The days went thusly for nine more dread filled nights. The Lord put a guard on Volund to insure that he did not leave, and after the third attempt, he had the youth chained to the lodgepole closest to the high chair. Lord Hroth instructed the skald to continue teaching skaldcraft to Volund, for reasons Volund couldn’t fathom; he only reluctantly cooperated out of boredom.
During the day, Hervor disappeared, leaving at dawn and returning just before dusk. She was silent and thoughtful; Volund saw her speaking with We'al a few times, she was even more taciturn than usual with him in the evenings.
Warriors from the surrounding villages answered the call from Lord Hroth, and new men came to the hall in twos and threes over the days, replacing the men who died or were taken in the night.
Finally, after twelve days that the skald sang were like unto twelve years, three sails were sighted on the horizon, red and white triangles like bloody teeth. Lord Hroth's cup-bearer ran down to the lookout to bring the warriors up to the Mead Hall. The boy came back quickly, kneeling before the Lord, white faced and afraid. Hervor slipped in with him, coming to sit near her cousin. Volund noted that the messenger had a bruise darkening on the side of his face.
"My Lord," the boy said, his voice shaking. "Lord asks that you show him the way from the mooring to the Mead Hall personally." The boy, Justinian, spoke to the ground beneath his hands, yet clear enough that all could hear him.
"Does he, now," Lord Hroth mused. He bent his arm up at the elbow, gesturing at We'al. "Lady Wife, I believe we should do as tradition dictates."
She gripped his hand in her own. "Indeed, my Lord. It is an act of hospitality, that we greet him when he is come to kill or die for us." Lord Hroth was looking away, but Volund saw We'al lock gazes with Hervor, nodding fractionally. Lord Hroth stood and strode away from the hall, gathering the warriors and leaving the women and shieldmaids behind to protect the Mead Hall.
"Have you heard of this Bodulfr, sister?" Hervor asked We'al when the men had departed.
"He is as his name, a wolf. He may kill the Nightstalker, but it will be costly." We'al looked at Volund. "It must not cost us our sister's son."
Nodding, Hervor stood. "Indeed." The shackle opened as if of it's own will and fell to the ground. His cousin handed him Sigrun's blackwood spear, the iron point gleaming in the waning light. "Come, Volund. It is time to leave."
"No," he answered steadily, planting the butt of the spear firmly in the ground beside him. "Too many good men have died, including my father. I will see the Beast dead."
The black-eyed women exchanged a look, and Hervor smiled fiercly. "Very well, manling. Let us kill the Beast, and be on our way."
The party of men who accompanied Lord Hroth up from the boats were strange and varied. The largest part of the complement were varingjar, hardened warriors and adventurers. By the trim on their armor and the quality of their iron and steel weapons, they were well paid for their ferocity. The Geats themselves numbered twelve, with a foreigner among them wrapped in fur and fine cloth garments clearly intended for deepest winter, and not late summer near the fens.
Volund was trying to puzzle out the foreigner, who had skin that was dark among fair skinned people, and hair that was blue-black, cut short under a twisted cloth turban among men with long and well kept braids. He stood short and cleanshaven among men who prided themselves on their height and luxuriously curled beards.
The foreigner took in the denizens of Stag-Hall, his gaze lingering on We'al and Hervor in particular, and then turning to Volund. He sidled around his massive companions to stand next to the youth. "I am Aḥmad ibn Faḍlān. You have the look of a different people, friend." His words were flawless, only lightly touched with the flavor of a distant land.
Volund nodded. "My father was Hrulf, lord of a hall two days north and west."
"Ah, then. It was your hall that was attacked by this Nightstalker the men are calling Grendl. You are very brave, coming here to ask for help." Volund looked sharply at the small man, searching his tone and expression for scorn or mockery. He found only admiration.
"Yes. I was sent by my lady mother, Sigrun, to ask Lord Hroth to send for the Geat." Volund nodded towards the man himself.
Bodulfr, son of Edge'theow and nephew of Lord Hygelac of the Geats, was an impressive figure, noble of stature and movement, and quiet while his shield-brother Brecca spoke at length of the heroic battles and adventuress of the young hero. Volund looked to Hervor, who stood near at hand, her face impassive except for the occasional twitch of eyelid indicating that she was less impressed by the Geat's many achievements than the Geat himself or his sworn companions.
The third group of men were less generously welcomed. They stood within the circle of the varingjar, hands carefully away from their weapons.
After the detailed account of the Geat's qualifications, Lord Hroth turned an icy blue eye to that third group. "Ingeld the Heathobart, you come to us under guard. What is your business or part in this venture?" The Heathobards had long stood against the men of the Stag-Hall and their lord, preventing the expansion of Lord Hroth's lands and holdings into the north.
The young lord stepped forward through the varingjar, his hands held casually around his worn sword belt. "I, Lord Ingeld of the Heathobards, come to treat with you, Lord Hroth. I would ally with you against this dread foe, and pledge our swords to you, and yours to us."
"In truth, boy? And what is your price for this alliance?" Lord Hroth stood with fists planted on his hips, feet spread in a mighty stance of strength.
"I seek alliance between our houses. I would wed the blue-eyed maid Freawaru, your daughter. Our sons would inherit both the lands of the Danes ruled by the Stag-Hall and the lands of the Heathobards." He ignored the group of women who came forward, led by We'al. The Lady stepped to the side, revealing the young woman who often served mead or meat to the Lord's warriors. She had her mother's strong nose and golden hair, but her eyes were the deep blue of the summer sky. She wore a simple gown and kirtle, and the adornments in her hair were flowers and loops of silver and bronze, not the bone trophys of a warrior woman like her mother and aunts. Volund found her beautiful, but too mild to remark upon or seek out.
"You are impertinent, coming to my Hall with this offer in the midst of tragedy and disaster. Let us defeat this monster, the Grendl, the Nightstalker. If you survive this night and the next, I will consider your suit. You have these two days to win her approval in this matter." Lord Hroth then turned to Bodulfr.
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"Bodulfr, son of Edgetheow, nephew of Lord Hygelac the Geat," he began. "We do entreat your aid in the matter of the Ravager, the Nightstalker, the Giant who violates our lands each night."
"What do you offer in return, Lord Hroth, to repay the efforts of these noble Vaeringjar and my Geats?" Bodulfr's voice was clear and strong, and he shifted his body and turned his head so all could see the strength of his limbs and the noble lines of his face and neck.
Lord Hroth's fingers twitched in agitation on his sword-belt, but he maintained his noble expression and demeanor. "We offer danegeld to the Geats and the varingjar two chests of treasure hard won from across the western swan-roads. We offer the same to the Hero Bodulfr the Geat, and this youth to be your companion and shield-bearer." The Lord's nod gestured to Volund. "He has survived thirteen nights of the terror of the Nightstalker, and the destruction of his own home-hall at the hands of that Beast. He is nephew to my Lady We'al, and thus I claim him as my blood."
Volund was shocked, both by the bloodline acknowledgement by this lord with no heirs but a daughter, and by being casually traded like wealth or cattle in the bargain. Hervor nudged his arm with hers, and he closed his mouth and lowered his gaze. He felt the eyes of the Geat on him, measuring, assessing, and out of the corner of his eye Volund saw Brecca flush red, the hand resting on the hilt of his sword clenching tight for a moment. Aḥmad ibn Faḍlān made a slight humming sound in the back of his throat, and Volund felt the sudden dread of a stag being stalked by wolves. Indeed, by his tales the Geat was known as the Wolf, and glancing up Volund saw that the man he had been traded to had hazel eyes, not the green or blue of Volund's own people, and glinted from green to yellow in the last of the sunlight.
"Let us drink to alliance and wealth and the death of the Nightstalker," Lord Hroth led the way into the vast white-washed Mead-Hall, torchlit in the gathering gloom.
Wheras the doors were closed tight and bolted that night, this time the warriors were awake, only mildly drunk upon mead and small beer. More importantly, they were standing outside the doors, bonfires lighting the apron of ancient straet before the tall doors. Volund and Hervor stood among them, though Lord Hroth and his Lady wife waited inside. One of the varingjar started a raucous rowing song, it's words clearly both violent and profane based on the grins and posturing of the men joining in the song. Hervor raised an eyebrow, and then added her own voice to the chorus, hers light and soaring against the deep basso and muddy tenors of the warriors. Aḥmad ibn Faḍlān waited next to the doors, a short dagger at his waist was his only weapon, but a book of bound vellum resting on his knee as he scratched out words by firelight.
"It is said, mighty Bodulfr, killer of small giants, that the Ravager is born of a sorceress, who dipped him as an infant into an unholy river of death. The waters rendered him immune to piercing and slashing blows; only magic, it is said, can kill this Night Stalker."
Volund reflected on the hag he'd seen in his vision, taking scalp and hair from a shieldmaid from his own father's longhouse. He did not speak or add to the proceedings. He had agreed with Hervor that they should leave soon, and was beginning to reconsider his determination that they see this part through. Hervor must have smelled his deep dread and indecision; she arched an amused eyebrow at him.
Reaching into her pouch, she brought out a clay pot that glimmered blue even in the light of the watchfires. It was larger than the one he'd seen her carry before, and she went from man to man, drawing runes upon foreheads, or whorls on bicep or chest. One varingjar seized her and lifted her high for a kiss, which she declined by turning her face away. She smeared the blue paste upon his eyebrows, laughing fiercely. She came back to Volund, last, and smeared a rune on his chin. Certain that all were watching, she gripped the back of Volund's neck and pressed her mouth to Volund's, a breathless engagement of lips and tongue and teeth as the men around them cheered and cat-called. Somewhat drunk on the woad and a buzzing in his head and groin from the taste of mead on the shield-maid's breath, Volund raised his mother's blackwood spear and cried out his own challenge to the darkness.
A heartbeat later, the darkness answered.
It emerged from the night outside the circles of firelight, half again taller than the tallest men among them. The tree-trunk cudgel whistled as the monster swung it at the group of warriors. The defenders danced into and out of range of the Ravager's reach. Brecca and another Geat dodged in with ropes and grapples, swinging them in big overhand arcs.
The other Geats and the varingjar darted in and out with spear and sword, attempting vainly to injure the creature in any small fashion. Volund watched the struggle, crouched and waiting for an opportunity to present itself. The ropes slithered across the creature's limbs, leaving smears of pitch behind, but the grapples did not pierce the thick hide.
"If it's hide cannot be cut," Volund mused, looking at the shining lines of pitch. "Perhaps it can be burned away..." With a glance at Hervor, who moved in next to him, Volund grabbed a burning brand from the nearest bonfire, ducking low to avoid the swings of the cudgel and the whirling ropes. Almost casually, he whirled the burning branch and the fire skimmed down the creature's right shoulder and arm, igniting the pitch used to waterproof the ropes against the sea.
The effect was dramatic, and instant, the fire blistering across the Nightstalker's thick hide, burning away hair and pitch, opening great weals in the creature's skin. With a cheer, the warriors moved in, and Bodulfr caught the right armpit with his sword, piercing deep into the sinews of the joint and sawing mightily.
With a bewildered wail, the monster whose hide had never been cut went mad with the pain, killing two men in its thrashing where it had failed with swings of its cudgel. Its cry was answered by a high uulation from the fens, and it bellowed an answer. Bodulfr and Brecca together were hacking at the shoulder joint, and with a massive heave Bodulfr tore the limb away. Dropping the tree trunk cudgel, the Ravager took up the body of one of the slain men and ran quickly into the night, a shooting star racing to the brackish waters of the fen.
The warriors bellowed their victory, and Bodulfr brandished the severed arm at the sky. Hervor pointed Volund to the cudgel, and he went to fetch it to her. It was not, in fact, an actual tree trunk, but a limb as tall as Volund, slightly crooked in its length, soaked with blood and smeared with clinging bits of tissue and hair. The rune traced on his chin suddenly began burning, and he scrubbed at it with a hand bloody from touching the cudgel. With a flash, Volund saw the Ravager in the fens, in the cave. A dark creature rolled through the waters around it, and a hag received the Ravager with strange tenderness, pointing to the basket full of bodies. Some of them still moaned or cried out when the Nightstalker clumsily slung the newest body atop the pile.
"Tell me what you see, cousin," Hervor gripped his shoulder hard, drawing him back to himself.
"The creature lives in the fen," he mumbled, and she waited. "There's a hag, also, and a chest of jewels and coin and metal, with the Hart graven upon its lid. They keep a basket of ... "
"What is in the basket, Volund," the shieldmaid switched her grip from his shoulder to the back of his neck.
"The living and the dead. The hag and the Ravager - they are eating our dead." He met her eyes, and saw the horror overtaken by rage, her black eyes flashing silver for a moment.
"The beast will die of its wound," Hervor raised him to his feet.
"What of the hag? What of our dead?"
"What do you suggest, boy, that we go and kill it? That's what the Geat is for. Sigrun foretold that he would kill the beast, and so he has."
"What if she sent us, made us call the Geat, so that we could set the thing into motion? What if my Lady Mother knew that the Geat would fail, and sent her cousin to help her sister find the creature and allow me to avenge my father?" A hot cloud was forming over his vision, and he thought he saw a shining silver circlet on his cousin's brow, wings at the temples. Behind her eyes, he saw a night-dark horse running among the clouds, lightning flashing around its feet.
"Shut your mouth, boy. You've studied with the skald, you're only inventing stories now." She released his neck and raised him to his feet, putting his spear in his hands again.
"No, Hervor. You and mother and the lady who lives here... you're all -" Hervor's fist hit his jaw in a sharp uppercut, and darkness seized him.