Chapter Thirty-Eight: Elvar

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

ELVAR

Elvar stood beside a gloss-black boulder, staring as the sun rose in the east, banishing the darkness and bringing colour to life in the world of ash and shadow. She wiped sweat from her brows, not quite believing what she could see, even though she was stood here, looking at it with her own eyes.

“So that is the vaesen pit,” Grend said beside her.

They were stood on what felt like a cliff edge, the ground covered in thin soil and yellowed grass, here and there patches of gloss-black rock shining through. And before them a chasm opened, wide and deep, and within it a river of fire flowed, black-crusted, glowing orange, flares of white heat here and there. Hot thermals rose out of the pit, covering Elvar in a sheen of sweat. For days now, the temperature had been rising. Initially after leaving Lake Horndal and walking north it had become colder each day, and by the third day they had been travelling through snow-covered lands. Grend had woken to ice in his beard. But later that day the snow on the ground had begun to thin, even though they were trudging through a blizzard. Cold winds still blew, and snow still fell, but the ground had become warmer. Elvar had felt it through her boots. The snow and ice on the ground had just begun to melt away. And then, late yesterday, Elvar had seen patches of grass and black rock through the melting snow. Soon after, Elvar had stripped off her sealskin cloak and wolf pelt and strapped them to one of the pack ponies that already carried her helm and spear, though she still wore her mail coat and weapons belt, her shield slung across her back. Snow still fell around her, but it hissed and evaporated in the air, the ground pulsing with heat like a fresh-baked loaf just taken from the oven.

“Have you ever seen such a thing?” Elvar breathed.

“No,” Grend muttered. “And then there is that.” He pointed north, beyond the chasm that was the vaesen pit, towards a mountain, its top sheer and almost level, as if a giant had taken a huge axe to the mountain and chopped its head off. Veins of red latticed the mountainside, where streams of fire leaked from its crust like pus from festering wounds.

“Eldrafell, the fire mountain,” Elvar said. “Growing up in Snakavik and Snaka’s skull, you become used to the wondrous. I never thought I would see something that made me feel… awe.”

“Ha, that is a truth,” Grend barked a laugh, which was rare for him.

The tales told that Mount Eldrafell had been broken in the fall of Snaka and that an ocean of fire had burst from its throat, spewing over the land and pouring into the vaesen pit, a huge rent in the land where the vaesen dwelled. They had fled the flames, all manner of creatures that had dwelled in the world below, clawing and climbing their way out of the pit into the world of sky and air and flesh.

Lights danced and flickered in the sky, silhouetting Mount Eldrafell and the horizon. They were fading with the arrival of the sun, but still bright enough for Elvar to see. There were lights of all colours and hues: amber and red and purple spiralled and swirled around blues and greens and pinks. During the brief night the whole horizon had been lit with the undulating incandescence of the guðljós, the god-light. Some said it was the souls of the gods who had fallen in battle, unable to rest, still waging their eternal war.

“It is… beautiful,” Elvar breathed.

“Heya,” Grend agreed. He looked at Elvar. “Following you has been…” He paused, looking intently at her. “Eventful.”

Elvar smiled. “Better than growing a belly and watching over a spoiled jarl’s daughter in Snakavik,” she said.

Grend shrugged and pulled a face, as if he were unsure about that.

Elvar slapped his arm.

“You should have spoken to Gytha, while we were in Snakavik,” Elvar said.

Grend’s face changed, the humour and warmth evaporating, his jaw a tight line.

“It would only have caused pain. To stir the embers of a hearth fire that cannot blaze.”

“It could blaze,” Elvar said. “Gytha could join us.” She looked at him, saw that settle into his thoughts. A ripple of hope flickered across his features followed by pain, a pinching of his eyes.

“She would not come. She made an oath to your father.”

“You never asked her. She would do it for you.”

He let out a long, exhaled breath.

“And then I would be the cause of her oath-breaking.” A muscle twitched in his jaw.

“You are a stubborn mule,” Elvar said. “Life is for the living, happiness for the taking.” An image of Biórr’s face appeared in her thought-cage. It was not the first time she had thought of him during the journey into the north, since he had kissed her.

Grend shook his head.

Footsteps sounded behind them and Agnar joined them, Uspa and Kráka with him.

“It is a sight, and no denying,” Agnar said, a grin on his face as he looked out over the vaesen pit.

The Battle-Grim had made camp on a small hillock fifty or sixty paces away from the pit’s edge. They had arrived a short while ago, just before nightfall, or, more accurately, twilight, because as they approached the summer solstice the darkness of night had faded into a long, extended and mist-like twilight. Uspa had strode to the brink of the vaesen pit and then prowled along its edge, the whole of the Battle-Grim following her. Elvar had been about ready to drop with exhaustion when Uspa had declared they were at the right place, and then all had set about making camp, much to Agnar’s frustration. He had wanted to cross over to the other side, but Uspa had said that it was impossible, and that they would have to wait for the right time.

For today.

“We must find the bridge and move on,” Agnar said, staring across the vaesen pit and scanning the northern horizon. Elvar stared, too, wondering where the famed bridge was. She could see no sign of it, only molten fire and smoke.

“And where is Oskutreð?” Agnar murmured. “It is supposed to be the greatest of all trees, its boughs holding up the sky. Surely we should be able to see it?”

“Much was destroyed on the Guðfalla,” Uspa said. “Do not expect it to appear as it does in the tales.” She pointed at a series of rolling hills to the east of Eldrafell. “Dark-of-Moon Hills,” she said. “We are close.”

“We must find the Isbrún Bridge and move on, then,” Agnar repeated, turning and looking back, to the south. Elvar followed his gaze but could see nothing but blue skies and in the distance the white glare of sun on snow. She squinted. Was that something, on the edge of her vision? A smudge of movement on the horizon?

They had travelled north with surprisingly little opposition from vaesen, considering that the vaesen prowled the plains north of the Boneback Mountains with far more boldness than they trod the lands to the south. Fewer humankind lived on this side of the mountains, and those who did dwelled in isolated, stockaded steadings, rune-marked and defended by stout-hearted men and women. A day ago, they had come across the carcasses of an entire herd of elk in the snow, over fifty animals laying in the blood-spattered snow, strips of flesh and fur frozen and ragged among the bones.

It was difficult to tell what had killed them, as they had been visited and gnawed upon by all kind of predators and carrion-feeders, including tennúr who had stripped the skulls of all their teeth. But to trap and bring fifty elk down, that required a fearsome amount of vaesen, and not just a feat of strength, but of cunning as well.

“Have you found the elk-slayers with your keen eyes?” Kráka asked Agnar.

“What are they? Wights, skraelings, Huldra-folk?” Elvar asked, that familiar tremor in her gut, in her blood, where she longed to prove her worth, to earn her battle-fame. To prove her father wrong.

“Ach, it might be nothing,” Agnar said, blinking and looking away, rubbing his eyes from the snow-glare. “Either way, whether it is something or nothing, we need to be moving on.”

“Today is the day,” Uspa said, looking up at the sky. “It is sólstöður, the beginning of the long day, when night is banished from the sky for thirty days.”

“Good,” Agnar said, laughing and clapping his hands. “Let’s be on with it, then.”

Elvar stood in silence, Grend one side of her, Biórr the other. The Battle-Grim were lined together on the slope of the hill they had camped upon, silent and grim in the light of the rising sun, all of them looking north at the vaesen pit and what lay beyond. One of the pack ponies stamped its feet and whickered.

Uspa stepped forwards and walked the twenty paces to the black granite boulder Elvar had stood beside earlier. The Seiðr-witch drew a seax at her belt and sliced it across the heel of her palm, blood welling. She made a fist, then opened her hand and touched her bloody fingertips to the black boulder, slowly pressing her palm upon it.

“Isbrú, opinberaðu þig, blóð guðanna skipar þér,” Uspa chanted. Her blood gathered in cracks in the rock, trickling down to the ground. A tremor passed through the boulder, as if it were breathing, and then the imprint of a hand appeared, huge, dwarfing Uspa’s. Elvar blinked and stared harder.

No, she thought. Not a handprint, a pawprint. Claws the length of Elvar’s seax were carved into the gloss-black rock.

A wolf or bear print. Is that the mark of Ulfrir, or Berser? The mark of a god?She felt a flutter of excitement and fear in the pit of her belly.

“Isbrú, opinberaðu þig, blóð guðanna skipar þér,” Uspa called out again, stepping away from the boulder and walking towards the vaesen pit, five paces from its edge, four, three, two, until it looked as if she would step over the edge and plummet to her death.

“No,” Agnar cried out.

And Uspa stepped over the chasm’s edge into thin air.

Gasps and shouts came from among the Battle-Grim, Agnar stumbling forwards.

Uspa’s foot came down on something solid.

The air before Uspa shimmered, like a heat haze, but filled with flickering colours, as if the guðljós lights that Elvar had seen shimmering in the night sky had fallen to the earth. They formed into a shape, wide and long, a writhing, twisting bridge that arced over the vaesen pit to the land beyond.

“Behold, the Isbrún Bridge,” Uspa called out as she turned and looked back at the Battle-Grim.

Elvar felt a smile split her lips, excitement a tremor in her bones. The saga-tales were coming to life, and she was a part of it.

“Ha,” Agnar shouted, punching his fist into the air and laughing, jumping on the spot.

“Battle-Grim, there lies the bridge to Oskutreð. The last feet to tread upon it belonged to the gods,” Agnar cried out, grinning at them all, and a cheer rang out from them, feet stamping, spear butts thumping on the ground, Elvar joining her voice with theirs.

A sensation in Elvar’s feet, a vibration through her boots. She frowned, looked down and saw that the ground of the slope she was standing upon was shuddering, a tremor in the grass, the soil vibrating. Her weight shifted and she stepped back, frowning.

Something moved in the earth where she had been standing. A shape appeared, like a handful of pale, pink wyrms, glistening and writhing.

No, not wyrms. Fingers. Or claws.

A hand thrust out of the ground, small as a child’s, but the fingers were long, thin and sharp, then another hand reached out, a face appearing, fragile and sharp-featured: a narrow line of a nose and chin, hairless with large, dark eyes. It hauled itself out of the ground, standing as tall as her knee. Ink-dark veins threaded pale-pink skin, wings on its back shaking, a cloud of soil in the air. It looked up at Elvar and opened its mouth wide, revealing two rows of teeth, the outer one sharp, the inner row flat, like grindstones, and it hissed at her.

A tennúr!

All along the slope the ground was trembling and shifting, more of the small creatures appearing. Thirty, forty, fifty of them, more than Elvar could count, and more still clawing their way from the ground. It was as if the hillock they had camped upon were some huge nest. Their wings snapped out behind them, soil spraying in small clouds, and they were leaping into the air, hurling themselves at the Battle-Grim. Shouts of shock and warning rippled along the line of warriors. Elvar staggered away as the tennúr that had emerged at her feet flew at her, claws reaching, jaws gaping wide. She fumbled for her sword, trying to shrug her shield off her back and into her fist. Sharp claws raked her face and she cried out, her sword half out of its scabbard. The tennúr’s claws hooked into her cheeks and it pulled itself on to her, jaws gaping wide, its teeth far too close.

Elvar shook her head, her sword clearing her scabbard, then she stumbled and fell backwards. The tennúr still clung to her; its jaws lunged forwards.

A shower of blood and bone exploded over Elvar’s face, the tennúr abruptly gone, Grend standing over her with his axe. Elvar lay on the ground, staring up at him, then there was movement beneath her and small hands were clawing out of the ground to reach around one leg, more movement around her arm. She thrashed and heaved but could not pull herself free. Grend’s axe rose and fell, rose and fell, tennúr screeching, more blood like a mist in the air and Elvar was free, lurching to her feet, Grend chopping at another tennúr in the air as it flitted down upon Elvar, wings buzzing. She realised that Grend had two tennúr clawing their way up his legs, claws raking bloody grooves through his breeches, and that he was ignoring them to defend her. She stabbed one through the back and skewered it. The creature shrieked and flailed, letting go of Grend’s leg, and she threw it spinning from her blade to slam into another tennúr in the air, both of them crashing to the ground.

More tennúr were on Grend, one hanging on to his back, jaws opening wide and crunching down on his shoulder, the sound of mail grating on teeth. Elvar stabbed it through one eye and it fell away, loose-limbed.

Elvar had her shield in her fist, now, and she punched the boss into a tennúr as it flew at her, sending it spiralling away. Grend grunted, more tennúr swarming around him. Blood flowed from wounds on his legs, claw marks on his neck and chin, and sheeted down his face from a wound on his scalp. Elvar stabbed and chopped at the creatures upon him, a red-blood harvest. When he was clear they moved back to back, shields raised, sword and axe slashing and stabbing against the swirling blizzard of wings and teeth and claws, guarding each other. Elvar wished she had not left her spear and helm strapped to one of the pack ponies.

Agnar was bellowing, battle-cries or orders, Elvar was not quite sure. She glimpsed warriors around her running to him, their shields slamming together, forming a small circle, spears and swords stabbing out. The shield wall began to move towards the Isbrún Bridge. A horse screamed, reared and collapsed, swamped with tennúr. A woman on the ground, Sólín, Elvar thought, was rolling in the heaving grass and soil, fighting a trio of tennúr as they tried to prise her jaws apart and rip her teeth from her gums.

We need to move, to join Agnar’s shield wall.

There was a grunt from Grend, and Elvar felt his weight shift from her back, falling away. She turned and saw a tennúr perched on Grend’s shoulder, a gloss-black stone in its hands, red and dripping. Grend lay sprawled upon the ground, the black hair on the back of his head matted with blood, the tennúr dragging at his head, trying to get long-clawed fingers into his mouth.

Grend, the only constant in her life, the man who had given her his oath and never broken it, the man who had sacrificed everything to protect her.

Elvar screamed, fury and fear mingled, and chopped at the tennúr with the rock, sending its head spinning through the air. She stepped over Grend’s motionless body, shield raised, sword stabbing and hacking as tennúr tried to fall upon him.

She was the only one standing on the slope. Agnar and his shield wall were halfway to the bridge, and further away Sighvat, Kráka, Huld and the Hundur-thrall were dragging the surviving ponies in a half-circle away from the hillock and the swarming tennúr.

A spark of fear rose in her belly at being left with these vermin. To have her teeth and eyes ripped out. To be so close to Oskutreð and to fail.

“AGNAR!” Elvar bellowed, and she saw the shield wall ripple to a halt in its passage towards the bridge. She glimpsed Agnar’s face looking over a shield rim at her. And then he was shouting, the words lost in the din of shrieking tennúr, but the shield wall started to move back towards her. She felt a flare of hope in her belly.

Many of the tennúr saw the shield wall moving too, and flew into a frenzy, more and more of them hurling themselves at Elvar until she could see nothing but wings and teeth and claws. She felt blows raking her, hot fire as claws scratched rents in her flesh, her mail grating, her sword and shield red and battered, arms leaden, muscles burning. Weakness seeped through her body.

From blood loss, dimly she realised, knowing that she could not stay on her feet much longer.

And then tennúr were shrieking and wailing, falling around her, wings and arms limp. A figure appeared through the curtain of wings and bodies, a man, wielding a spear with Berserkir speed, stabbing and slicing in great arcs. A gap opened among the tennúr and Elvar saw him: Biórr, his lips drawn back in a snarl, as he waded through the flying creatures, using his spear and shield to carve and force his way into the maelstrom of vaesen. He saw Elvar and grinned, then looked down at Grend.

The sight of Biórr gave Elvar a burst of new strength and she raised her shield, stabbed and hacked and slashed. Biórr reached her and they stood over Grend and fought until a gap opened around them, the tennúr retreating, hovering, staring at Elvar with malice and hunger in their eyes. Biórr used the respite to throw his shield across his back and squat, pulling Grend up with a grunt and heaving the big man on to his shoulders, then he stood.

The tennúr swarmed back upon them, but Elvar raised her shield and forged a path through them, shielding Biórr and Grend as best she could. She tripped over something, managed to stay on her feet and saw a bloodied corpse on the ground, unrecognisable as tennúr shredded its flesh, fighting over teeth as they were ripped from a lacerated mouth. Shouts and yells filtered through to her, and then the boiling storm of vaesen were thinning and she saw shields, a wall of them marching towards her. She broke into more open ground as she left the slope, the land levelling, tennúr still buzzing around her, but glimpses of the sky among them. She saw Sólín rolling on the ground, trying to hold a tennúr with one hand, her seax in her other fist, stabbing at the creature. Elvar swerved and sliced, hacking into the tennúr’s shoulder. It squeaked and fell away. Elvar grabbed Sólín’s wrist and hauled the grey-haired warrior to her feet. Agnar’s voice bellowed and she saw his face among the shield wall. A gap opened in the shields, Elvar pushing Sólín on, through the gap and falling back to cover Biórr. After a few more heartbeats Biórr stumbled and staggered into the Battle-Grim, Grend across his shoulders, Elvar behind him. Shields snapped tight, protecting them, and then the shield wall was moving, away from the hillock and towards the Isbrún Bridge.

Elvar heard a buzzing above her, a sharp pain in her ear and scalp, as a tennúr fell upon her head, fingers clawing into her and entwining in her braided hair. Agnar grabbed the creature by the throat, its jaws snapping, and ripped it off Elvar, throwing it to the ground where it was stamped and trampled upon. The shield wall moved on, the buzz of tennúr falling away, and Elvar shoved her way to Biórr’s side, her hand going to Grend’s throat, checking for a pulse.

She sighed with relief as she found it, slow and rhythmic.

“My thanks,” she said, squeezing Biórr’s arm. He gave a half-smile, grunting under the weight of Grend.

Elvar glanced back over her shoulder as the shield wall continued its march and saw a cloud of the vaesen hovering and whirling above the hillock, clusters of them on the ground where they crawled and buzzed thick as ants over what must be corpses: one pony and a handful of warriors.

And then the ground changed beneath Elvar’s feet, from grass and soil to something solid as rock. Elvar looked down and saw that she was upon the Isbrún Bridge. Agnar hissed a breath in and the shield wall opened up, warriors stuttering to a stop and staring.

The bridge was wide enough for fifty warriors to walk abreast, and made of ice, thick and solid, a crunch and crackle under Elvar’s feet, like walking on frost-touched grass. Light shimmered within the ice, captured and fractured from the molten river that Elvar could see through the bridge, bubbling far below.

How does the ice not melt?

“This is not the place to stop,” Uspa called out, standing at the arch of the bridge. Behind her lay land that had not been seen or trodden upon by humankind for three hundred years.

“Ha, the Seiðr-witch speaks truth,” Agnar called out. “Onwards,” he bellowed, “to Oskutreð.”