Fear, confusion and intrigue shrouded the populace in a cloying veil, infecting them with frenetic chatter. Their views ranged from the more tapered opinions, purporting good tidings and prosperity to outright calls for battle against what was, in all perceivable accounts, a vengeful spectre from the depths of Hel. The countryside was thrown into disarray, this tug of war pitting brother against sister, husband against wife, friends against family, bleeding towards the revelry of the lighted city. Inebriated guards scampered across towering ramparts, wondering if their eyes were deceiving them and if they had been a bit too liberal themselves. Still, some were hastily dispatched to relate the peculiar news to their superiors, much to their chagrin.
It was not much different at the Morði farmstead as guests riding high in the heat of the moment threw their weight around in a bid to come out ahead of their peers.
“It’s an angered spirit seeking vengeance, I tell ya! My grandmother told me stories about them since I were barely a babe!”
“Just a while ago, you were making jokes about how she was known as the half-fool of the mountain!”
“The worth of the sword is only conceived when one requires its need, and it is nowhere to be found.”
“Are you a priest or something!? Stop reciting those sham verses and help me find something with a pointy end!”
“Fuck this shit! I’m out!”
“Everyone, calm down! The last thing we need is people making rash decisions!” The ever-bloating clamour drowned out Ǫndótt’s pleas. It was not surprising, though, after all, fifty or so people shouting over one other would even make one’s own thoughts near impossible to discern, and it showed as the flustered woman was helpless to stop the feast from devolving before her very eyes. In a wholly unexpected turn of events, her prayers were answered in the form of a particularly brash individual, namely her husband—much to her relief or concern, she hadn’t quite decided which one yet.
“Will you lot shut the fffuck up!” he spat, trying his utmost to remain balanced atop a table burdened by leftovers, sword in hand. The blade glistened in the moonlight, entrancing the addled-minded fellows below, effectively stopping all forms of infighting. “Stop acting like a buncha headless grouserats and have some self-respect! Now, I will be the first to admit that I haven’t the foggiest idea of what is going on but turning on each other is the last thing we need!” His speech drew nods and embarrassed looks from onlookers as he continued. “Here is what we are going to do! The women and children will head inside while us men stand out front and defend!”
“Wazz he sayin? A’ve ‘ad too muzzh tooo drink.”
“Finally, some real action!”
“Honey, quickly take the kids and head inside.”
When Morði had just about convinced everyone of his masterful and well-thought-out plan, a contending voice entered the fray. “You will suffer a great loss if you heed his words.”
Morði’s thick brows knitted together in search of the dissenter, honing in on an elegantly dressed woman whose sky blue eyes and high cheekbones gave her an erudite look, Sofie if he remembered correctly. “For what reason has my wife’s dear friend chosen to speak untruths?” He stared daggers at her, not at all pleased by the disrespect to him, the host.
“It is the truth, and if not, may the Great Guardian cast judgement upon me,” she declared, climbing on a nearby bench so everyone could see her. “Greetings, my name is Sofie Afkadóttir, and as most of you know, I am the proprietor of Afkarr’s Apothecary. However, a lesser known fact about me is that I am also a longtime disciple of the Nidarodd.” Hushed murmurs broke out in light of the revelation, dimming when she lifted a hand requesting silence. “This spirit harbours us no ill will. On the contrary, seasons of prosperity and abundance follow in its wake. Listen to not my words but that of the Great Edda’s!”
***************************************************************************************************
The realms saw Dargomoth, beloved of all creation,
Beauty unrivalled, cry a divine revelation,
Condemned for death, an ill fate he bore,
His mother did weep, till tears flowed no more.
Still he shined, ever so bright,
Holding back dread, bane of its blight,
On the dawn of three horns, will he be arisen,
The world will then suffer, unrepentant, unforgiven.
***************************************************************************************************
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Nobody uttered a word after Sofie sang in hymn about the nearing spirit, the beast’s outcry shaking them to the core. It wasn’t unexpected, but many decided to head towards the house, despite all that was said. Were they low of faith or untrusting of the Edda? It was neither really, for fate hath simply deemed them unworthy. In the end, a little less than twenty people were left standing in the cooling winds of autumn’s night. All notions of confronting Sofie left Ǫndótt when she noticed her friends ‘not taking anyone’s shit’ face, opting to drag her husband down from his perch.
Morði had more than a few things to say to Sofie but was dragged away by Ǫndótt before he could do so. She turned a deaf ear to his complaints, searching for Mardǫll, heart quickening when her daughter was nowhere to be seen. Retracing her memories, she swivelled her head, eyeing the last place the girl was seen. ‘Thank the Guardian,’ she thought when she finally found her. Coming up to the girl whose black hair melded with the night, she realised Sǫl was by her side, her already high approval of the boy rising.
“Mar. Mar. Mar!” The young girl was in such a daze that she only responded after her ear was wrung raw.
“Owww! Why mama!” the girl whined, nursing her reddened ear with a frown.
“Why didn’t you answer my calls?! Do you know how worried I was!” Ǫndótt scolded.
“Me and Sǫl were here the whole time!” Mardǫll tugged on her cousin’s arm in an attempt to defer the blame. Sadly, he was oblivious to all the happenings around him, causing their spat to worsen.
Before the mother and daughter pair drew blood, Morði jumped in. “Don’t be too harsh on the child, Ǫnd. It is enough that they hadn’t been lost or hurt while the rest of us were… distracted.”
Oh, she knew that tone. He was blaming her for losing the child. Ǫndótt held back the urge to slap the beard off his face and scream at the top of her lungs, forcefully shoving him behind the kids with an added pinch for good measure. The thought that Sofie may be mistaken never crossed her mind. The woman had helped her many times by means that were sometimes more mystical than not. There was the time when Sofie prophesied she would have a baby girl, or the other when she healed their sick milking cow by ways of a fire ritual.
When everyone settled down, allowing her a moment’s respite, she remembered her nephew was also here. With his family nowhere in sight, she took him under her wing, wondering why nobody came for the boy. “You can join us if your family isn’t present,” Ǫndótt consoled with a pitying gaze. Sǫl remained mute, too distracted to respond, and was left to his musing while those few that opted to chance the devotee’s sayings lined up alongside, consumed by the lull of trepidation, awaiting what was to come.
.
.
.
Bonfires dotted the landscape, reminiscent of a swarm of fireflies, as was the tradition on the night of the sacrifice. Dargomoth had experienced similar scenery too many times to count, deigning to grace the mortals when it suited his fancy. The difference in his outlook now, when compared to his adolescence, begged for a slight chuckle to escape his lips, trees swaying to the melody. His temperament had been galvanised over many moons and under the cruel master that was the cycle of life and death, achieving a state referred to as detachment.
A lunar breeze caressed his cheek, setting his flowing locks alight, a timely reminder of the cause for his visit. “Let us be off Dellingr; the winds of change are upon us,” he sang, patting his steed. The elder beast expelled a steamy gust of compliance, breaching the treeline and announcing their arrival by ways of thunderous calls. Bells, trinkets and magical charms hung off its bone-white antlers, swaying with its gait, coalescing a heraldic tune that encumbered the air in ancient power.
‘First, there was fear, our unknown incomprehensible. Fear gave way to confusion, for the shackled mind cannot comprehend. Lastly, confusion birthed violence, chaos a primal facet. Woe to you mortals, you lambs who shun order yet are beholden by it.’
Dargomoth’s sight remained true even at this distance, observing many a man and their varied expressions. Almost like he was dictating a play, the amassed crowds first showed fear and uncertainty, bickered with themselves, and finally took up arms. Mankind’s stubbornness had allowed them to thrive for better or worse over numerous millennia, yet the sight still irked him. “Guess I still have things I must let go of.”
The blinding pair made ways down a dirt road, flanked by fences and sickled fields, all the while Dellingr’s breast was a bluster. Soon, the path broadened, paving a way to the foot of what was an abounding Skuldsökaring. They were met with empty arms and lingerings wisps of smoke from a deadened hearth at the first homestead they came across. Paying it no heed, they pressed on in search of something or someone, Dargomoth didn’t know.
Over the centuries, there had been many mystical signs and wonders, but none as troubling as now. The beasts of the valley were restless, the land groaning under a tide of walking death. Perhaps most concerning of all was that the white witch had begun to move again. ‘What vile machinations are you weaving, oh Drausinger.’ The land had spoken. The cause lay here, dormant, growing, amassing.
The spirits’ unchallenged march came to a halt when they met with a small retinue waiting at the neck of a property, raising a hodgepodge of hastily gathered tools that served as makeshift weapons. Daggers and knives could barely put a scratch on Dellingr’s bleached coat, much less the splintered poles and sticks they warily had on hand. Dargomoth’s sapphire iced pupils caused a chill to run up the spines of the men, his princely appearance almost demanding their eyes and knees to point groundward, but they fought the urge in favour of protecting those they held dear.
“Courage fuelled by the need to protect your loved ones is admirable, even though it is misplaced,” he said. His voice sounded like honey to their ears, enriched with age yet possessing a youthful sweetness. “Bring me the sacrificial animal. You have pleased me.” They paused, processing the mercurial figure’s instructions with looks of consternation. Unwilling to waste his limited window on the inconsequential, Dargomoth pressed for a response. “Do you not require my blessings? If that is so, I will move one.”
The men jumped at that, one man rushing away in a hurry, presumably to get whatever animal had been tasked with the sacred duty. It didn’t take long for the man to return, a goat dutifully nipping at his heels. Dargomoth slid off Dellingr’s speckled back, landing with a thud in full display. The men paled at the sight, for Dargomoth stood at nearly twice that of the average man. Unmoved by their ignorance, he unsheathed a pristine dagger attached to his waist and approached the goat. Its bleating was cut short by a swift slash that separated head from torso in a spout of voluminous crimson. The stricken onlookers were drenched from head to toe when Dargomoth completed a prayer, thanking the animal for its sacrifice.
The wetted blade was held before them, and he declared, “On the name of Dargomoth The Blessed, I bestow those standing before me and those that share their blood with abounding prosperity and wealth. May the blood on this dagger serve as my bond.” With a flick, the dazed men were subject to one last smattering, and by the time they recovered, the spirit and his steed had already ridden off. Their shouts of thanks and praise grew smaller and smaller as they continued onward, eventually arriving before an orderly group of people, gaze resting on a particular child.
‘Found you.’