War of the Gods

by Poul Anderson

  Hadding named himself only, not his father nor his fellow, and asked, “What did he die of?”

  “I know not. He felt ill, and suddenly was gone. Yesterday he went into the woods looking for a strayed cow. Maybe a swart elf shot him.”

  He lay washed and cleanly clad, his eyes closed for him and the jaw bound up. Hardgreip went over and peered narrowly. He had been long and lean. His nose thrust like a crag from the ashen face and gray-shot beard.

  Hadding told the wife he was sorry and promised whatever help he could give. “I can hew a coffin from a log, we can both dig, and we’ll leave a piece of silver in his grave,” he said. She struggled not to weep.

  Hardgreip plucked his sleeve. “Come outside with me,” she murmured. Hadding followed her.

  Rain had stopped for a while. Mists eddied over the sodden ground. Westward the clouds had parted enough to let through a nearly level sunbeam. It turned the mere blood red. Water dripped off roof and trees.

  Hadding looked down into his leman’s eyes. They burned like the pool, though her fingers where she caught at his wrist were cold. “Here I can work a spell,” she hissed. “We’ve had too many bad foretokenings. If we know what lies ahead, we can make ready for it and belike win free.”

  “I have always heard that the will of the Norns stands not to be changed,” he said misgivingly.

  Her voice sharpened. “Would you go blind toward your foemen if you could scout them out first? I’ve lived far longer than you, and learned somewhat about the underworlds.”

  “What do you think to do?”

  “This man is newly dead. His soul has not yet fared far. It Will be easy to call back. But he has been beyond time. I will make him foretell for us.”

  Hadding’s skin crawled. “That’s an ill repayment for the widow’s kindness.”

  “Ha, shall a dirt-grubber and her brood hold back the last of the Skjoldungs from what is his? Hadding, I, who made a drow speak with me, am going to do this. Best will be if you help, but will you or nil you, it shall happen.”

  Her keenness overwhelmed his youthfulness. Besides, if she turned herself into a giantess again, he could not stand against her He watched unhappily while she cut a shoot off a blackthorn, trimmed it to a short stick, and carved runes in it. When she was done, night was falling fast and rain gusted anew. They went back inside.

  “There is something we must do,” Hardgreip told Gerd. “Keep off, you and your children, and you’ll come to no hurt. Otherwise dreadfulness can befall you.”

  The woman gaped and cringed. Loath though Hadding seemed, he did not gainsay his friend. His sword could easily put an end to her family. Gerd moaned. She herded her youngsters back in among the kine.

  Hardgreip stoked up the hearthfire. From a household jug she poured water into the household kettle and set it above. From her pack she took things Hadding had not known she had brought along, leaves of nightshade, a dried toad, a bat’s wings, the withered navel string of a stillborn, and uglier stuff. She cast them into the water and cast the garb off herself. Naked she stood in the shifting flamelight and thronging shadows, holding the runestave above the kettle and chanting while that which was within came to seethe.

  Hadding stood as if frozen. It was worse than at the dolmen. Never, in all his years with the giants, had he seen this side of her.

  Steam swirled white over Hardgreip’s hand and the stick. The dark wood glistened. She gave it to Hadding. “Now,” she said, “put this beneath his tongue.”

  He had thought himself fearless, but as far as he had already gone, he dared not now do anything but obey. Step by stiff step he went over to the deathling. The flesh was dank to touch as he unbound the jaw. He must pry it open. Hastily he shoved the runestave crosswise into the dry mouth between the teeth. At once he stepped back.

  Hardgreip took his place by the bed. She raised her arms. “Waken, Skuli,” she shrilled. “By the might that was Ymir’s, I call you to come, I bid you read the morrow for me. No rest in the grave shall you elsewise have, but the fires of Surt shall burn you, the snakes of Hel shall nest where your heart was, and the eagle at the end of the world shall tear you until the ending of all the worlds. Rise and speak.”

  The body stirred. Widow and children wailed in the cow-stall. It heard them not. Wrenching itself along inch by inch, bones grinding together, it sat up. The eyes opened. They were filmed and empty, but a red smoldering moved in them. The head jerked to and fro until it found Hardgreip. A voice grated around the runestave.

  You drew me from the dead. Now doom shall fall on you

  Who haled me out of hell. Ill hap and woe be yours.

  From the mold that was mine has your magic most foul

  And cruel now called me to come from the shades

  That I answer your asking with all that I know

  Of what shall fare whence and go whither for you.

  My word is of woe that awaits you, and death.

  Unwilling I wended here, witch, and must speak,

  My tongue bearing tidings of terrible things.

  Soon hence from my house you will hasten your steps

  Away to a wilderness, wandering lost

  Till horror shall have you, a hideous end.

  You will wretchedly rue the wrong that you did

  In dragging the dead from the darkness up

  By trollcraft to travel the troublous road,

  Bound to your bidding. Abide now the time

  When fearsome foes take fell revenge.

  You drew me from the dead. Now doom shall fall on you

  Who haled me out of hell. Ill hap and woe be yours.

  The head creaked around until the unblinking, tearless eyes caught Hadding. He stood his ground, helpless though he was, and heard.

  Yet know that as the net of night pulls close about her,

  The fishers thereon flensing her flesh down to the heart,

  Clutching with their claws and cutting with their teeth,

  Ripping, tearing, rending the reddened stumps and rags,

  Unshaken shall your luck still shield you from them, Hadding,

  Not hurling you to hell but holding you alive

  To walk and do your work within this world a span.

  The witch must pay the weregild for wickedness she did.

  She raised me from my rest, she robbed me of my peace,

  She dared make mock of death. To dust she shall go down.

  Again the eyes laid hold of Hardgreip.

  You drew me from the dead. Now doom shall fall on you

  Who haled me out of hell. Ill hap and woe be yours.

  The body fell back and was still, glaring into the night below the roof. Wind howled, rain dashed.

  Hardgreip stared elsewhere. After a long time she whispered, “I think we had better go.”

  Hardihood roused in Hadding. “No,” he said. “We will spend the night here and tomorrow do what I plighted: bury this man we wronged and leave him what grave goods we may.” To the back of the house he called, “Gerd, come out. It is done. You’ve nothing more to feat”

  Nevertheless nobody slept.

  VIII

  The day was well along before Hadding and Hardgreip were done and could leave. Hardly a word had been spoken throughout. Gerd gave no thanks for the coffin Hadding made, the spadework they both did, what they left in the grave, or even the gold coil he set on her arm, much though she could buy with it. He awaited nothing else and was only glad to get away.

  He and the thurs woman likewise kept still as they rode. The weather had cleared, but held scant warmth. Brush hemmed in the muddy path, too narrow to fare on abreast, overhung by leaves from which water dripped cold. Those branches hid the sky, dusked the ground, filled the deeper reaches among the boles with blindness. Mist sneaked low, in wan streamers. The only sounds were plop and squelch of hoofs, creak and rattle of harness, clinking of drops where they struck. As the gloom thickened toward evening, an owl began to hoot.

  “We’d better stop soon
and make ready for the dark,” Hadding said at last. His voice was flat with weariness. “The first open spot we find, so these orc-loving trees can’t piss on us.”

  “Hereabouts that will likeliest be a fen,” she answered as grayly.

  They learned otherwise. The path swung around a clump of willows, and there lay a meadow. True, its grass was wet, but someone had made a brushwood shelter. That could not have been long ago, for it stood tightly woven yet. Indeed, it was big enough to be called a hut. The juniper boughs that floored it were dry on top, thick and springy for sleeping on.

  “Why, our luck has turned,” Hadding said. “With the time this will save us, we can coddle ourselves.”

  “Praise not the night until dawn,” Hardgreip mumbled. The spark of heartiness died in him.

  Still, here they would stay. He saw to the horses while she gathered wood that was not soaked. She started a fire while he banked dirt behind to send heat in through the opening of the shelter. They cooked some dried meat and ate it with flat-bread though without much hunger. Drink was rainwater sucked from the moss on fallen logs. By the last twilight they stowed their things inside and settled down.

  The boughs rustled as they fumbled out of their clothes and drew the saddle blankets over them. Hardgreip pressed close against Hadding in the dark. “Hold me,” she begged. “Love me. I am so alone.”

  It was as if the grisliness he had witnessed clung to her. “I’m worn out,” he said, not altogether untruthfully. He did make himself put his arms around her. She smelled not of woman but of fear.

  After a while, though, he fell into unrestful sleep. Dreams gibbered at him. Now and then he woke. A full moon had cleared the treetops. The drenched grass outside shimmered like ice. Hardgreip’s eyeballs glistened in the shadows. She was lying awake. He said nothing, and soon the dreams overran him again.

  Her scream roused him. Sounds of ripping and tearing followed. He sprang up. The top was torn off the hut. Moonlight streamed through a mangled wall. It dappled a hand coming in from above.

  The hand was as broad as he was tall. Black hair bristled over it. The moon-glow sheened on fingernails like claws. It groped after Hardgreip. She cowered away. Her mouth stretched wide. Her arms flailed air.

  “Grow big!” he yelled. “Grapple it!”

  Her wits returned. As the fingers found her, she became whirling, whistling smoke. It curdled back into flesh. Her bulk broke open another wall. She caught hold of the hand and wrestled with it.

  A wild gladness flared in Hadding. Here was a real thing to fight. By the fitful moonlight he found his sword, drew it, and hewed.

  “Ya-ah!” he shouted. “God-foe, die!” The blade flew. Each time it struck, he felt the shock in his shoulders. The iron bit deep. Blood sprang forth. It stank like a rotting lich. Wherever a drop splashed on him, it seared.

  To and fro the struggle swayed. The hut gave way. Its knitted branches fell over his head. He could not see what loomed beyond the hand. But he swung his sword.

  So did he cut through flesh, sinew, bone at the wrist joint. The poison blood spouted. Hardgreip lurched and fell. She gripped a hand with no more arm behind it. A howl blasted Hadding’s ears. Earth trembled and thundered to hasty footfalls.

  They passed from hearing. He stood panting in the wreckage. Hardgreip threw the hand off her. She climbed to her feet and loomed gigantic under the moon. Its beams made glisten her sweat and tears. Her breath sobbed like a stormwind.

  “We live,” said Hadding wonderingly.

  “We cannot—bide—here,” rasped Hardgreip.

  “No.” As the battle rage ebbed, he too began to shudder. His welts burned. The stench sickened him until he threw up. And what else might come out of the night?

  He clenched his teeth and got to work. First he rolled in the grass to wipe the venom off him. Damp softness and smell of soil were like a friendly, stroking palm. Thereafter he searched about. Mad with fear, the horses had broken their tethers and bolted into the woods. Nicked and blunted, his sword was nearly useless. He took Hardgreip’s instead, for she had no great skill with it. Their garb and gear were strewn everywhere around. He gathered what he could and cleaned vileness from it as best he was able. When he found a stream he would wash everything fully.

  Hardgreip had been hugging herself and shivering. “Grow small,” he called aloft. “Else you’ll make too much noise and show too clearly, plowing through the brush.”

  She dwindled and stood before him, hands clasped above her loins, tangled locks falling past bowed head to hide her face. “What shall we do?” she asked meekly.

  “Anything can find us if we keep to the path,” he said. “We’ll get far off it and trust the wilderness can hide us. Tomorrow we’ll strike south, going by the sun, and ought to come on lands of men sometime.”

  “That should be wise for you.” He could barely hear her.

  “No, now, you are not foredoomed,” he said with more cheer than he felt. “We overcame this troll. Let the rest beware.”

  “Maybe I can have you by me for a few days yet,” she sighed.

  They donned their clothes, loaded up their outfits, and set forth. The way was slow and hard. Though the moon shone bright enough to drown out most stars, its light seeped between the leaves in patches, spatters, and dim edgings. Hadding made his way well-nigh inch by inch. For all his woodcraft, he stumbled against logs and boulders. Undergrowth snared his feet, branches whipped his face. As he pushed awkwardly through unseen brakes, he thought how everything swished and crackled, and what a trail he must be leaving. Formerly Hardgreip would have taken the lead, deft as a wolf. The will seemed to have bled out of her and she dumbly followed him.

  “Come morning, we can rest as long as we like,” he said once. The words rang so empty that he spoke no more. His breath went in and out, hot and harsh.

  Suddenly he felt the ground slope downward. He knew not whether it was into a dale or merely a hollow. By day he could have chosen whether or not to go around. In this murk he deemed that to keep straight ahead was belike less bad. At least he should find water somewhere below. Thirst smoldered in his mouth and throat.

  Down he went. Black shapes became hazy. As steep as the ground was, he misunderstood why. He believed he was only in a thicket where the leaves overhead blocked off even more light than before.

  The wood opened. He burst out into heavy fog. It billowed soundless around him, moonful but blotting up sight. A few trees and bushes stood blurred, everything else was a wan nothingness.

  “Hoy,” he muttered, “we’d better turn back.” He looked after Hardgreip. He saw her not. The fog swirled and dripped.

  Dismay smote him. She must have blundered from him in their blindness. But she could not be far off. “Hardgreip!” he howled. “Stay where you are. Call and I’ll seek you. Hard-greip!”

  A shriek went saw-toothed.

  Something snarled. Wings beat on high. Feet bounded. Brush foamed and snapped. There went noises of ripping and breaking. The woman screamed. Over and over she screamed.

  Hadding drew his sword. “Stand fast, Hardgreip!” he called. “Fight! I’m coming!”

  He plunged about, high and low, right and left. The fog smoked thicker. The wildwood scratched and snagged. The racket’ seemed to be from everywhere and nowhere. After a while it lessened. He heard growls and thought he heard bones crunch between jaws. Then he was alone in utter stillness.

  Not until after sunrise did he find the blood-soaked earth, the blood-smeared leaves, and the blood-red scraps. He buried what he could.

  IX

  Now Hadding wandered friendless through days and nights that he lost track of. Sometimes he slept in a yeoman’s house, saying little about himself and taking leave early in the morning. Oftener he laired in the wilds and lived off what he could catch. Mostly he bore south, though he knew it brought him ever nearer his foes and he with not one man to stand beside him. This was the way he had said he would take, and he cared naught what might lie at the end
of it.

  Yet he was young. Slowly the horror and grief went from him and hope awakened. He became altogether healed when he reached the shore and for the first time beheld the sea.

  Woods decked the downward-rolling land almost to the water’s edge. Close by they thinned out until only scattered evergreens, dwarfed and wind-gnarled, grew amidst harsh grass. The strand was shingle, round gray rocks where kelp lay strewn in ropes and yellow-brown heaps. The day was bright and windy. No great surf arises along the Baltic Sea, but waves ran high, scud blowing off white manes, green and gray out to a blue worldrim. They rushed and crashed and shouted in their strength. Gulls flew like snow. Their mewing called him outward. The air tasted and smelled of salt. He drank deep of its keenness and laughed aloud.

  Shedding his clothes, he ran out and plunged. This was no quiet lake. Here he wrestled and frolicked with the water. When he ducked below, he could keep his eyes open in its brininess and see how weed swayed and fish flickered through amber depths. Head up again, he spied two seals not far off, sporting like himself. When he waded back ashore, even the chill of the wind on his wet skin and the itch of salt afterward welcomed him to the home for which he had always longed.

  After a while hunger and thirst nudged his thoughts earthward. He must find water he could drink. Hunting could not be good here, and he only knew how to fish inland. There he must soon withdraw, unless men dwelt somewhere nearby. He would try for that. To keep the sun glare behind him, he walked east.

  The sun went ever lower. Its beams strewed shivery gold across the waves. His shadow lengthened before him. The strand narrowed as the land slowly rose. Near sunset he spied a high bluff overlooking the sea and bent his steps toward it. From the top he might find a mark to make for.

  Climbing the gorse-begrown slope, he saw a man on the height. Hadding’s heart jumped. Though the stranger seemed also alone, he loosened the sword that had been Hardgreip’s in its sheath and took a firmer grasp on his spear before going on.

  “Hail!” he cried, waving his free arm. “I come in peace.”