
Slowly, Grimnir stood. A thrill of fear danced down his spine. Such power belonged to more than a landvættr, more than a simple tree spirit or rock wight. Whoever this oathbreaker was, whatever it was, its treachery had awakened something far greater: the Shepherd of the Hills. Grimnir squelched his fear as he apprehended the truth. This oathbreaker—whoever it was—this oathbreaker was inside Badon’s walls.
And just so, Grimnir saw the answer to his dilemma.
16
Wraiths stalk the shadows of a ruined city. Étaín watches as they emerge from walls of crumbling stone, from colonnades of broken marble, and from the sulfur-blasted earth itself. Saxons and Danes, she recognizes, along with barbarians of every stripe, but with them are phantoms in the antique armor and draped cloth of a long-dead empire; slave-branded Britons in simple garb float among the mass of foreign invaders, their slumped shoulders and defeated air evincing great sadness; skin-clad savages, surely the enigmatic Cruithne, glower from under heavy brows and curse the others in a tongue she cannot comprehend. A wave of cold washes over her. It chills her blood to see the legions of the dead drift toward her, their arms outstretched and imploring. “The oathbreaker!” they moan. “The oathbreaker! Bring forth the oathbreaker!”
Étaín cannot run. Her legs have become the bole of a slender tree, her feet like roots running deep beneath the tainted earth—tainted by the oathbreaker’s treachery. She feels their pain, and she recognizes it as the denial of everlasting peace, but she cannot help them. She tries to speak but the bones of her jaw are as rigid as those of her bark-clad spine.
The dead swirl and froth around her, breaking like a spume of clawing hands and hissing voices. “Bring him! He must be held to account! Bring forth the oathbreaker!”
Trapped, unable to move, Étaín screams in silence as this sea of restless dead rises and engulfs her …
Consciousness returned, and with it came awareness. Gasping, Étaín felt cold stone beneath her sweat-slick skin; she heard the dry crackle of straw and a sound like the sizzle of molten pitch dripping from a torch. Her limbs felt weak, drained of life; someone had draped a threadbare blanket over her chest and shoulders. She did not dare move, for with movement would come jagged shards of pain. That she could feel anything at all stood as mute testament to her continued existence. Étaín was not dead, yet, and in that she found scant comfort.
A hand, callused and rough, touched her forehead in gentle benediction. She did not shrink away from it, for the gesture reminded her of Njáll. She lay there for a long moment, hoping beyond hope that she might open her eyes and behold his scarred face; that she might hear the tale of how she had taken sick that night when ferocious storms had stranded them in a cave on the road to Roskilde. She wanted to hear him boast about how he had nursed her back from Death’s door. More than anything, Étaín wanted to know that the last few days had been nothing but a fever dream, the phantoms simply an imbalance in her humors.
But when she opened her eyes the face that stared back at her could not have been Njáll’s. It was too long, too hard, and too angular. Framed by a matted beard the color of iron ash, scars of wisdom mingled with those of torch and sword on the weathered cheeks. A single fierce blue eye fixed her with curious intensity; the other was gone, nothing but a black-edged socket poorly bound by a crude, blood-spotted bandage.
Étaín tried to sit up, groaning as pain lanced through her joints, into her spine, and right up into her skull. Her head felt swollen and hot.
“Easy, girl,” the man murmured as a horseman might whisper to his favorite mare. “Lie still. You’re safe, for now.” Étaín sank back down, coughing. The one-eyed man took up a clay cup filled with water and held it to her lips, his free hand supporting her head. “Drink.” His voice had the hard rasp of a war leader.
Étaín spluttered and choked, but managed to swallow most of the cup’s contents. She glanced around, suddenly fearful as she recalled another Dane’s spiteful fingers around her throat. “Wh-Who are you? Where are the others?”
The one-eyed man shrugged. “I can answer your first question readily enough. I am Óspak. Once I was a gold-giver and jarl to the Danes of Mann. Now, I am a dead man, waiting for my body to wither and join my soul in the next world. As for these others you speak of, I have no knowledge. The Saxons brought you here alone.”
“Here?”
“You brim with questions, little sister. Aye, here.” The jarl gestured, indicating the low-ceilinged room around them. An uneven trickle of light seeped through a grate in the iron-bound door, revealing a space larger than the two of them required—large enough to hold a score of prisoners. “The cellars beneath the Rock of Badon, where our host, that whoreson dog, Hrothmund, keeps the heathens he means to kill, out of love for his god if you can stomach that.”
“But I’m no heathen,” Étaín said. “I am a follower of Christ.”
“As am I,” another voice wheezed. Étaín craned her neck. A pale figure lay near; he was younger than Óspak, though there was a resemblance in the jut of his chin, the shape of his nose. Both his hands were gone, leaving only cautery-blackened stumps swathed in filthy bandages. He had swollen, dislocated joints from being bound at wrist and ankle and cruelly stretched to the brink of death. Agony should have been his only portion but he made no complaint. “Many of us bent our knee to good Lord Christ. My uncle makes no bones about a man’s faith, so long as he has fire in his belly and steel in his spine.”
“My sister’s son, Skjald,” Óspak said, nodding to his dying kinsman. “He’s right. Half my men were Christian, baptized ere we sailed from Mann. I told this to Hrothmund, tried to reason with him, but the bastard wouldn’t hear of it. He tortured and killed them equally, my Christians as well as my heathens. So do not be surprised, little sister, if he chooses not to believe you, either.”
“I … My name is Étaín.” She lifted a hand to her forehead, gingerly probed the lacerations left by Cynewulf’s booted heel. “Do you not hear … sounds, like distant voices?”
“It’s that crack on your head. They didn’t break the skull, but not for want of trying. A fever has taken hold. You need rest and a good…” He snapped his fingers as he sought for the proper word in the tongue of the Britons. “… læknir?”
“A wise-woman?”
The old jarl nodded. “And it’s not likely our bastard host will allow you the luxury of either. Perhaps your condition is a gift.” She looked at him quizzically. He continued: “Aye, a gift in that you’ll not long survive whatever tortures he devises for you. Thank your Nailed God, for your suffering will be short.”
Étaín said nothing for a long moment. When she did speak again it was clipped, icy, and directed at Skjald. “Is your uncle always so forthright?”
The maimed Dane managed a wan smile. “What use are lies and fair speech to dead men?”
“I’m not dead, yet,” she replied. “Neither are you. So long as we have breath in our lungs, we have hope. And hope is a dangerous weapon in the hands of a man with steel in his spine and fire in his belly.”
“Well put, little sister,” Óspak said. “Where did these Saxon dogs capture you?”
“Nunna’s Ford,” Étaín repli
ed. “They … they thought me a spy because I have traveled with Danes in the past. How many of you are left, jarl?”
The one-eyed chieftain sighed. “I suspect we are the last. They took Thorgil and Herger away a few hours ago. We were ten ships when we sailed from Mann, bound for the land of the Gael to shatter spears and skulls with old Brian mac Cennétig and his Munstermen, against his rebel minion, Maelmorda of Leinster, and his allies, the wastrels of Dubhlinn and my own cursed brother, Bródir. A storm broke our hull and cast us upon this forsaken piece of soil. Twenty-three of us survived the wreck. Of my other ships, I do not know.”
“That was no natural storm,” Skjald put in with a measure of heat, resurrecting what Étaín sensed was an old argument between them. “It was called, I tell you! Kormlada…”
Óspak answered with the same fire. “Kormlada!” he hissed. “Kormlada! Kormlada sang us to our doom! Aye, so you’ve said. Perhaps she did, but like as not it was nothing but a run of bad luck.”
“I heard her voice on the wind, Uncle. Kormlada is the herald of woe, but she is just the herald. Forces gather, by Christ; the old gods of the North make ready to strive against the legions of Heaven. We were betrayed!”
Both men lapsed into wary silence. Étaín shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. “Kormlada?”
“Aye.” Óspak glanced sidelong at her. “The Witch of Dubhlinn, mother to its king, Sitric Silken-beard, and Half-Dane’s whore.”
Étaín nodded, though it took a moment for Óspak’s words to register. Half-Dane’s whore. Half-Dane. Her eyes widened. “Wait … Half-Dane? Bjarki Half-Dane?”
“You’ve heard his name?”
“More often than I care to stomach,” she replied, grimacing. “The … the wretch I was traveling with was looking for him, to collect on an old debt.”
“Then your wretch need only seek him in Dubhlinn.”
“You’re certain he’s there?”
“Aye.” Óspak’s tone hit a sour note. “It was his summons that drew us from our harbors. He’s offering plunder, slaves, and land to every jarl and gold-giver from here to Helheimr who answers his call to arms and puts in to the Bay of Dubhlinn before the day you Christians call Palm Sunday.”
“But his summons drew you in defense of the Irish king?”
Óspak massaged the brow above his missing eye. “Mann stands athwart the Irish shore. As its jarl, I must think who would make a better neighbor: some predictable old hymn-singer like King Brian, or that Loki-spawned devil, Half-Dane? That one thinks every Norseman, Swede, and Dane with a grudge will flock to his banner, and in the shield-breaking that follows he will rid himself of Mac Cennétig, once and for all. I have no love for the Gael, but he’s a better neighbor and a better king than that starveling dog, Bjarki!”
For a moment Étaín said nothing. She thought of Grimnir; she imagined that fox-faced skrælingr skulking and fuming around Wessex in search of the elusive Half-Dane. How long would it take him to discover his foeman was holed up in Dubhlinn, across the Irish Sea? That she knew it and he didn’t brought a humorless smile to her lips; that she knew it and would likely carry that knowledge to the grave provoked a paroxysm of laughter that ended in a coughing fit. She clawed her way onto her side and fought for breath. Óspak frowned.
“What ails you?”
“The Almighty moves in mysterious ways, Jarl Óspak,” she said, once her fit subsided. Skjald muttered an “amen.”
Óspak opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak the heavy door rattled; they heard a rasping sound as wooden bars were drawn back through iron staples, first the top, then the bottom. Icy apprehension spiked deep into Étaín’s heart. The jarl clambered to his feet, his back against the wall for support. Weak and sullen-eyed, maimed Skjald could only glare as the door swung open.
A jailer stood on the threshold, flanked by two brutish guards bearing stout clubs. The jailer surveyed the three prisoners; he was scrawny alongside his companions, with a sharp, narrow face that made Étaín think of a rat. His eyes chilled her to the bone—they were as dead and lifeless as those of a corpse. He wore a butcher’s apron slick with blood and fluids more foul. “Get up, bitch! Lord Hrothmund wants a word.” He gestured to his men.
“What of Thorgil and Herger?” Óspak said.
A smile twitched at the jailer’s thin lips. “My lord converted them, broke them of their damnable pagan ways. They’re sitting right with the Almighty, now.”
“Herger was a Christian, you idiot,” Skjald said.
“Not a good Christian. Ain’t any good Christians among you lot! Only liars, blasphemers, and thrice-damned Pharisees! So my lord says, and he is fox-wise to your deceits, heathen.”
“We were baptized! We took the sacrament!”
“From who? Some sheep-fucking idolater? Bah! A dunk in the ocean and a bite of bread don’t make you no Christian! Get her up, I said!” the jailer snapped at his guards.
One kept his eye on Óspak while the other guard crossed to where Étaín lay; with little concern for her injuries, he stripped the blanket from her shoulders and dragged her to her feet. Though the fever left her weak as a child, she nevertheless stood trembling under her own power.
“Little sister,” Óspak said. Étaín glanced back at him; lines of sadness and resignation etched the old jarl’s face. “Pray to your Nailed God, and thank him for his gift.”
“Where there is life there is hope, brother,” she replied.
The old Dane sighed, and then nodded. “Hope.”
“That’s right touching, that is! Hope, eh? There’s none of that left for you, bitch!” The jailer spat and shoved Étaín out the door. She stumbled into the cramped corridor and hit the wall with a sharp cry, abrading her hands against the rough stone as she struggled to keep on her feet. The jailer chuckled. “Move on, damn you! My lord’s waiting!” To Óspak, he said, “Rest easy, old man. I’ll be back for you soon enough.”
As the door slammed shut, Étaín wondered if she’d see the kindly old jarl again on this side of the grave.
17
From the cellars beneath the Rock of Badon, Étaín’s captors chivvied her up a narrow circular staircase and into a long firelit hall. Four great hearths attracted a variety of soldiers and courtiers to the hall, who stood in quiet conversation and awaited the coming of their lord. Most were West Saxons in bright mail shirts, rich tunics, and black-dyed cloaks bearing the embroidered emblem of Hrothmund—a symbol repeated on woven tapestries and banners and shields hanging from the stone walls. Étaín saw a silver willow tree surmounted by a cross; beneath it, a motto in Latin that read, In Christo Veritas. “In Christ, truth,” she muttered.
“Keep silent!”
Among the faces watching her cross the hall, Étaín spied the captain. The red-bearded lord stood among a knot of thegns, goblets in hand as they doubtless toasted the memory of Cynewulf; no small few of them turned and glared at her, sizing her up as an accomplice in the murder of their comrade. Étaín stared back at them, unflinching.
Rain pattered through window slits high on the western wall; a gust of cold wind set the torches to flickering. Étaín shivered involuntarily, for on the wind she could hear the faint, fell voices of restless spirits. She heard the harsh croak of ravens like screams of rage; she heard sobbing cries, peals of maniacal laughter, and curses in tongues she did not recognize. She felt rather than heard a throbbing chant, a single voice pulsing with power and rage, and she knew it from her fever dream: “The oathbreaker! The oathbreaker! Bring forth the oathbreaker!”
No one else heard it. Oblivious to the cacophony seeping in from beyond the walls, the collected soldiers and hangers-on merely watched as she ascended a short flight of steps to stand before a door of blackened oak. Her fate lay beyond that iron-studded entry, and likely her death as well. But in that moment she knew no fear. The calm of a Benedictine brother settled over her like a well-worn cassock; the fever quake in her limbs subsided, and even the voices dulled. She was a servant of Christ.
The doors opened on an immense chamber like nothing Étaín had ever seen. Its shape was that of a cruciform cathedral; columns like tree trunks hewn from stone lined the long nave, their spreading boughs of twisted iron with leaves hammered from silver, copper, and bronze. Lamps hung from some branches, colored glass refracting the light into a score of hues. From other, heavier branches Étaín saw iron cages suspended from chains, each holding the tortured corpse of a captive Dane—some freshly dead, others rotting and riddled with maggots. Though braziers of smoldering coals spewed a haze of fragrant smoke into the air, no amount of incense could mask the stench of corruption. Étaín gagged and averted her eyes.
“Look lively, now,” the jailer said, prodding her forward.
At the far end, past the transept, a huge crucifix hung from the vaulted ceiling of the chancel—the carved figure of Christ depicted writhing against the nails that held Him suspended from the cross, His glorious countenance drawn in exquisite agony. A man knelt beneath, his face upturned in a position of adoration, hands clasped in prayer or in supplication. He wore his black hair tonsured like a priest’s, but Étaín could see he had the deep chest and corded arms of a warrior. He rose at the sound of their approach and turned.
Étaín tried to look at him, tried to match his self-righteous gaze with one of defiance, but she discovered she could not focus on him. It was as though two individuals occupied the same space, one physical and one ethereal, with the latter moving slightly faster than the other—a man and his ghost, both visible. Vertigo threatened to topple Étaín onto her knees. The young woman bit her lip; the sharp pain and coppery taste of blood grounded her.
The man was clean-shaven and wore the austere garb of an ecclesiastical lord, but the other was bearded and fey, clad in robes of rotting willow leaves like some ancient and forgotten pagan priest. Étaín could see that both sets of eyes were aflame with a religious fervor that crossed the line into zealous insanity.