The Stone of Sorrow

by Brooke Carter

  There aren’t as many crying out now. This time, when I peek over the rock wall of my lookout, there are just a few people left standing.

  I see Haraldr the Elder being dragged from his dwelling by Ymir, the Jötnar chief. Ymir had earned the name Ymir the Devourer, for both his ferocity in battle and his insatiable appetite. He once consumed an entire sheep in one sitting, including the offal and the marrow. That Ymir was a hulking, powerful man, but this Ymir is smaller and wasted down, as though starving.

  I watch in horror as he stomps on Haraldr the Elder until the man is dead, the blows coming with sickening force. The old man cannot defend himself. I struggle to make sense of what I’m seeing. Ymir is known to be a warring man, but not a cruel one. I have not heard tales of him being such a coward as to kill an elder. So why this? Why now?

  I get my answer when another figure emerges from the dwelling behind Ymir. It’s a woman clad in a golden robe, with yellow hair that flows in serpentine locks around her face. Her demeanor is relaxed, as though this is any other day and the carnage taking place around her is a common thing. But in the next moment, power glows from her, crackling with energy, and I understand that this is all because of her. I blink, trying to get a better look at the woman, but my eyes keep jumping around, making it hard to focus. It’s not just my eyes though. There’s something about her. Her image keeps bouncing, and I can’t fix my gaze on her. It’s as if she has shrouded herself with an obscuring spell.

  This must be Katla, the mysterious sorceress said to have infiltrated the Jötnar clan. No one knows where she came from, and many think she is hungry for power and intent on taking over the Jötnar. To what end, I cannot imagine.

  She is magnificent to look at—and terrifying. She changes even as I am looking at her. At times she resembles a beautiful young woman, and at others her face looks withered and scaly. Her black eyes are unblinking, like a serpent’s, and she seems to grow and shrink in size. I must be seeing things.

  When she moves, she appears to glide over the ground. I cannot look away, even though it hurts my eyes to look at her, the way staring at the sun makes them burn and water.

  Helpless, I watch as Katla directs the Jötnar to kill the last of the fleeing villagers. I see movement on the hillside, as Einar the dust-maker runs toward the violence with the long horn in his hands. He probably wants to murder more of my people. He’s making his way to his father and to Katla, arriving as they close in on the last two figures remaining.

  Sýr. And Frigg.

  My sister and her lover stand together, stoic, clasping one another, their backs against the wall of a dwelling as its roof smolders.

  I can see that Frigg is holding Trollbonker out in warning.

  Katla and Ymir advance toward them.

  There is no time. I must cast a protection spell. I pull my Ýr rune from my pouch. “Give me the power of the yew,” I say, unwrapping the bandage on my thumb. I squeeze blood out onto my runestone and then use it to form the Ægishjálmr, the Helm of Awe, on the dirt in front of me. This is the bindrune we use to overcome enemies.

  “Please,” I whisper to the rune, begging as my blood drips over the soil of my homeland. “Protect Sýr. Please.”

  But I know it won’t work, for I am too scared, and casting this rune requires confidence.

  As I watch, Frigg charges at Katla, but one of the Jötnar guards strides forward, his sword aimed straight at Frigg’s heart. Before the blade can pierce her body, Einar blows a plume of dust at Frigg. She freezes and collapses to the ground, a look of surprise and pain on her face.

  My sister screams, and the sound is an assault on my heart. Even the stones of my lookout seem to rattle from the force of her anguish. I have never seen Sýr so full of rage. My gentle sister is now aglow with hatred, but for some reason she doesn’t act. She doesn’t run or fight.

  Katla, holding a dagger now, advances on Sýr. The weapon is sharp and menacing, but as Katla draws closer, Einar steps forward and hands her the horn. He says something to her, but from up here I cannot decipher his words.

  Sýr chooses this moment to wield the flickering moonstone, holding it high above her head so that its light flashes over her in a frantic rhythm, like a heartbeat close to stopping. I pray to Freyja that Sýr’s own heart doesn’t fail her. Though the stone seems to be failing, my sister mouths a spell I cannot hear but that I imagine must be one of protection.

  In response Katla blows the dust at Sýr.

  It has little effect on Sýr, for her spell acts as a shield, and the cloud dissipates as soon as it reaches her.

  Now the two witches are locked in a silent battle, hands outstretched, each of them directing all her power at the other. Sýr’s blue light extends outward, pulsing at Katla, and Katla responds with her own yellow glow. I don’t see a stone or amulet or wand in Katla’s possession. The energy with which she’s fighting Sýr seems to be coming from her own hands. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Though Katla and Sýr are standing still, glaring at one another, I know each of them is using everything she has to gain control of the other.

  “Sýr,” I say. “I believe in you.” I rub the protection rune once more, saying its name, and use all of my love to direct its power toward my sister.

  It’s almost as if my little spell causes a hiccup in the action, because as I intone the words, both Sýr and Katla turn toward me, looking up from the village below to where I am standing, now in full view, on the clifftop.

  Sýr smiles at me and says something, but as Katla looks at me, she somehow has two faces. One is staring at me in fury, the other at Sýr with vicious glee.

  Sýr holds up the moonstone. For a moment I think she is going to throw it or crack it on the rocks at her feet. Does she mean to destroy the coveted stone? Could she?

  Instead Sýr tosses it up into the air. It does not come back down again. In a flash of blue light, the stone disappears.

  Katla screams a wail of despair so high-pitched it rings in my ears until it feels like my head will split open. Sýr and Einar clutch their heads in pain too, and I watch as my sister falls to her knees. Ymir appears unaffected, standing still and expressionless until Katla gives him an order. A witch commanding a chief? He steps forward and searches Sýr for the stone, ripping at her garments. Sýr continues to kneel on the ground and doesn’t fight. She ignores Ymir and keeps her gaze, tender and sad, on Frigg’s lifeless body.

  Sýr glances up at me for one brief moment. As she does, I hear her voice, distinct in my mind. It will always be the two of us, Runa. Until the end of time.

  Ymir, having no luck finding the moonstone, lifts his sword to strike Sýr, but a small movement from Katla stops him.

  Two large Jötnar warriors step forward and grab Sýr. They drag her toward Katla and pull her to standing as the witch takes out a long rope from inside her robe. I can see that it’s made of the same kind of silky fabric as her cloak, complete with a yellow-and-white diamond pattern. She uses it to bind Sýr’s hands and then confiscates the sack of runes hanging from Sýr’s neck. I realize in horror that they intend to take my sister with them as their captive. The only reason they have spared her is because they desire the moonstone.

  I long to call out, to chase after them, but I know I am powerless. At least Sýr is not dead. Not yet. But I know they will kill her as soon as Katla can decipher whatever spell Sýr used to make the moonstone disappear.

  I am so busy watching my sister being dragged away that at first I don’t notice Katla looking up at me from amid the devastation. As bodies burn and my village lies in ruins, the witch smiles a sick smile, her mouth wide and filled with sharp-looking teeth, her eyes flat and unfeeling.

  Our eyes meet, and her image finally stops bouncing around and comes into clear focus. For a moment she is locked in my gaze. My hearts feels as though it will stop in my chest, and I gasp for breath.

  No. Not now. The edges of my vision blur as Katla reaches into her cloak and pulls out a thin dagger that drips wit
h a glowing substance. Poison? I try to move, to scream, but I cannot.

  With a silent spell spitting out between her teeth, Katla hurls the dagger at me, and I watch, paralyzed with fear, as it flies through the air and strikes me in the chest with a thud. It feels like a shard of ice has pierced me through, so cold it feels hot. Once it is embedded in my chest, it seems to disappear. There is no blood, only agony.

  I fall backward onto the rocks of my lookout, splayed like a sacrifice to the gods, my eyes open to the darkening red sky. A plaintive cry floats out over the village. Turning my head, I see Sýr. She has seen me take this hit and calls out to me before falling limp in the grasp of the Jötnar guards, her strength sapped.

  They drag Sýr along as Katla cackles, Ymir following her. His mindless obedience and stiff way of walking reminds me of a draugr, the undead creatures powered by witchcraft that Amma has told me about. Only Einar seems free from the control spell afflicting the other Jötnar, and he stands staring at me from afar. He stays that way for a long while, and I’m starting to wonder if he’s planning on coming back to finish me off. Finally, Katla calls him away. He turns but casts a backward glance at me.

  I reach out my hand, trying to will a spell to leave my fingertips and travel on the wind to punish him and make him suffer, but my arm falls limp. The pain in my chest is too great, and the sight of my sister, unconscious and enslaved, has broken my heart.

  I struggle to stay in this realm. Perhaps I am trapped in a terrible dream. None of it can be real. I’m not here, this isn’t now, and when I wake up, Sýr will be here. The whole world is covered in the blood of my people, and darkness comes to consume me.

  I am lost in a dark place. The silence is the worst part. I see flashes of the slaughter of my people and the capturing of Sýr, but it’s like watching everything unfold from far away and through water. I see Einar, and he looks as if he’s trying to tell me something. But I don’t want to hear it. I struggle to retreat, move away from him, or fight, but I cannot.

  Sýr’s face hovers over mine. Stay with me. She is gone again too soon, replaced by Katla’s laughing face. No. I have to find my way back to myself. Wake up, Runa. Wake up.

  A bright flash of lightning jolts me awake and freezes the night sky in jagged relief. A drenching rain pours over everything. The sea below rages with waves that will destroy the small skiffs left untended on the beach. My lines and traps and nets will all be lost at this rate, but none of that matters. The sky booms and rumbles, as if Thor himself is angry with us.

  I search the heavens for a sign of Núna, but she is nowhere. I pray the Jötnar didn’t kill her with their yellow dust. I want to call out to her, but my voice won’t come. When I open my mouth, sadness sucks my air from me.

  And Amma? What of my amma? I did not see her in the turmoil, and I pray to Freyja that she was hiding when that strange cloud blew over our village. If she doesn’t know, how will I tell her that Sýr is gone? Frigg is dead, and so many of our clan too. I fear that I have lost all of them. Please, not Amma. What will become of us? Of me? And Father? Even if he finds his way back to us, there will be nothing left. We are in ruins.

  I sit up, groaning at the pain in my chest. My mind flashes back to the dripping dagger Katla hurled into me. Was it real? Magic? There is a faint mark on my chest. It could be the shape of a crescent moon, or perhaps a fang. I touch it with trembling fingertips, the light graze shooting a deep ache all the way through to my back. I gag and then vomit a thin, yellow fluid.

  The dagger must be embedded within me, but how can that be? With my thumb I squeeze a few drops of blood out of the cut and use it to make the sickness rune of Hagall on top of the mark on my chest, shuddering at the sensation. Whatever Katla impaled me with, I must fight against it, for I can feel a cold ache spreading throughout my body now. It could be from the rain that has been soaking me while I lay here unconscious for hours or from the wind that rattles me now, but I know within myself that the ache is from the witch’s dagger. The physical pain mixes with my deep fear that everyone I know and love is gone.

  I cannot give into the sadness spreading through me like poison. I must get up. I must find Amma. Get up, Runa. Get up.

  My village is blanketed in the black robes of night as I struggle to my feet. The usual torches and tallow candles are unlit. There is no one left to light them.

  I stumble over the rocks surrounding my lookout and make my way back to the little dwelling Sýr and I share. Pushing open the door, I see there are still some coals glowing in the hearth, and I stagger toward them to try to warm myself. A stub of tallow candle sits on the stones next to the fire, and I ignite it on the coals and place it in its holder. Shivering, I carry it through my empty home to light the way, stopping to share the flame with other stubs, until I have enough light to see that I am alone in a way I have never been in my life before. When there’s no one else around, the world seems an unkind place. Even the beloved objects around me, the tools and trinkets of daily life, take on an air of indifference that is almost sinister. How can an empty bowl feel like a punch to the guts? I don’t know, but it can.

  I’m so cold, but I have no time to change. I grab the patched sheepskin hanging across the entrance to my room and throw it over my shoulders, its heavy weight and musty smell a welcome reminder of Frigg’s wares, and her generosity with them. She always made sure Sýr and I had warm hides if we needed them. I will miss her kindness, her bravery.

  I fight back the tears. There is no time to cry. I have to go down to the village, and I have to be strong, for I need to find Amma and check for survivors. I believe the Jötnar have left, but they could have sent assassins to finish off anyone who escaped the first wave of the raid.

  We have no real weapons here save for basic hunting and fishing tools, but I remember that Sýr and I once found a long fishing spear on one of our shoreline explorations. I search through our collection of walking sticks and sheep staffs in the back corner until I find it, recognizing its unusual feel in my hand.

  The material is unlike any other I’ve seen. It’s pale and shimmering, not at all like wood, and the spear is too long to be made of bone. I’ve also never seen bone with an iridescent sheen like this. Swirling designs much like waves are carved into its length. On the shaft end there is a fitted stone cap made of a brown translucent rock that suffered a crack at some point. The other end is sharpened into a fine-tipped spear with a curved hook. It’s a long spear, much taller than I am, and it looks like something from a distant land. When we found it I begged Sýr to let me keep it, and she relented, even though she was sure we could have gotten a good trade for it in the market. There was something about it that I loved.

  It’s lightweight but also strong. It’s pale and fragile-looking but also deadly. These are the qualities I hoped I’d develop one day, and I dreamed I’d get there with Sýr’s guidance. I know now that the future I imagined is gone, and I will be lucky to survive the night. The Jötnar will murder me when I descend to the village, or the magical dagger Katla stabbed me with will freeze my heart, or the deep loneliness I feel now will end me. As I stand in my empty little home without my sister, my truest friend, I feel this with a stark clarity.

  A sob builds in my throat, and I clamp my free hand over my mouth. Be brave, Runa. Amma needs you. Sýr’s voice in my mind, as always, though I must be imagining it now. Sýr is gone and I’m on my own, but of course this is what she would say.

  I cannot descend to the village along the cliff path without a light. I would fall to my death, despite my knowledge of the terrain, but I cannot walk out of here with a lit torch in case the killers are waiting. They would never encounter an easier target.

  I need to light my way. A rune spell? Yes, of course. I open my pouch of practice runes and pour them out on the table.

  With shaking hands, I touch them all, trying to be tender and unhurried so as not to offend or rush them.

  “Now,” I whisper, “please help me. I need to light my way. I a
sk you to be a guiding light for me.”

  I arrange my runes in the shape of Sól, the rune for the sun, and close my eyes to try to imagine the warmth of the summer sun, the heat of a bonfire, the flicker of a candle.

  To cast a rune, I must trust my feelings, and I must live in the present moment. A runecaster who wants to cast a vengeance spell must feel the rage within and harness it to achieve their goal. A runecaster who wants to make a marriage spell to join two people together must understand romantic love. The most difficult runes to cast are ones that combine complex emotions and elements from the physical world. Heat and fire and love and passion. Cold and ice and contempt and war. The runes of time and of invisibility and mastery over death have eluded runecasters throughout our history, for these are difficult to experience.

  After a few minutes my hands begin to tingle. I open my eyes, and the runes are glowing. I can’t believe it worked. “Thank you,” I whisper. The last time I tried this spell, I started a fire by accident and destroyed a large pile of moss Sýr had been saving for soup.

  I gather the runes and place them back in the pouch hanging around my neck. It glows enough to help me see a few inches in front of me. If I hold the pouch out from my body and walk along in a crouch, this should work, and the light is not so bright that it can be seen from afar. It will have to do.

  I creep out the door, holding my spear in front of me to steady me on the path, and I half-crouch, half-walk down the rocky cliff side toward my village, the runes glowing enough to show me where the edge of the path falls into darkness. I can’t see the black, raging sea below, but I feel it. The sea goddess Rán beckons, and I wonder if the ocean hungers the way people do. I say the rune of the sea, Lögr, Please don’t kill me this night.

  Going along my path a few feet at a time has a calming effect on me. Any other time, I’d be panicking about what was about to happen next or what I’d find at the village, but being forced to focus on the space in front of me is soothing somehow, and I’m grateful.