The Raven's Table

by Christine Morgan

  Contents

  The Raven’s Table

  Other books by Christine Morgan

  Frontmatter

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  The Barrow-Maid

  Thyf's Tale

  The Fate-Spinners

  The Vulgarity Of Giants

  In the Forests of the Far Land

  Njord's Daughter

  A Feast of Meat and Mead

  Nails of the Dead

  Sven Bloodhair

  The Mottled Bear

  To Fetter the Fenris-Wolf

  At Ragnarok, the Goddesses

  With Honey Dripping

  Aerkheim’s Horror

  The Shield-Wall

  The Seven Ravens

  As We Drown and Die

  Brynja’s Beacon

  About the Author

  The Raven’s Table

  Viking stories

  Christine Morgan

  Word Horde

  Petaluma, CA

  Other books by Christine Morgan

  Fantasy

  Curse of the Shadow Beasts (MageLore Book 1)

  Dark of the Elvenwood (MageLore Book 2)

  Archmage of the Universe (MageLore Book 3)

  Silversilk (ElfLore Book 1)

  Knight of the Basilisk (ElfLore Book 2)

  Truegold (ElfLore Book 3)

  A Gnome Away From Home (Silver Doorway 1)

  Dwarves in the Dark (Silver Doorway 2)

  An Elf’s Adventure (Silver Doorway 3)

  Dragon on the Loose (Silver Doorway 4)

  Orcs Ahoy (Silver Doorway 5)

  The Alchemist’s Girl (Silver Doorway 6)

  Gaming (with Tim Morgan)

  Naughty and Dice: An Adult Gamer’s Guide to Sexual Situations

  Ellis: A Kingdom in Turmoil

  Horror/Thriller

  Black Roses

  Gifted Children

  Changeling Moon

  Tell No Tales

  Scoot

  The Widow’s Walk

  Birthright

  The Horned Ones: Cornucopia

  His Blood

  Murder Girls

  Spermjackers From Hell

  The Raven’s Table: Viking Stories

  © 2017 by Christine Morgan

  This edition of The Raven’s Table: Viking Stories

  © 2017 by Word Horde

  Cover: Asgårdsreien, by Peter Nicolai Arbo (1872)

  Cover design by Scott R. Jones

  Edited by Ross E. Lockhart

  All rights reserved

  Publication History:

  “The Barrow-Maid” originally appeared in History is Dead

  “Thyf’s Tale” originally appeared in Uncommon Assassins

  “The Fate-Spinners” originally appeared in Spiders

  “The Vulgarity of Giants” originally appeared in Mytherium

  “In the Forests of the Far Land” originally appeared in Bigfoot Terror Tales Vol. 1

  “Njord’s Daughter” originally appeared in I’ll Never Go Away Vol. 2

  “A Feast of Meat and Mead” originally appeared in After Death

  “Nails of the Dead” originally appeared in Fresh Fear

  “Sven Bloodhair” originally appeared in Someone Wicked

  “The Mottled Bear” originally appeared in Cellar Door III

  “To Fetter the Fenris-Wolf” originally appeared in Daylight Dims Vol. 2

  “At Ragnarok, the Goddesses” originally appeared in Vignettes from the End of the World

  “With Honey Dripping” originally appeared in Conqueror Womb: Lusty Tales of Shub-Niggurath

  “Aerkheim’s Horror” originally appeared in Cthulhu Fhtagn!

  “The Shield-Wall,” “The Seven Ravens,” “As We Drown and Die,” and “Brynja’s Beacon” are original to this volume

  First Edition

  ISBN: 978-1-939905-27-7

  A Word Horde Book

  www.wordhorde.com

  To Bernard Cornwell, Professor Michael D.C. Drout, and the members of Amon Amarth... for helping rouse my inner Viking.

  Then let us lay the raven’s table

  And spread the wolf his feast

  My men, most skilled with cutlery

  Will gladly carve and serve

  As yours provide the tender meat

  And pour forth the rich red wine

  THE BARROW-MAID

  The death-cry of Sveinthor Otkelsson ripped through battle-clangor, as harsh and sudden as the blade that had ripped through his mail-coat.

  Friend and foe, ally and enemy, all who heard it fell silent. The fighting ceased as men looked to one another, astonished.

  Could such a cry truly have come from the throat of Sveinthor Otkelsson? Sveinthor Wolf-Helmet? Sveinthor, called the Unkillable?

  He had led the first assault against the shield-wall in defense of his uncle Kjartan’s fortress, plunging deep into the armies of King Hallgeir the Proud. Arrows had rained all around him but never once touched his flesh. He had beheaded Hallgeir’s standard-bearer, then cleaved Hallgeir himself in the shoulder so that the king’s torso was hewn nearly to the belt.

  A death-cry? Sveinthor Otkelsson, voicing a death-cry?

  It could not be believed.

  No one moved. No living thing made a sound. Even the cawing of ravens was stilled, and it seemed that the wind itself paused in scudding dark clouds across the sky.

  Then, as one, those nearest Sveinthor drew back. He stood alone amidst a mound of bodies, most slain by the thirsty work of his own sword, Wolf’s Tooth. And the blood ran thick from his belly, spreading over the earth in a wide red stain.

  He was Sveinthor Otkelsson, whose ship Wulfdrakkar had gone a’viking to far lands, bringing back plunder of gold and silver, slaves, amber, ivory and jet. He had rescued the beautiful Hildirid from becoming an unwilling bride, unmanning her captor with a knife-stroke.

  Even if not for the wyrd that had been prophesized by the sorceress Sigritha when Sveinthor was no more than a boy, this moment could not have been foreseen.

  But now Wolf’s Tooth had dropped from his grasp, and his hands went to his wound, and the blood was a waterfall between his fingers. His wolf-headed helm, its gilded nasal and eye-pieces red-spattered but still glittering gold, turned this way and that as if seeking out his killer.

  A single raven screeched. All who heard it knew it to be an omen of the most fearsome sort. The raven was Odin’s own bird, and surely Odin had taken notice of the battle. Perhaps Odin was, even now, dispatching the dreaded Valkyries.

  Then, as Sveinthor toppled with his belly split open and the tangle of his guts spilling out of him, there came another cry, furious with rage. It was torn from the throat of Ulfgrim the Squint, long a friend and blood-brother and oathsman of Sveinthor.

  In his fury, Ulfgrim charged. Rallied by his actions, the others of Sveinthor’s men followed, as did Kjartan’s own forces. What came next was not so much battle as butchery. Some of the defenders tried to form again their shield-wall, but too many fled in terror and the rest were soon cut down. The victors moved among the fallen, giving aid to their allies and the final mercy to their enemies, and stripping the dead of their valuables.

  Kjartan himself, aged and white-bearded, rode from his fort to the place where Sveinthor had stood. He wept openly and without shame. There had been talk in the mead-halls that Kjartan might make Sveinthor his heir. Now that hope was gone, dashed to pieces like a ship storm-hurled against unforgiving stony shores. Sveinthor was dead. With his last breath, he had closed his blood-soaked fingers around the hilt of Wolf’s Tooth, and held it now in an unbreakable grip.

  They bore him back to Kjartan’s hall. The day was won, the enemy scattered and fleeing, but there was
precious little joy and celebration.

  Three others of Sveinthor’s men had perished bravely in the battle. Eyjolf Rust-Beard, and Bork Gunnarsson, and Thrain the Merry were to be placed alongside Sveinthor in honor.

  Kjartan had for them a great burial-mound built, a chamber filled with goods for the afterlife. There were bundles of firewood, jugs of mead, furs and blankets, tools, weapons, grain, meat and cheese. Into this tomb was placed Sveinthor’s wealth, the plunder of villages and forts and monasteries. Silver cups and platters, gold brooches, piles of hack-silver, beads of amber and jet. Kjartan added many more treasures, so that the mound was as rich as any gold-vault of the Dwarves below the earth.

  Sveinthor was laid upon his barrow at the center of the chamber. His helm was polished and shining, the wolf’s tail that hung from its crown brushed smooth. He was covered with the pelts of wolves, and his sword Wolf’s Tooth was set across his breast, its hilt still clutched tight in his dead hand and its blade still clotted dark with the blood of his enemies.

  As these preparations were being done, Ulfgrim the Squint sought out Hildirid, who had been Sveinthor’s woman.

  “Kjartan has promised to provide a slave-girl to accompany Sveinthor into the mound,” he told her. “There is no need for you to die with him.”

  Hildirid, who was tall and slender but proud-figured, said nothing. She had hair the color of gold seen by torchlight, which fell past her waist in long plaits tucked through the belt of her tunic. Her cloak was seal’s skin, pinned at the breast with a brooch of walrus-ivory, and her eyes were sea-blue and steady.

  “You can escape this dire fate,” Ulfgrim urged her. “Already, Kjartan’s wise-woman is preparing the poison. You have but to agree, and the slave-girl will go in your place.”

  “Does not Unn of the dimpled cheeks go with Eyjolf, her husband?” Hildirid asked. “Is not Ainslinn, Bork’s favorite, being readied to follow him? You would have Sveinthor, who loved you like a brother, go to his grave-barrow with a stranger slave-girl?”

  “Thrain does,” argued Ulfgrim, “for Thrain had no woman of his own and will need one to tend him in the afterlife. You can live, sweet Hildirid. Live and go forth from here, and marry a strong man and have many fine sons and fair daughters.”

  He touched her hand then, but Hildirid drew away. “I was fated to be his and his alone, forever,” she said. “Skarri the Blind prophesized it to us. It is my wyrd.”

  Ulfgrim scoffed. “And we have seen for ourselves how well the wyrd prophesized for Sveinthor came to pass. Mad old women and blind old men, pah!” And he spat on the ground.

  “I was fated to be his,” Hildirid said again.

  “There is no fate but what a man makes his own. Sveinthor went wrapped in the confidence of his wyrd, and it did make him bold and daunted his enemies, but in the end, did his wyrd prove true? Look there, Hildirid. Sveinthor the Unkillable… covered with gold and glory, but as cold and dead as a haunch of beef.” He clutched at her hand again. “Come away with me, instead. I may not be so handsome as Sveinthor, but I swear I can love you as much if not better.”

  This time she did not merely draw away, but slapped him so that her palm cracked smartly across his cheek. “I will follow Sveinthor,” she said, and her voice was like ice.

  Ulfgrim flushed dark, angered and embarrassed. His eyes, already narrow, narrowed further. “It was I who learned of your capture,” he said in a snarl. “It was my cunning that formed the plan to rescue you. I would have done it myself, but Sveinthor insisted. By rights, Hildirid, you should have been mine.”

  She walked away from him then without a word, head high and back straight in her dignity.

  Later, when the burial mound was all but finished, Kjartan assembled his people to bid farewell to Sveinthor and his men. There were many verses and poems spoken by skalds, recounting the deeds and honor of their lives, mourning their passing and celebrating their entrance into Valhalla.

  Then Kjartan’s wise-woman brought forth the cups of poison. Unn of the dimpled cheeks drank first, and kissed Eyjolf’s lips before lying down beside him. The woman Kjartan had chosen to accompany Thrain smiled at the great honor she had been given as she raised the cup. Thrain’s favorite dog, a great shaggy mongrel called Bryn-Loki, was strangled with a rope and set at his master’s feet.

  The slave-girl Ainslinn wailed and screamed and would not drink. She tried to flee, then tried to fight, and finally had to be strangled as Bryn-Loki had been. A disgrace, but only to be expected from an Irish girl and a Christian.

  And then the cup came to Hildirid, who was arrayed like a queen with her long hair loose and shining.

  As she took the cup, she saw Ulfgrim with his dark eyes pleading. But she drank deep of the bitter liquid, and as she felt its lassitude begin to creep through her limbs, she kissed Sveinthor and sank down next to his barrow, on a blanket of soft wool.

  She opened her eyes to the chill, misty dark, and felt a pain all throughout her body so sharp and crushing that it was as if she was being rent asunder by beasts. It was Niflheim, kingdom of the dead, realm of the goddess Hel. And was it Hel’s own hound, Garm, grinding her bones in its fierce mouth? Was it the dragon Nidhug, leaving off its eternal gnawing at the roots of Yggdrasil the World-Tree?

  Then the pain ebbed like a tide, receding from her limbs. Hildirid shivered in the blackness. Her mouth felt dry and parched with a terrible thirst, and her innards were a hollow ache.

  Slowly, stiffly, she moved. The cold wrapped her like a fog, and she pulled her cloak close around her shoulders.

  The air was heavy with a reek of corruption so thick it was like a taste. Yet, beneath it, she could smell other scents. Strong cheese. Heady mead.

  Her dark-blinded hands sought out carefully over the unseen contours and edges. Soft wool. Hard stone. Rushes and pebbles and loose earth. Stacked logs of wood, the bark coarse beneath her fingers. The lushness of fur. Wolf’s fur, from the pelts that covered Sveinthor, and that was when she knew where she was.

  In the barrow. In the burial-mound. Entombed in the black, entombed with the dead.

  And was she dead? Was this death? Was this the truth of Niflheim? Alone and sightless and trembling from the chill?

  Yet she breathed, and when she pressed her hand to her breast she could feel the quick thudding of her heart. With the little knife she kept on her belt, she pricked her thumb and felt warm blood well from it, which she licked away.

  Still carefully, groping her way, she rose to her knees and found Sveinthor’s chest beneath the pelts. She touched the silver Thor’s-hammer amulet he wore around his neck, touched his wiry beard, touched his face.

  His flesh was like a lump of cold tallow, greasy with a residue that smeared off onto her fingertips. His mouth gaped and did not stir with breath.

  Hildirid rested her brow on his chest. Then she searched blindly through the goods in the barrow until she had a candle, and the means to strike a flame.

  The flickering light sent shadows dancing over the wealth and the weapons and the bodies. Unn and the slave-girl were peaceful in death. Ainslinn had died with her eyes bulging in horror, the bruises from the knotted strangling-rope livid on her slim neck. Bryn-Loki, Thrain’s dog, lay with tongue protruding and death-rigid legs jutting like sticks.

  The smells of corruption wafted from them. Hildirid saw skin gone waxen and pallid, flesh sunken and slack. They were dead, dead one and all… and yet she was alive. Somehow, she was alive.

  She had drunk of the poison. She had drained the cup to its very dregs. It had coursed through her veins. She remembered sinking, sinking like a rock into the bottomless depths.

  Her gaze fell upon the jugs of mead, the loaves, the wheels of cheese. Hunger led her to pull off a chunk of bread, but Hildirid hesitated with it at her lips.

  Should she? Was there any use in eating, in drinking? Why prolong a life that was doomed to a miserable end?

  Better if she ignored the urges of her body and lay back down to wait for de
ath. Better still if she took out her knife again and seated it in her breast or sliced it across her wrists, to hurry death along.

  Yet the bread was in her hand. It was stale and nearly as hard as stone, but could not have been more appetizing had it just come fresh from the baker’s oven. She tore into it with her teeth, and when it soon proved a chore to chew, opened a jug of mead and soaked the bread to soften it in the potent honey-brew.

  Sated, she moved the candle so that its light played over the various treasures. Here was a tiny ship, the Wulfdrakkar in miniature, with red shields along the sides above the tiny oars, and its growling wolf’s head prow. There was a set of hnefatafl-men, two armies carved from ivory and soapstone arranged in ranks on their board. A bone flute. A polished-amber figure of a wolf. Chests of silver and gold. Monk’s crosses. A heavy silver plate with designs of Christian saints and angels upon it.

  A fortune, and all of it useless to her now. Likewise were the many weapons useless. What need did she, Hildirid, have for bows and arrows, axes, shields, and spears? What need for swords? She had her knife, the knife of ivory hilt wrapped in gold wire, and it would do as well as any blade for what she might have to do.

  How the men had given good-natured jest to Sveinthor when he’d given it to her! “Provide your woman a weapon,” they had said, “and you’re all but inviting her to use it on you, should you displease her as all men eventually do.”

  But Sveinthor had never displeased her. They had never quarreled, not once. He had never raised a hand against her. When he had sought counsel, he had listened to hers with as ready an ear as he had that of any of his men. He had been as fervent in love as he’d been in battle.

  And when his death-cry had rung out, it had been her own ending in that instant.

  Yet here she was, alive among the dead. Sveinthor would be in Valhalla, and she would not be there to serve him. Who would bring him the great drinking-horns and joints of roasted meat dripping with good juices? Who would arm and armor him when the final call came and Odin’s forces assembled against the giants?