Skadis saga 1, p.9
Skadi's Saga #1, page 9
“Stow your gear beneath your benches, and let’s get to rowing.” She looked to Ulfarr, who nodded and retreated to the rudder. “What are your names?”
They introduced themselves, and when questioned guessed that they were a week south of Kráka. They spoke with Ulfarr about the weather they’d seen, and soon were settled and at the oars.
Biolfr and his three companions sat as well, and with Skadi, Glámr, and Aurnir also rowing, they began to do more than limp.
Nobody spoke. There was an air of amazement over the crew. Skadi caught the men stealing glances at her.
She felt stiff, almost awkward. What was she becoming? Should she welcome this change? Encourage it? She still felt very much herself, but then she couldn’t deny her vision of the World Tree, Freyja’s blessing, the salmon that had leaped from the depths of the Anvil Sea to save her life from Tryggr’s spear.
Best to simply row. To stop thinking and enter a meditative trance as she hauled at the water, pushing their ship ever closer to Kráka, to her uncle, and to whatever answers lay within his great hall.
He would know what to do. He would give her guidance. He would help her determine the best way forward with her new and terrible wyrd.
Chapter 12
The Draugr Coast came into ever greater relief as Ulfarr guided their ship closer to the shore, until the smudges broke apart into separate peaks. Their lower halves were serried with thick pine forests, bristling near black and impenetrable, while the upper parts gleamed jagged and white, rising to vertiginous heights.
On the fourth day the wind blew up from the southwest, allowing them to scud through the waves before it, and Skadi found herself leaning against the gunwale and half listening as Tryggr’s sailors slowly took Biolfr’s men for all that day's rations at game after game of Hnefatafl. Their good-natured cries of anger and victory felt strangely human and insignificant against the great wall of mountains that were scrolling by beside them, and she couldn’t help but wonder if trolls or worse could hear them at such a distance, and if they turned, ears perking, to gaze out over the waters back at them.
Glámr joined her, leaning with his back against the gunwale and paring his black nails; she’d noticed he had to do this every other day if they were not to grow into talons.
“Have you thought about your arrival in Kráka?”
Skadi frowned. His mind, she’d learned, was always three steps ahead of any question he might make. Rather than answer immediately, she pondered.
“You think we shouldn’t simply sail into my uncle’s fjord?”
“I don’t think we have much choice. But how will you be received?”
“As his niece. His blood.”
“And that is all?” His sidelong glance was full of meaning. “What will these sailors say, how will they describe your flight from Kalbaek once they are drinking amongst others in some goodwife’s kitchen?”
“That I am chosen by the gods.”
“And Jarl Kvedulf. Will he not be wary of having you under his roof, knowing that your wyrd is powerful?”
“So is his own.”
“I wonder if Odin sent a fish to save his life recently.”
Skadi scowled. “What are you driving at?”
“Me?” Glámr spread his hands and made a mockery of an innocent expression. “I am but a slop-troll. I know nothing of such manners.”
“You’re more than that.” She turned to face him and crossed her arms. “How did you come to Kalbaek? In my mind you’ve always been there, but I’ve never heard of your past.”
“Slop-trolls aren’t worthy of discussion.”
“It’s rude to avoid a jarl’s daughter’s direct question.”
“And thus perfectly in keeping with my nature.”
“Is it though? Or do you claim such so as to avoid scrutiny?”
“Would that I could.”
“Then you shouldn’t have given me Natthrafn.”
“Alas, that I realize all too well, now.” It was his turn to turn and lean out over the gunwale. “Though perhaps I had no choice. Seeing as you’re a favorite of the gods, and all. Did you ever have visions as a child? A sense of your great destiny?”
“I am no simple child to be misdirected like that. When did you come to Kalbaek?”
His expression soured. “As a child. Twenty summers before you were born.”
Skadi blinked. “You’re almost forty?”
“Aye, hence my endless torrents of wisdom.” He set to paring his nails again. “Satisfied?”
“Hardly. You speak like a godi, and have yet to tell me how Natthrafn came to you.”
“Facts.”
“Glámr, you have saved my life and I yours. What more must I do to earn your trust?”
His upper lip sneered back from his teeth, revealing his lower tusks to good effect. “What I can’t ascertain is why you wish it so badly. All your life you’ve never looked at me twice, but then I throw you a god-kissed blade and now you can’t leave me alone.”
“It’s as if I’ve slept, all these years.” Her tone turned musing. “Walked unaware of the world about me. Before, it was all hunting and seeking anybody to train me with a blade and avoiding learning how to weave or tend to the cheeses or the brewing of mead. Now?” She sighed. “Now I feel scraped raw, open to the world, which is far, far larger and more complex than I ever imagined. And it contains you, Glámr. A friend when I needed one.”
“Pah.” He pushed off the gunwale and slid his small knife into his belt. “Have a mind, Skadi. You don’t want to go down in history as Skadi Troll-friend.”
And with that he stalked away.
The wind blew harder, the waves grew white-topped, and water turned a blue so dark it was almost like ink. The mountains of the Draugr Coast seemed endless; by dusk she could no longer see where the chain had begun, at the Straits of Despair, just an endless wall of cloud scraping peaks that were wholly the home of the trolls.
Skadi ate her dinner with Aurnir, who groaned and pointed at the coastline.
“I know. We’ll arrive at Kráka in a few more days. You must be so sore, sitting here all this time.”
Aurnir pouted, his lower lip jutting out like a crag, then sighed and dipped his huge fingers into the meat bucket. The wind died away as they ate, and clouds streamed from the peaks as if the rocks were tearing open the fabric of the sky. Soon the evening grew overcast, and Ulfarr ordered the depth stone tossed overboard. They were close enough to shore to drop anchor, but nobody suggested putting in to land.
Not on the Draugr Coast.
Men lay down between the benches and pulled wool blankets waterproofed with animal fat over themselves, and soon snores echoed down the length of the ship.
Skadi remained at the prow for a spell, watching the wind drive plumes of snow off the high peaks, the stars spear into existence, but eventually she retreated to where Aurnir lay snoring and sat against him, her cloak pulled about herself.
She awoke.
It was still dark, but a thick fog had crept aboard the ship, so that she could barely make out anything more than a yard away. A wave must have washed over the ship, for the deck was covered in water. For a moment she sat still, stupefied by the dreams she had risen from, and tempted to return to them, when a scraping sound caused her to sit upright.
The waves lapped against the hull. The ship slowly rocked. The fog muffled the snores of the men.
What had been that noise?
Her thoughts were dulled. The urge to lay back down against Aurnir overwhelming. But she pictured Young Kylfa stealing a blade, creeping down the length of the ship toward her, and rose into a crouch.
“Aurnir,” she whispered, and pushed at the half-giant’s arm. He continued snoring. “Aurnir!” She poked him in the ribs with the tip of Natthrafn’s scabbard, but still the half-giant refused to awaken.
Her pulse quickened. This was no natural sleep. Carefully, silently, she drew her slaughter seax, and its blade burned a soft, ghostly blue in the fog. She focused her gaze and saw that three lines of gold extended out into nothingness.
Three?
She’d already spent half, then, while asleep?
She crept toward the stern. Saltwater washed toward her, an endless stream covering the deck, soaking her boots. She stepped over legs that extended into the ship’s center. A crack sounded, like a chicken bone being snapped in two, and Skadi felt a spike of fear.
She reached down and seized the closest booted foot. Tugged and shook it, but the man refused to cease snoring. Moved to the next, knowing it futile, and did the same.
The third, however, was strangely loose limbed, and when she leaned over the bench she saw Lage twisted onto his side, his head craned back at an unnatural angle and his throat torn out. Blood had soaked into the planking, but far too little for the nature of the wound.
Skadi hissed and drew back. “Awake! Everybody, wake up!”
Her cry was swallowed by the fog.
Movement up ahead. A shadow drew closer. Skadi narrowed her eyes, trying to pierce the woolen fog, and waited, Natthrafn held before her.
Whomever or whatever it was reached out and snagged one of her golden threads. It bent and then snapped, fading away.
With a cry Skadi ran forward, and the dark shadow resolved itself into a hideous crone of a woman, her stomach bloated as if drowned, her limbs overlong, her hair braided with gleaming seaweed, her clothing torn and sodden upon her brackish form. Long nosed, with eyes of the purest white like pearls, the salt hag hissed at her and flared her fingers, each of which was tipped with a six-foot ragged talon. Sea water ran down her shins and bony clawed feet to wash out endlessly over the deck.
Her lips and chin gleamed with fresh vermillion, and four golden threads extended from the troll woman’s breast into the air.
But these were different. The golden runes that surrounded them blazed as if doused with oil and set aflame.
On impulse Skadi swept Natthrafn through one of the golden threads, but to no avail. Natthrafn passed clear through as if it wasn’t there.
The salt hag, however, plucked at another of Skadi’s own threads and tore it.
Leaving her with one.
“Leave my ship!” said Skadi. “You are not welcome here - begone!”
But the salt hag merely gurgled its amusement, creases appearing on its hideous face as it gazed at her with a look of cunning. “You float over my realm and are mine for the taking, girl.” The hag’s voice was clotted and deep. “I’ll drag you and your crew down to the depths and bury you deep in the silt and the mud.”
And the salt hag reached out again as another of Skadi’s threads rotated into reach.
With a cry Skadi darted forward and slashed with Natthrafn; the salt hag leaped back with surprising agility, and then came charging forward, sweeping her talons in great cruel arcs.
Skadi refused to give ground, slashed at the claws themselves, but the salt hag was terrifyingly strong; she clutched Skadi’s hand and crushed her fist into bloody fragments around Natthrafn’s hilt.
Or might have, had Skadi not wrenched her blade down to run the seax’s blade along the inside of the hag’s fist, slicing her hand open to the bone. Quick as she could, she swept Natthrafn across the hag’s belly and slit it open.
Or tried. The hag leaped back, the blow just missing, and her belly was whole even as a golden strand faded from view.
And with its disappearance, the remaining runes around the three threads lost their burning potency.
But faster than Skadi could track the hag leaped back in close and back handed Skadi, knocking her to the deck. She poised to leap upon her but then the whole ship shook, rocking from side to side, and Aurnir rose to his feet.
“Skadi?” he rumbled.
The salt hag froze.
Aurnir left the mast and took a hesitant step forward. He loomed massive in the fog, leaning forward to peer, and with another step stood protectively over her.
Relief like spring water on a hot summer’s day washed over Skadi. “Aurnir.”
He rumbled deep in his chest and stared at the salt hag, his brow lowering in anger.
The salt hag hissed, but still possessed her four golden threads; she’d not expended one to save her hand.
Aurnir reached down, took up an oar, and swung it with both hands at the hag.
The creature leaped back with impossibly nimbleness.
But Aurnir had only to take another massive stride, passing clear over Skadi, and swing his oar again.
The hag flattened herself to the deck, puffing out like a toad, one of her gold lines fading as she did so. Aurnir raised his oak and swatted it down.
The hag leaped aside, cursing vilely in a tongue Skadi didn’t understand, only to jerk forward and turn as Glámr appeared behind her, his slender knife running with the hag’s watery blood.
Another of her lines disappeared.
Neither Glámr nor Aurnir possessed any threads, however; if the hag attempted any attack, they were all as vulnerable as any mortal man.
Panicked, Skadi leaped to her feet and ran at the hag, waving Natthrafn at her face. “Go! Begone! Down to the depths with you, go!”
It was too much for the salt hag. Her pearlescent eyes rolled, she turned from Glámr to Aurnir to Skadi, and then neat as an otter dove over the side and was gone.
Momentum carried Skadi to the gunwale, where she leaned out to stare at the foggy that wreathed the waves.
There was no sign of the salt hag.
“Bad,” rumbled Aurnir.
“Yes, I would say that’s a fair assessment.” Glámr pressed the base of his palm to his brow. “Though my thoughts feel turgid and strange.”
“She cast a spell.” Skadi decided to keep Natthrafn at hand. “I couldn’t wake anybody before. And Lage is dead.”
“I heard shouting,” said Damian, emerging from the fog. “I… is this a dream?”
“Do you often dream of half-trolls?” asked Glámr mockingly.
“The fog’s already thinning out.” Skadi looked about in wonder. “The sleep, the fog, all of this was her doing.”
“Whose?” asked Damian.
“I’ll explain as we rouse the others,” said Skadi with a shudder. “But thank you, all of you. Without your help…”
She saw again the salt hag’s cunning grin, felt its malevolence.
Aurnir rumbled deep in his chest and carefully returned to the mast. Glámr disappeared toward the stern.
“What happened?” asked Damian, blinking the last of his sleep from his golden eyes.
The salt hag’s sleep spell had broken, but why? And only her companions had awoken, not the general crew. And in awakening, they’d expended their golden threads. But why? Was it because Skadi had forced the hag to use a thread? The hag had taken the wound to the hand, but been forced to expend one when her belly was cut open.
Did she need all her threads to power the spell?
“I don’t know,” said Skadi, shaking her head. “But we’re blessed to still be alive. Come, let’s check on the crew.”
And mulling over questions she couldn’t answer, she led the priest amongst the benches to discover how many had died.
Chapter 13
When dawn broke, they consigned the bodies to the waves. It was a gloomy ceremony, the gathered sailors still and bleak-eyed, Damian and Begga once more intoning their words of ritual and parting. The deck refused to dry, and Skadi wondered if some curse from the salt hag lingered still.
“It’s the Draugr Coast,” said Ulfarr after the ceremony was done. “These are cursed waters. There’s a reason none but pirates and bandits choose to homestead here.”
Nobody cared to reply, and the day’s sailing was done in silence. It wasn’t lost on the crew that it had been Skadi who’d driven off the troll woman, but the loss of their companions had shaken them; that night they lit soapstone lanterns and posted three men to keep watch at all times.
Day flowed into day. The weather remained overcast, the sky a chalky white, the wind constant and cold. Skadi had never been on so long a voyage, having only sailed around Hregg to visit Búðir or to venture forth one glorious time to be presented as a child to King Harald in Stóllborg. But this lengthy voyage up the coast was unlike anything she could have imagined; the hours lost meaning, the crack of ropes and sail and the dip of oars, the creak of wood, the mutter of men, the taste of endless amounts of briny meat and twice baked loaves seeming all that there was to living.
Each night she dreamed of her mother’s screaming, of Riki’s throat being slit. Sometimes he lay there shuddering, other times he broke free of his constraints and crawled toward her, his eyes imploring, a blood-soaked hand reaching for her.
She awoke each time in a cold sweat, her heart pounding, and her determination to avenge him renewed.
They passed the fjord that led to Havaklif, then at last reached the entrance to Hake. Not wishing to court more problems, they simply left Tryggr’s three men on rocky shore with a day’s hiking before them to reach the village.
The boat seemed empty without them; Glámr had retreated to a watchful silence, Aurnir subsided to simply staring out over the ocean, and only Damian proved a welcome companion, answering her questions about Nearós Ílios and its war of independence from ancient Palió Oneiro over three hundred years ago.
“It was a bold time,” sighed Damian, leaning over the gunwale. “Having cut off the old empire to the south, and no longer needing to drain our resources to keep it afloat, we turned our gaze outward and began our age of exploration. Our finest sailor, Basilicus the Gold, crossed the Southern Sea and discovered Néo Kósmo, the new world. Great cities were founded along its coast, and for a century everyone prospered. But in time they rebelled against us and renamed themselves as the Archean Empire.”
“And Palió Oneiro?” asked Skadi. The name was known to her, but had mythological overtones, a land nearly as fantastic as that of the gods.
“Its emperor resides still in his Palace of Dreams, sunken in depravity and decadence. But though we trade with them, Nearós Ílios keeps the old empire at a distance; their heresies are persuasive, and we have been wracked by religious wars fomented by radical clerics who wish to return our nation to the fundamental beliefs of the olden ways.”
