Sonning, Reading, England By Martin Pinker

Glow worm cave, New Zealand By danielkordan

Morning Mists

(c) gif by riverwindphotography

Blessed Moon day. (Monday)

I have a new favorite genre of troll tale. Translations are in the alt text. There's about a dozen more of these in book 1 of Evald Tang Kristensen's "Danske Sagn" :D

Nino Migliori | da “ Herbarium “ - 1974

Thralls of Skuld - Chapter 2: The Divine Order

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“I went to see her, you know. To ask for her help.” Unn said, throwing her head in the direction of the simple wooden hut nestled in between the tall grass and wild bushes. They were returning to Eiklund in the late afternoon, after three days of foraging. Eira wondered how flowers and plants could weigh so much.

“I thought you didn’t believe that fate could be changed?”

It was known that some of the woven threads of destiny spun by Norns led directly to vølur, woman wielders of a high magick form of called seiðr. Although they were inhabitants of Midgard, seiðr allowed them to walk between this realm and the eight others. Eira wondered what had driven Unn to call upon the services of such a seeress.

No one knew why this vølve had come to Eiklund two summers ago. Usually vølur were called upon by those in need, arriving with a following of young girls who helped them practice their seiðr through elaborate rituals of singing and drums. Yet the vølve who now resided on the far border of the Eiklund county had come alone, on her own volition. It had caused some suspicion, but she had made no demands or disturbance to the everyday life of the Danir. 

When a child had fallen woefully ill some months after her arrival, desperate parents had sought out the vølve, and she had performed a healing ritual that had fully recovered the sickly child. After that, people from all the nearby settlements flocked to her. Some even attributed last year’s bountiful harvest to her arrival. Yet many still harbored some suspicion towards the inconspicuous seer at the edge of the village. It seemed too good to be true, that she would have come simply to aid the people of Eiklund specifically. Eira herself had never sought her out, and neither had Unn until now.

“It was not for my own sake. When one of Ulf’s boys fell sick, I did not know what to do.” Unn explained. 

Eira remembered the rattling lungs of the scrawny little kid a few months ago. It had been many years since Ulf had lost his own children to the nøkke. He had filled the hole in his heart by taking in three orphaned boys, one of whom was a weak and sickly child.

Unn continued: “Ulf had come to me, you know he does not trust the vølve or anything magick, since the children…” she trailed off for a second and let the heavy words hang in the air. It felt like a small, sharp dagger stabbed between Eira’s ribs, briefly inserted and retracted again.

“But my tinctures and galdr could not help the child, and I could not bear to tell Ulf that it was beyond my powers.” Could not bear to tell him he would lose another child. Eira knew that was what Unn really meant, from the pained expression on her eyes. “So I took the child to the vølve, without telling Ulf. I thought she would heal the child through her own ritual, but instead she asked if she should teach me how to do it.”

“Teach you?” Eira’s mouth fell open. Unn nodded. “You mean, teach you seiðr?”

Eira looked back over her shoulder towards the vølve’s hut, which they had left behind as they turned onto the main road for Eiklund. The saying went ‘to wield seiðr without the Gods’ permission is to challenge Odinn himself.’ There were stories of both Gods and Jarls going to great lengths to stop the common people from using complex magick without permission. A threat to the nobility of Odinn’s chosen bloodline - and all their lucky lackeys - was a threat to the divine order itself. The commoners who showed magick prowess were plainly killed, while suspects were branded with magick runes that weakened them over time. In the olden days, entire villages had been burned to the ground or swallowed by the earth, vanquishing any rebellion that had existed in the hearts of the commoners.

“Yes, she wanted to teach me -” Unn avoided Eira’s wide eyes staring at her.

“This was months ago!” Eira interrupted whichever meek statement was coming next from Unn. “How could you not tell me?”

“I was not quite sure what to make of it. I didn’t know why she would teach me. It felt like being told a secret I did not ask for. I was afraid of what would happen if people knew.” The muscles around Unn’s brow and jaw had tightened. Eira bit her lip, considering the insinuation. It was true, this could not reach the ears of Jarl Ingmar, their vengeful ruler.

“Well -” A gleam sparked in Eira’s eyes, a curious excitement on her lips. “Did it work?”

Unn nodded again, still not quite meeting Eira’s eyes as she said “The boy is still alive, is he not? And stronger than ever.”There was a trace of pride in her voice.

Eira squealed. “Imagine!” she exclaimed, gaping. She grabbed Unn by the shoulder, bringing them both to a halt in the middle of the road. They were close to Eiklund now, the longhouse on the outskirts of the village visible in the distance. She contained herself and said more hushedly, “You must go back to learn more, Unn.”

Unn bit her cheek, removing Eira’s hand from her shoulder, gently but decidedly. “There is a reason why it is not allowed, Eira.” With that, Unn started walking again, not allowing herself to be influenced by Eira’s intent eyes on her. Eira had wanted to ask her more, but Unn walked away too quickly.

As they entered Eiklund, Eira excused herself from following Unn to her house. She had been absorbed by aiding her friend in the past few days, but knew that it was time to catch up with her warband, to prepare for what loomed ahead. They were leaving to join King Gorm’s army in Southern Selund in just a few days. 

As Eira bid Unn goodbye, Unn told her sternly “Do not tell anyone, okay?” and Eira promised, quelling the beaming curiosity inside herself to pursue this new information further. Imagine, she thought again as she made her way between the scattered longhouses of Eiklund, what real seiðr could do in the hands of the people.

Eira found a band of shield-brothers and sisters from Eiklund and the neighbouring villages, gathered at Ulf’s house. The smokey longhouse was filled with laughter and the smell of roast pork, telling Eira that she had arrived at just the right time. Ulf’s house was always a chaos of people.  The three orphan boys he had adopted chased each other around the house like Sól and Máni, the sun and moon who chased each other endlessly in the sky. The boys screeched and fought until they were sent outside with a yell from Ulf’s wife. People often flocked to Ulf’s house, him and his wife known for their exceptional hospitality. Today was no exception.

When she settled next to Geir, he slapped her shoulder heavily with his large hand and greeted her with a warning, his voice warm and jesting: “We were hoping you would not arrive in time for the discussions. We were planning on sending you headfirst into the Sviar legions, having you test out their powers before the rest of us go ahead.”

“Always the strategist.” Eira rolled her eyes.

“It’s brilliant!” Magnus, a young warrior, gestured enthusiastically between Eira and Geir.

“You would say that, wouldn’t you?” A shieldmaiden to Eira’s left jabbed at him, Magnus feigning ignorance over the thinly veiled suggestion. On the battlefield, people grew bonds beyond normal friendship. There was a deep familiarity between the frequently deployed fighters of the jarldom. Sometimes the bond developed further than friendship and loyalty. Most people did not see it in Magnus’ eyes, the utter devotion melting together with his always sparkling eyes and the expected admiration for the famed fighter Geir. For some, it was not even considered a possibility. But Eira was sure of it, and her shield sisters recognised it as well.

“Now tell us Eira, have you finished plucking flowers, so that you can actually discuss this new war with your warband?” Geir said with his roaring laugh. “We need your skills in galdr and runes to bring us to victory.”

The discussions of how exactly they would tackle this new venture continued into the night. Geir was convinced that their new foe, the Sviar, would be strange creatures with unknown powers and tricks. Of course, they had all met many Sviar traders who were as human as themselves, but Geir believed in preparing for the worst.

The coming days proceeded with many preparations before they would all leave to join their neighbours, travelling to the coast of Selund to join the army of their new King. 

So Eira had spent her last days before departure casting runes and inciting galdr in tedious rituals. It was a slow and imperfect process, the outcome never guaranteed. The galdr were rhythmic, metered songs, passed down from parents to their children, or between people of certain vocations. Eira’s verses had been taught to her by other warriors, but she had a special sense for the forceful vocalizations required for effective galdr. The galdr she knew was meant to strengthen the armor of her friends and weaken the weapons of her foes. There was never a way of knowing if it had worked, until they were on the battlefield.

She also weaved protecting words and phrases into wooden shields. Carving destructive runes of Tiwaz for strength and Isa for striking fear in the hearts of their enemies, anointing the runes with the blood of a ritually slain goat. She invoked the many Gods of war, Odinn, Freyja, Thor and Tyr, to grant them prosperity on the battlefield. Eira liked especially to call upon the oversight of Tyr, hoping for a fierce but righteous battle without unnecessary cruelty.

While she had her moments of disdain for the merciless nature of the Gods, Eira accepted the importance of these preparations in swaying the outcome of wars. It was a matter of understanding the divine order of things. Eira had always known her place as a warrior in the world. One must have courage and strength on the battlefield, but they must also know their place within the warformation. A strong shieldwall holds no cracks. This mentality was brandished into the very vocation of the commoner warriors, distinctly separate on the battlefield from the noble Jarl’s men and mages. The common men were blades, sharpened to carry out the bidding of their rulers without question, bound to steel and duty. They were rewarded with the spoils of war, fame and riches, but more importantly, a place in the halls of Odinn or Freyja in their eternal afterlife. This was the sweetest bounty, one which now urged her towards the land of the Sviar with excitement in her chest and courage in her heart.

Thralls of Skuld - Chapter 3: Blood and Yarrows

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The Danir had advanced through Scania quickly, aiming to invade Götaland, the land of the Geats, from the southeast and catch the army unawares. King Gorm’s troup was large but moved swiftly. Svidland was still scattered across jarldoms and smaller kingdoms, and the Geats were the first frontier towards the larger, northern powers of Svidland. King Gorm had brought thousands of warriors from the land of the Danir. They had been unleashed with fury onto the Geats, who indeed were taken aback. But the Geats quickly gained their composure, and retorted forcefully. After months of Danir raids, the Geats had known a storm was coming, and they met them bravely in the early morning hours, finally given a chance to avenge themselves.

The gilded halls of the afterlife would see a rare feast tonight. There was no doubt the valkyries soared high in the sky that day, divine warrior-maidens who picked the strongest of fallen warriors and brought them to Freyja and Odinn. The heath was littered with prospects on this day.

The smell of blood was foul and sweet and intoxicating. The air was thick with clanking of axes, the loud thudding of shields blocking deadly blows. Grunts, shouting, someone screaming loudly, and the wet gargle of someone drowning in their own blood at Eira’s feet. A javelin was singing through the air. The woman to Eira’s left did not duck fast enough as it pierced her layered woolen tunics and threw her on the ground. The dead woman had afforded herself only a helmet, but it had not helped her. Eira thanked the Gods for the spoils of previous battles, as she moved fast through the crowd, protected but unhindered by her leather vest.

Where Gorm had found all those berserkers, she did not know. They were wild warriors wearing bearskins and driven by Odinn’s bloodrush to perform carnage unlike anything Eira had seen before. It was clear that the Danir King’s first and foremost goal was to strike fear in the entire land of the Sviar. The concise, well thought out formations and shield wall advancements Eira knew from Geir’s leadership style in smaller battles were nowhere to be found on the heath that day. The berserkers were awful beasts. They screamed as they advanced, their voices deep and growling, their minds not in this world any more. Like vølur performing rituals, their eyes were blankly floating in another realm, but their flailing arms and fast feet had a presence, a divine knowing of where to strike, that couldn’t be learned. Eira understood now why people said that berserkers were said to be blessed with Odinn’s seiðr, because they were not of this world.

The Danir were gaining ground, moving forward through the hordes, one foe at a time. They moved more collectively, shoulder by shoulder, suffocating the scattered opposition. In a fleeting moment of air in their advance, Eira took in the scene around her. Geir’s enormous person cleaved the way ahead, wielding an axe that most people would not even be able to carry. On his flank was Magnus, as always, never leaving the great Thorian warrior’s back open. To her right stood a Danir warrior with an exceptional sword, a great feat of iron which was rarely found in the ranks of the common men, who mostly wielded axes and spears. The warrior was uncommonly unscathed for someone who had fought alongside them for hours. Wiping blood off her own brow, Eira did not know whether to respect him or disdain him. He must be either an exceptional fighter, or an exceptionally cowardly one, to look untouched on the seventh hour of fighting. 

Her eyes shifted back to the Geat in front of her, knowing a wandering eye on the battlefield could mean death in seconds. Her enemy had made that exact mistake, and Eira charged at him, shield first, smashing his helmet to his brow, her axe whispering through the air before it reached the soft tissue of his chest. When she looked up again, the unscathed warrior had disappeared from the brigade. Maybe his fate had finally caught up with him.

It was chaos, but it was somehow effective - each side fought with awestruck inspiration in a way that made blood rush to Eira’s ear and left a slight smile on her face as she placed her axe between a young man’s eyes. This was the way to live, and this was the way to die. There was a unison in knowing that. It transversed Danir or Sviar, enemy or foe. Drunken on the bloodshed, every warrior on the heath that day felt that they were fighting for a spot in Freyja’s hall Folkvangr, or Odinn’s hall Valhalla, and each enemy was but an aide on the way to that glorious afterlife.

That, of course, was not the whole truth. They were not there to enter Valhalla in a fury of blood and glory, but because King Gorm had a self-serving vision, in which he ruled over all the men of the northern lands. He was more than willing to sacrifice the lot of them to make it happen. Eira had not seen the famed Gorm, did not know the face of the man she was fighting for. Ingmar, Thorstein and the other jarls, who had travelled north with them on their grandiose longships, were also nowhere to be seen. But all of this was easy to forget in the overwhelming confusion and roar of adrenaline.

Maybe the stark absence of their own noble rulers was the reason something across the battlefield stood out so boldly, distracting her momentarily from the life and death scene unfolding in front of her. Far across, in another battalion of warriors, stood a man in the midst of the common men, who looked anything but common. Strong, swift and frightening, the man towered over his surroundings. Wielding a highly adorned iron sword, and clad in a hauberk the like of which Eira had rarely seen on the battlefield of commoners. His presence stopped her in her tracks. This man was not supposed to be on this heath. Had the Geats made the unlikely move of unleashing a high ranking magick wielder on the commoners?

Something caught in her throat, harsh and violent. Maybe her body knew before her brain that she had made a fatal mistake. She did not see the Geat before he was above her, planting his axe deeply into Eira’s clavicle with a squelch and a crunch. Hard and precise. A perfect blow, her leather armor helpless against it. Eira fell to her knees, her eyes wild as she tried to orient herself. The sky was gray, harsh above her. The ground was cold. The air sang with clangs of iron on wood. Thunder, or maybe the waves of a stormy ocean, welled up in her ears.

In seconds she was soaked by thick, warm liquid, each pulse drawing out her lifeforce. She began to whisper, desperately, the only prayer of galdr she could think of for strength to face what was coming. Give heed!  For I did not creep behind a shield. For I lived sworn as a blade of the Æsir. By Tyr! Ask first Eir for mercy…  Her voice failed her, and the forcefulness required of galdr was just a croak that eventually waned. She had never tried dying before, but knew this must be what it felt like. The hands of Skuld grabbed her, cold palms twisting her heart. She was thrashing, looking for a way to wield off the enemies closing in on her to deal the final blow. If she could only muster a swing of her arm, a signal for help. Something. Anything. 

In a crack of fire, the air around her seemed to explode. It was like the spark of a blacksmith’s hammer on the forge, but booming loud and forceful. The Geat towering above her flew through the air, as if grabbed by an invisible valkyrie. An exclaim of pure shock and fear escaped from someone close to her as they were propelled through the air. From the corner of her eyes, she saw other people land with hard thumps on the earth around her. Unmoving. She wanted to look for the source, to understand the change in the air, but she could not turn her head. She thought she might have lost the last of her life’s blood. The pain dulled, but it did not vanish. Skuld’s hands loosened as the gaping feeling in her chest dissipated. Two ravens circled above her in the sky and she knew surely, with Odinn watching, that this was it.

…

When she woke, she felt like she had not existed in months. There was a pressure on her chest. She knew Geir was somewhere by her shoulder, and she told him the last thing she had thought of before she had closed her eyes, eons ago: That this was it. She felt like he ought to know that she was leaving him. But instead of Geir’s face, she saw another person lean over her. Light blue eyes, dark hair. Someone she recognised faintly, a resemblance of someone she had only seen briefly the battlefield. An unscathed warrior with a great sword. But she couldn’t stop herself from leaning backwards into the shadows, a swooping feeling in her stomach of falling into a void, as everything disappeared around her.

…

A stabbing pain from her throat and chest jolted through her, telling her it had not been a dream. Was she home? She couldn’t be. Her bed was moving. The sharp herbal scent of yarrow and comfrey poultice rose from just below her nose, stinging her and overwhelming her senses. It smelled like Unn’s hands. The wet dressing on her clavicle was a cooling contrast to her burning skin. 

She listened to the sounds around her for a while before they began to make sense to her. She heard the waves first. The chatter and clanks, thumps and scuffling of people around her. Then, seagulls. They must be close to shore. Slowly, as if the muscles around her eyes had weakened completely, she blinked her eyes open. The sky above her was a light wash of grey with streaks of blue peeking through, a smatter of fluffy clouds dappled across. It must be the early hours of the morning, Sól not having ridden onto the sky in her chariot yet. Eira’s bed swayed gently up and down. If it was not for the pain, she might think she was flying. She blinked a long, slow blink, trying to lift a cloud from her mind. When she opened her eyes again, Geir’s grey eyes were staring down at her, a frown on his face, his ginger hair falling wild and uncombed towards her.

He did not say anything for a long time. She was not sure if her sense of time was off, or if he was really just standing there, inspecting her. Eventually, he reached for something at her side, pulling out and opening a small leather pouch. “‘Reckon you’ll want this” he mumbled gruffly, stuffing small pieces of willow bark into her mouth. She did not fight it. 

Her jaw felt slack, but she chewed meekly anyway. At least the stiffness of tetanus had not set in her jaw. The bitterness of the bark made her wince. The line between Geir’s brow deepened. He still had not spoken, and it was unnerving. He was a thinker, yes, when it came to strategy and the ways of the world, but words always came easy to him and he was never quiet for long.

“What…” she began, her voice hoarse like grainy sand. He turned his head stiffly, holding out a large palm to cut her off. He knew what she wanted to ask, and he did not want to answer.