By the second week, Dísa’s endurance had improved enough that Grimnir began to change up their routine. He named landmarks along the path to give her a sense of awareness—the trail began at an outcropping he called Two-Goat Rock, then through the woods to where an ancient, moss-bearded ash called the Jötunn Tree stood sentinel over the naked ridges; the promontory, more or less the halfway mark, Grimnir called the Tooth, while the rocky and precipitous path down to the lake’s shore he named Hel’s Stairway. The creek mouth he called the Pisser, and the narrow clefts that led to the bog were the Ball Breakers. “Make it to the Jötunn Tree without being seen,” Grimnir would tell her. Or “Try and stop me from reaching the Tooth.”
Their runs became running brawls, ending only when Dísa stumbled back to the longhouse, winded and bleeding. She came to Halla with lacerations and bruises, broken fingers and pulled muscles, blisters and abrasions; once with broken ribs and another time with a dislocated shoulder. These Halla stitched or set, slathered with herb-laced unguents or covered with poultices. The troll-woman also treated the sores and rashes that erupted on Dísa’s shoulders and flanks from wearing her armor for too long. And as she worked, Dísa—like a skald reciting the deeds of the mighty—would tell her the tale of the day’s struggle.
Then, one evening near the end of the fourth week she came to Halla strangely quiet. She remained pensive as the troll-woman washed the blood away from a cut across her left cheek; then, with deft fingers, she drew together the ragged edges of the wound. “No blade did this,” Halla said. She eyed the girl, the ghost of a frown crinkling her forehead. “A pommel?”
“A branch,” Dísa replied. The young woman flinched as Halla undertook the careful stitching of the cut; the sensation of pain seemed to rouse her from her lassitude. “He was lying in ambush between the Jötunn Tree and the Tooth, ready to put an arrow in me if I showed myself on the ridgeline. So I stayed low, kept to the trees … one of them did not much like my intrusion, it seems. Thought it was trying to gouge my eye out.”
A ghost of a smile touched Halla’s lips. “You must be wary, child. Some landvættir remain in this world. They sleep and dream of the Elder Days and are dangerous when woken.”
“Like you,” Dísa said. She paused a moment, then: “Halla, is it true you cannot leave this place?”
Halla’s gaze flickered from her flesh-knitting to meet Dísa’s frank stare. “Grimnir told you this?”
“He said your blood keeps you prisoner here.”
“Prisoner?” The troll-woman sniffed. “More the fool is he if he thinks I am anyone’s prisoner. But he is right on one count: the blood of Járnviðja, who was my mother’s mother, runs through my veins—and for the daughters of Járnviðja, Sól’s hateful light will return us to the cold stone from whence Ymir fashioned us. So if I journey, I must do so at night and seek shelter by day. I simply choose not to.”
“Why?”
Halla said nothing for a moment. Her fingers wielded the thin golden needle lightly—pierce and draw, pierce and draw. Then, quietly, she spoke: “There is nothing for me out there. Not anymore. Gone are the days when the great forest of Myrkviðr spread across the world—the mighty Dark-wood, my home. You should have seen it, child! Trees like moss-bearded titans, towering over glades and vales where no man had ever set foot. There were only spirits in those days—spirits of wood and water, sky and stone. My troll-sisters and I could journey from sunset to sunset for nights on end and never see the edges of Myrkviðr. Nor did we worry overmuch about seeking shelter. For as we walked, we sang the songs of ancient spirits, who were as gods upon the earth. In payment, the landvættir opened their arms to us. We shared their hollows under root and rock, or were hidden from venomous Sól in the trunks of those mighty trees.” She finished stitching Dísa’s cheek, tied off and cut the thread, and wiped away the remaining blood. The troll-woman reached for a jar of cobwebs and from its contents made a poultice that would stop the girl’s cheek from bleeding. “Alas, as I said those days are long past. I could fare forth from here—one night, perhaps two—but to what end? To meet the vanguard of our destroyers?”
“The Nailed God’s folk?” A frown creased Dísa’s brow.
“Yes. But they cannot bear all the blame, alas,” Halla said. “They were not the first to take axe and fire to our precious Myrkviðr. All manner of men hacked at the edges of the forest, or struck into its heart. The trees that offered us succor in the Elder Days went to make the keels of great ships, or the spines of mighty longhouses, but the men who did this offered the landvættir recompense: the first fruits of the harvest, the first wool of the shearing season, the first blood of the hunt. But when the Cross-men came among them, preaching their hate for the Old Ways, the hearts of men hardened against the spirits of Myrkviðr. No longer did they offer fair payment. They set their rapine axes against oak, linden, and sacred ash because their god told them that was their right.”
Halla rose and shuffled back through the longhouse to the front doors, Dísa in her wake. Outside, night had fallen. A cold breeze blew through the open door, its breath setting the flames in the fire pit to flickering. The main room was empty; Grimnir was gone on one of his sleepless wanderings that took him beyond the edges of his land. Halla sat in her accustomed spot. Shadows streaked the troll-woman’s face as she took up the thread of her tale. “The landvættir could have survived the loss of their haunts, like Myrkviðr; they were in water and stone, in the soil underfoot and the air we drew into our lungs. What threat could another god pose, even one that drives men to madness?” Halla tsked. “The men of the North have many gods, after all. What is one more? But the Cross-men would have none of that. Their Nailed God was a jealous god who demanded sole dominion over the lands of Miðgarðr. They preached that there was only one world, not nine, with a heaven above and a hell below. They taught the Dane and the Swede and those among the Norse who would listen that they are born in sin and imperfect, made to suffer. And if they suffer enough, their Nailed God will allow them into his hall to serve him—but only if they keep his law: Thou shalt not have strange gods before me.” Halla shivered; her milky eyes sought the heart of the fire, as though the bright flames could burn away the last vestiges of that hateful commandment.
Dísa shrugged out of her mail and stripped off the gambeson she wore beneath. This was her third since Halla had counseled her to wear armor. Though it protected her from the mail’s hard edges and gave her an added layer of protection, the fabric acted like a sponge, soaking in every last drop of sweat and blood each day’s exertions wrung from her. The garment quickly grew sodden, heavy, and it reeked. Dísa chucked it out the open door—she’d sink it in the bog tomorrow—and snatched up another one from the pile of old gambesons she’d looted from the Hooded One’s hoard. Her limbs were hard with muscle, her flat belly ridged now, like Grimnir’s sculpted cuirass; once pale flesh had a yellowish cast, and an array of bruises, knots, and scabbed sores warred with gooseflesh from the cold air to create an uneven veneer. She gritted her teeth and drew on the fresh gambeson, made of purple-dyed quilted linen and worked with gold embroidery on the breast and the sleeves. Its previous owner had died from a spear thrust that took him in the back, between his shoulder blades—no doubt splitting his spine and tearing into his lungs and heart.
Lacing the gambeson, she turned back to Halla. “Why did the Gods not intervene?” she said. “Surely they could have driven these Cross-men away.”
The troll-woman stirred. “The Gods of the North are a harsh lot, child. Only grudgingly do they take notice of us, so wrapped up are they in their own affairs. And when they do take note, it is often only to heap more misfortune upon us. They looked away, and when their gaze returned to this Miðgarðr they discovered the Cross-men had done with ink and parchment what no Jarl could with axe and sword: unite men under a common banner—a banner made from the scraped skins of sheep and decorated in oak gall and iron with the words of their Nailed God. They had brought their holy war north, under our very noses, and we did not realize it for what it was until too late.”
“What do we do, then?” Dísa said, shaking her head. “How do we settle the score?”
“Grim days are coming. It is Fimbulvetr, the Endless Winter. The Gods of the North gird their loins and look to their steel, for there is the reek of war upon the winds of Miðgarðr. Even the spirits of the land have fled, taking with them the sorcery of the Elder Days. And soon,” Halla’s voice dropped to a whisper:
“When the years tally | nine times nine times nine,
Again, and war-reek | wafts like dragon breath;
When Fimbulvetr | hides the pallid sun,
The monstrous Serpent | shall writhe in fury.
“Sköll bays aloud | after Dvalin’s toy.
The fetter shall break | and the wolf run free;
Dark-jawed devourer | of light-bringer’s steed.
And in Vänern’s embrace | the earth splits asunder.
“From the depths a barrow | rises through the water,
The stone-girdled hall | of Aranæs, where dwells
Jörmungandr’s spawn, | the Malice-Striker.
Its dread bones rattle | and herald an end.
“Wolf shall fight she-Wolf | in Raven’s shadow;
An axe age, a sword age, | as Day gives way to Night.
And Ymir’s sons dance | as the Gjallarhorn
Kindles the doom | of the Nailed God’s folk.”
Dísa listened, a hard set to her jaw. She nodded. “Good. This dragon, this Malice-Striker, he will be our vengeance. He will bring death to the Cross-men.”
“To all things,” Halla said. She did not look up from the fire. The ruddy light burnished her crag-set features, so like carved stone, and illuminated the wisps of hair growing from the point of her chin. “Malice-Striker will scour the earth with fire and with pestilence, and war will follow it like a shadow. Stones will crack and trees shatter; seas will boil and the skies burn! And from what scraps it leaves behind, the Elder World will emerge again, reborn.”
“How long?” Dísa said after a moment. “How long do we have until the end comes?”
The troll-woman glanced sidelong at the girl, who sat shivering despite the heat rising off the fire pit. “None can say, child. Seven hundred and twenty-nine years have passed since the prophecy was first spoken—nine times nine times nine again—and we are in the throes of the Endless Winter. The rest?” She shrugged. “There is no guarantee it will come to pass. Especially if Grimnir has his way.”
Dísa straightened. “How could he be against this?”
From the shadow at the rear of the longhouse came a harsh snort. “Aye, tell her why, you gobby old hag.” While Halla did not so much as flinch at the unexpected sound of Grimnir’s voice, Dísa reacted as though stung; she came to her feet, her seax partly drawn from its sheath. The girl relaxed only a little as Grimnir rose from where he’d been crouched on his haunches and came around to his throne-like chair.
“What are you on about with all this peaching sneakery?” Halla said.
“Don’t change the subject! Answer the little bird’s question. Tell her how I could be at odds with this precious fantasy you lot have concocted.”
Halla lapsed into silence for a long moment, deep in thought; Dísa resumed her seat. From the fire pit, embers crackled and spat. A breeze that reeked with the cold promise of snow moaned through the doorway.
“Don’t be shy,” Grimnir goaded. There was a hard and sardonic edge to his voice. “Tell her what I believe, since you seem to know my mind better than I do!”
Finally, Halla stirred. She jabbed a gnarled finger at Grimnir. “The Old Ways … the old prophecies … you foolishly think they are just meaningless doggerel now. ‘Miðgarðr is the Nailed God’s world,’ you have said, ‘stolen fair and square.’ And you think the only harbingers of doom that matter anymore are the ones uttered by desert prophets and cross-kissing madmen—and they make no mention of us.”
“You dance around the answer, hag! Tell her the truth, Ymir take your gnarled old bones! Tell her why!”
Dísa slowly turned her head to look from the hunched old troll-woman to Grimnir. The latter was silent now, and glowering. His single eye blazed like a beacon of hate; what it saw, Dísa could not say. “Tell me.”
“Vengeance,” Halla spat. “Cold, useless vengeance! He would rather give this world to the Nailed God than see the dragon arise! All over the matter of an ancient grudge between Malice-Striker and his folk, recompense for a great sacking and burning, and the fulfillment of an oath sworn over the cairn of his slain kinsfolk!”
“I understand the need for revenge,” Dísa said, nodding. “But is it worth it to let the Nailed God’s folk keep what they’ve stolen from us?”
“Oh, you know revenge, do you?” Grimnir’s eyes narrowed; his lips thinned and peeled back over jagged yellow teeth. “Answer me this, then: the one who slew your mother, little bird … what would you do for vengeance? How blasted long would you wait to feel their hot blood spill over your hands? A day? A week? A year?”
“Longer,” Dísa replied. Beside her, Halla stiffened. “I would wait my entire life, even if it meant I’d spend my dying breath knifing the swine.”
“And you would let some wretched prophecy stop you?”
Dísa shook her head. “No.”
Grimnir growled. “Good, then you do understand. This prophecy Halla yammers on about means nothing to me. Nothing! Not when I’ve waited one thousand, one hundred, and forty-nine years to see vengeance done on the wretched snake, that so-called Malice-Striker, that killed my mother, destroyed my home, and scattered the remnants of my people to the winds…”