a Gathering of Ravens to Read "Online"

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Almost the Writer

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For Steve Tompkins and Miguel Martins, shield-brothers.

All fled, all done, so lift me on the pyre;

The feast is over and the lamps expire.

—ROBERT Eastward. HOWARD

He knew himself a villain—but he deem'd

The rest no better than the matter he seem'd;

And scorn'd the all-time as hypocrites who hid

Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did.

He knew himself detested, but he knew

The hearts that loath'd him, crouch'd and dreaded too.

Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt

From all affection and from all antipathy.

—LORD BYRON, THE CORSAIR

Book I

THE Island OF SJÆLLAND, THE DANEMARK

THE Yr OF OUR LORD 999

1

The storm howled out of the w like the terrible vox of God, shouting down the heretics who doubted the coming Apocalypse. The fall had been warmer than information technology should, and Njáll son of Hjálmarr—who in the last year had forsworn the whale-route and then he might carry the banner of the White Christ—knew he should not have trusted it would hold. The priest dorsum in Jelling, that scrofulous bastard who preached conversion with the sword rather than the psalter, had warned him that this oväder—this un-weather condition—was of the Devil's making; that the fumes of Hell warmed the world of Man, and before long the armies of God would strike from the Gates of Heaven to set the rest right.

A yr ago, before his conversion, Njáll would have dismissed the priest for a fool. He would take seen the infidel manus of Thor in the deafening crash of thunder and the jags of lightning crackling across the nighttime-black sky; heard the false laughter of Rán in the pelting hail and the sheets of rain soaking him to the os. And he would have sacrificed and called out to Odin for succor. But, like the blessed campaigner Paulos, the scales had fallen from Njáll'south eyes and he could see the truth laid out before him: the power of the old gods was breaking, and the world'south end was nigh—and not the treacherous lie that was Ragnarok, with its false promises of glory and slaughter without end, but the Day of Judgment when the White Christ would return and scour the world clean of heathens and apostates and deniers of the Lord.

And Njáll Hjálmarr's son counted himself blessed to have received the gift of conservancy so shut to the stop …

Thunder shook the heavens. Njáll kept a tight grip on the halter of their donkey. The beast shied and threatened to commodities with every step, its eyes rolling in fearfulness. Simply the force in his great shoulders, a legacy of the days he had gone raiding with Norway'southward king, Olaf Tryggve's son, kept the animal from plunging off the path and into the undergrowth, where current of air-stripped leaves faded from orange and cerise to a muddy brownish in silent testimony to the coming wintertime. The path, hardly improve than a cow trail, led inland from the beach at Seal Reef. Roskilde was their destination; once in that location, his companion, Aidan, would have service with old Father Gunnar and Njáll would … would what? Simply expect the Stop of Days?

Water sluiced from Njáll'southward salt-and-pepper beard as he hauled on the rope lead; he tried to elevate the blasted ass simply the effort simply gouged furrows in the mud. His feet slipped on wet rock; he nearly fell. Njáll railed at the animal, his voice lost to the roaring air current. "Damn you, you miserable animate being! I swear if we reach Roskilde I'thou going to skin you and make a pair of boots from your flea-bitten hibernate!"

For a moment, Njáll considered backtracking to the beach, to ride out the storm in the moss-grown ruins of the former stone belfry at that place—a relic of the days when the kings of the Shield-Danes ruled over Sjælland. But Seal Reef was a skillful two hours or more than behind, while Roskilde was a day, perhaps 2, alee. No, they needed shelter here, now.

There was a lull in the rain; the repeat of thunder rolled from horizon to horizon. Njáll glanced well-nigh, seeking Aidan. The irrepressible young Briton, who for the terminal twelvemonth had helped guide the Dane through the darkness and into the light of the Christ, was ahead of him, clambering up the rock and scrub of the hillside. Njáll frowned. "Aidan!"

Aidan turned. The gale snatched off his cowl, revealing a shock of pilus the color of dark copper and non fifty-fifty a hint of a beard. He aptitude into the fierce wind; his blackness woolen mantle flapped like vestigial wings as he pointed to something a short way up the slope.

There, partially hidden past hawthorn and brier, was the yawning oral cavity of a cave.

Njáll waved him back. Though secure in his newfound faith, the Dane had not lost the superstitions of his heathen kin. He had learned from a young age that a cave similar that might shelter any number of savage creatures, across bears or wolves. Witches could meet in that location in conclave, to weave the songs that wrought the doom of good men; trolls, wights, and goblins might lurk in the shadows, ready to seize unwary travelers. The spreading Word of God might keep the evils of a forgotten world at bay, but it could non destroy them completely …

Njáll shouted at the younger man, common cold dread seeping into his bones. "It's not safe!"

"Safer than walking in this wrack!" Aidan replied, his voice high and sharp, like that of a castrato. Before Njáll could respond, Aidan scrambled up the gradient, slipped behind the hawthorn thicket, and vanished into the oral fissure of the cave.

Njáll reeled off a long—and very un-Christian—litany of curses. He did not cartel leave the ass to its own devices. 1 abrupt crack of thunder and they would non see their belongings once more until they reached Roskilde, if then. Njáll's curses redoubled as he manhandled the animate being upwards the slope; despite the chill and the rain soaking him to the bone, sweat dripped from his brow by the time he reached the stand of hawthorn. The God-cursed animal balked at entering the cave, so Njáll compromised: he tied the ass'southward lead rope equally tightly as he could to the thickest branch he could observe. Pausing to dig a disguised axe with a short oak haft from his gear—the skeggox he had carried on the whale-road—Njáll charged in through branch and bramble, one-half-expecting to see zippo left of Aidan but encarmine shreds.

But Njáll's war weep died on his lips, his accuse to decease and glory arrested by a singled-out lack of foes. Indeed, the slender swain stood whole and unscathed within the oral cavity of the cavern. He looked over his shoulder at Njáll, blue eyes daring the moisture and bedraggled Dane to reprimand him. Though Aidan'due south cheeks were ruby and windburned, his features were as fine and delicate equally whatever adult female's. Njáll might accept marked him for a lesser son of nobility had he not known better.

"God loves a fool," Njáll muttered, breathing hard. "That's the only reason I can fathom why you're non dead nevertheless."

Aidan grinned. "God also helps those who aid themselves, which is why nosotros now have shelter from the storm."

Caves were a rarity on Sjælland, and this i, Njáll could meet, was rarer nonetheless. It was gigantic. It could easily have held the burying mound of Gorm the Onetime, back in Jelling. The cave archway hung like a ledge in the wall of a mine shaft; gray light and pelting

trickled downwards from a scrub-choked fissure twenty feet over their heads, the water dropping down to pool in a corner of the cave flooring, some thirty feet below them. A trio of stunted hawthorn trees grew at the border of the puddle, branches still festooned with fall leaves; a 4th, cipher but a dead husk, stood similar a naked caricature of its brothers. How far dorsum the cavern stretched Njáll could not auscultate, for its farthest reaches lay cloaked in darkness. He wondered if this might exist the lair of the dragon that slew and was slain past old Bödvar, the Geat who fabricated himself rex of the Shield-Danes? Though given over to the Christ, Njáll felt his once-pagan blood stir at the idea of testing the edge of his axe against the scales of a neat wyrm. That would be a good decease!

Aidan shuffled shut to the edge and peered down at the puddle. "Why doesn't it overflowing?"

"Drains out through chinks in the rock, I'd wager." Njáll sniffed the air. It was damp and musty, with a faint metallic-animal reek that reminded him of a desperately tanned leather jerkin worn beneath a chain hauberk.

To the right of the entrance, a series of rock shelves like stair steps carved by dwarves led down to the cavern floor. Njáll tested them. They were slick with moisture but solid. The Dane descended first, axe held loosely in his fist. His gratis hand brushed the cave walls. Under his fingers, he could feel scratches and grooves.

"Runes," he said, his voice echoing.

Aidan looked closer. "Here's a word in Latin, I recall."

"What does information technology say?"

The youth tilted his head this manner and that, rising on his toes as he tried to become a improve view of the faint inscription. "'Or-Orcadii,' perhaps? Maybe 'Orcades'?"

"Orkney?"

Aidan shrugged. "Hard to tell. Could be…"

Jags of hard white light flashed from overhead; in answer, thunder seemed to shake the very ground. By the time they reached the last step, a fresh deluge was pouring from the fissure. Chains of lightning fabricated bright the gloom of the cave; by their brilliant flares Njáll saw another sigil chiseled deep into the wall: an eye, its slitted educatee similar that of some monstrous serpent. The behemothic Dane shuddered.

"What bandit'south lair is this?"

"Does it matter?" Aidan replied. "God has granted us a dry place of respite from the tempest. Would you turn up your nose at a gift from the Almighty?"

Njáll glared up at the eye; the crude savagery of its carving left him uneasy, similar a memory of something—some whispered warning—from his childhood. He glanced effectually, half-expecting a fork-tailed devil to leap from the shadows. "Satan'south own forepart porch is no gift."

Aidan chuckled, shaking his head. "Come, turn your axe on that dead tree so we can go a fire going. I'll meet to our poor donkey. I think yous will better appreciate the Lord'south generosity with dry apparel, warm feet, and a hot meal in your abdomen."

Njáll grumbled, simply in brusk order the two had congenital a pocket-sized military camp against the cave wall, well-nigh the rising steps. No corporeality of coaxing, nevertheless, would convince the donkey to move deeper than the relatively dry cavern mouth. Taking pity on the trembling animate being, Aidan unloaded their possessions—ii woven reed panniers, their contents wrapped in seal skin—and left the donkey hobbled and tied past the cavern entrance, along with a measure of oats and a bucket of water drawn upwards from the pool beneath.

The fire crackled to life, lending warmth and a little light to their corner of the cave. While Njáll busied himself with setting a hank of salted pork to roast over the flames, Aidan took his spare clothing and moved off to the far side of the cave—out of sight—to change. When he returned, he laid his wet garments out to dry. Njáll followed conform, a ritualized sort of modesty that seemed natural between the 2 of them. While Njáll was gone Aidan fished some bread and cheese and a scattering of dried apples from their gear, forth with a flask of watered mead, and prepared them each a plate of food. The smell of roasting pork, and the sizzle and pop of fat, made Aidan's mouth water. Stirring the fire, he felt a faint breeze coming from deeper in the cave, similar the exhalation of some groovy beast. He was staring at the darkness behind them when Njáll came back. "How deep under the earth do you recall this cave goes?" he asked the Dane, who knelt and spread his own wet clothes out alongside Aidan'south.

Njáll glanced at the rear of the cavern and shrugged. "Only God knows."

"We should investigate it."

"Non until I have the warm feet and bellyful of nutrient y'all spoke of."

Njáll sat on the lowest pace; Aidan handed him a plate, and both men bowed their heads equally Aidan recited the Lord's Prayer, his mixed accents, English and Danish, mangling its Latin phrases. At the end, both of them muttered, "Amen." And with a nod, they savage upon their food.

"Who made that, y'all think?" Aidan asked, jerking his narrow chin at the eye sigil. "And what does it mean?"

"An ogre, like as not," Njáll said around a mouthful of pork. "My grandfather told me caves like this were hacked out of the world by the sons of Ymir, foul beasts who beverage the blood of good Christians." Njáll paused. He swallowed and then fixed Aidan with an iron-hard stare. "Are you a good Christian? They will ask y'all this, once we accomplish Roskilde. They will ask how you came to be here. They will ask you about your home, your people, and why you left a place as sacred as Glastonbury to bring together a wretched footling church building that'south ii hairs shy of the asshole of the globe. And they will ask if you lot cleave to our Lord'south commandments. How volition you reply?"

Aidan didn't flinch; this was an old game between them, training for taking up a life of holy service when truth and circumstance did not match one another precisely. "I will respond with alacrity," Aidan replied, "and silently implore God to forgive the lies that must escape my lips. I will tell them the tale of Ruby Njáll Hjálmarr'south son, who captured me in the sack of Exeter and forced me into a life of vile servitude. I will tell them how the ability of the Redeemer turned Njáll from his heathen means and how I, because of my upbringing at Glastonbury, helped ready that once-roughshod reaver's heart upon the path of the One True God. And I will tell them that, with the End Times upon usa, I came east with you so we might help spread the Gospel amidst your godless kin."

Njáll nodded. "Only, what if they discover your true nature? What if you fall in love with ane of your brother monks and he rejects your advances? What then?"

"I … I don't know," Aidan said with an exasperated sigh, weary all all of a sudden. He rose and took Njáll's empty plate. "I don't care for such things, non at Glastonbury, certainly not at Exeter, and non now. I merely know this: I won't alive every bit I did before, and I want to serve the Lord in what time remains to us. Nothing else matters."

Njáll nodded. "Pray that volition be enough."

Aidan carried their dishes to the pool and rinsed them in the stream of rainwater falling from above. He heard rumbles of muted thunder as distant lightning even so bandage its white glare over the hillsides. Aidan peered upward through the fissure; outside, night had fallen and a chill had settled on the land. By dawn, it would be frigid. Aidan turned and shuffled dorsum toward their burn.

The youth looked longingly at the hinterlands of the cave, its shadow-cloaked mystery crying out for resolution. Mayhap a little exploration before bed. A flare of lightning bandage its glare …

And as Aidan watched, the light illuminated a effigy—etched it against the darkness with startling clarity. Something shaped like a human, savage and barbaric. Something that moved.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" Aidan dropped the plates; he trod on the hem of his robe, tripping and scrabbling over the stone in his haste to go dorsum to the burn. "Christ Almighty!"

Aidan's weep startled Njáll, who had settled against the now-warm wall with his eyes closed. He lurched to his anxiety and hefted his axe. "What ails you?"

The youth gestured toward the darkness at the rear of the cave. His vocalization, when he found it, was a terrified hiss. "Nosotros … We are non alone! There'southward someone dorsum there! I swear it! A man, surely…"

Nj

áll's optics narrowed. "Stay behind me." He reached down, drew a brand from the fire, and held it aloft. Wood crackled and sparked; embers drifted on the faint breath of air.

Njáll, besides, saw something movement. His makeshift torch revealed a glint of iron, the swirl of a wolf pelt, then … nothing. He tensed, fix for the rush of a foeman. His axe felt once more like an extension of his arm. "If I say run, you lot run. Do yous hear?" he muttered to Aidan, who nodded. Njáll drew himself upward to his full height and bellowed into the darkness: "Who goes? If you be a thief, we are but poor sons of Christ! We take goose egg! Bear witness yourself!"

The echo of Njáll's challenge died away. He strained to hear some audio, a clink of metal on stone, a hissed breath, something. Just at that place was goose egg, salve for the slow rumble of thunder and the splash of rain. He was on the verge of calling out once again when a vocalization answered from the gloom—a vox as hard as knapped flint that spoke the tongue of the Danes with an accent Njáll could not identify. "Y'all have food, poor sons of Christ."

"Aye. Little enough for our ain needs, but what we have nosotros volition share with you."

"At what toll?"

"Nosotros ask nothing in return. Our clemency is the charity of Christ," Njáll said. "My brother, here, will fetch you lot a plate. Aidan?"

Njáll heard a snuffling audio, followed past harsh laughter. "Brother, is it?" There came a derisive dissonance, but then—halfway between a growl and a cough. "Faugh! I'll play your little game, poor son of Christ. I have crossed paths with many a Dane in my day. Spear-Danes and Shield-Danes, Bright-Danes and Band-Danes, Due west-Danes and S-Danes … just never a Christ-Dane." The vox filled that epithet with a sense of scorn. "Do you Christ-Danes notwithstanding follow the ancient laws of hospitality?"

"We practice," Njáll replied.

"And did I sneak past y'all like a thief in the night, Christ-Dane?"

a Gathering of Ravens to Read "Online"

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