Rika lowered her arms and shifted her stance as the mood of her tale took a darker turn.
“Odin warns us past the land of Utgard, hidden high in the sky-mountains, where giants and trolls burrow in foul caves bestrewn with the bones of unwary men. We shun the evil world of Svartaelfham, home of the maggot-bitten Dark Elves. And let us not wander into Hel, that cold hall reserved for the dead by sickness and old age. The welcome there is Scarcity and the dish served at nattmal is Hunger.”
She pursed her lips, and slanted her eyes at her au dience. “For tonight, Odin has doings in Niflheim, where ice-bonds lock the limbs and all lust is stilled in nothingness.”
Cold fire flashed in her eyes as she thrust her hands toward them. “Hear the sayings of Odin as he hung upon the World Tree, Yggdrasil’s frozen root in the dark domain of eternal winter. Hear the words of the Wise One as he plundered Niflheim to bring us mortals the secret of runes. I give you," she paused, "the Havamal."
Every eye in the hall was trained upon her, trans ported to the misty realm of Niflheim, that accursed place of ice and shadows.
“On the windswept Tree, did I hang f or nine nights.”
She started softly, wringing every drop of meaning from each syllable, each percussive consonant and sibilance. Rika’s lips moved, but the crowd seemed to hear Odin, the All-Father describing his own sacrifice in order to bring the secret of runes to his people.
“With spear was I pierced
And offered to Odin
Myself to myself
On that Tree
Whose roots
No man can know.”
Her voice grew stronger, rasping with agony, the tension in her arms showing how the frigid bonds had held the Wise One fast.
“No bread was I given. No drink from the horn.”
Her audience shifted in their seats guiltily. Every full belly in the hall churned at the thought of Odin’s hunger and thirst.
“Into the depths I peered…”
Rika’s eyes widened in terror. She seemed to actually see Niflheim and the runic symbols etched on icy slabs before her, enshrouded with ghostly phantoms of mist. She heard several gasps around the hall as her listeners caught the same horrific image.
“The runes, I grasped ...”
She clutched at the invisible lettering, her voice edged with hysteria.
“Screaming, did I grasp them—”
She jerked violently and stutter-stepped backward half a pace, as if toppling from a branch on the World Tree in that icy realm far away.
“And then to Midgard bearing treasure for men, did I tumble back.”
She whisked her audience with her along the gnarled trunk of Yggdrasil, back to warmth and light in one blinding moment. Rika finished in a whisper that circled the hall and echoed off the hardened leather shields hanging on the walls.
Silence hovered over the hall so potent that no one wanted to break the spell. Rika had taken them on a dizzying sojourn through the nine worlds, to Niflheim and back, and her listeners could scarcely draw a breath.
“By all the gods,” Bjorn swore softly. “Rika, you are a skald.”
She turned to Bjorn and gave him the first real smile that had graced her lips since she’d discovered Mag nus face down in the straw.
“Rika, Rika.” Jorand started the chant and a couple of the nearby fighting men joined in. The cry was taken up around the hall, accompanied by scores of fists pounding on the benches. “Rika, Rika.”
She raised her hand to silence them before starting on the Saga of Sigurd. The joy of her art sang in her veins, flooding her with power and charging her body with so much energy, it seemed to flash from her fin gertips as she gestured.
Bjorn leaned forward, the better to watch her face. He’d never seen the like. And to think he’d believed he could take this woman captive. As he listened to her weave another spell with words, he realized that he was the one who was in real danger of being captured.
Chapter 6
He
“Odin warns us past the land of Utgard, hidden high in the sky-mountains, where giants and trolls burrow in foul caves bestrewn with the bones of unwary men. We shun the evil world of Svartaelfham, home of the maggot-bitten Dark Elves. And let us not wander into Hel, that cold hall reserved for the dead by sickness and old age. The welcome there is Scarcity and the dish served at nattmal is Hunger.”
She pursed her lips, and slanted her eyes at her au dience. “For tonight, Odin has doings in Niflheim, where ice-bonds lock the limbs and all lust is stilled in nothingness.”
Cold fire flashed in her eyes as she thrust her hands toward them. “Hear the sayings of Odin as he hung upon the World Tree, Yggdrasil’s frozen root in the dark domain of eternal winter. Hear the words of the Wise One as he plundered Niflheim to bring us mortals the secret of runes. I give you," she paused, "the Havamal."
Every eye in the hall was trained upon her, trans ported to the misty realm of Niflheim, that accursed place of ice and shadows.
“On the windswept Tree, did I hang f or nine nights.”
She started softly, wringing every drop of meaning from each syllable, each percussive consonant and sibilance. Rika’s lips moved, but the crowd seemed to hear Odin, the All-Father describing his own sacrifice in order to bring the secret of runes to his people.
“With spear was I pierced
And offered to Odin
Myself to myself
On that Tree
Whose roots
No man can know.”
Her voice grew stronger, rasping with agony, the tension in her arms showing how the frigid bonds had held the Wise One fast.
“No bread was I given. No drink from the horn.”
Her audience shifted in their seats guiltily. Every full belly in the hall churned at the thought of Odin’s hunger and thirst.
“Into the depths I peered…”
Rika’s eyes widened in terror. She seemed to actually see Niflheim and the runic symbols etched on icy slabs before her, enshrouded with ghostly phantoms of mist. She heard several gasps around the hall as her listeners caught the same horrific image.
“The runes, I grasped ...”
She clutched at the invisible lettering, her voice edged with hysteria.
“Screaming, did I grasp them—”
She jerked violently and stutter-stepped backward half a pace, as if toppling from a branch on the World Tree in that icy realm far away.
“And then to Midgard bearing treasure for men, did I tumble back.”
She whisked her audience with her along the gnarled trunk of Yggdrasil, back to warmth and light in one blinding moment. Rika finished in a whisper that circled the hall and echoed off the hardened leather shields hanging on the walls.
Silence hovered over the hall so potent that no one wanted to break the spell. Rika had taken them on a dizzying sojourn through the nine worlds, to Niflheim and back, and her listeners could scarcely draw a breath.
“By all the gods,” Bjorn swore softly. “Rika, you are a skald.”
She turned to Bjorn and gave him the first real smile that had graced her lips since she’d discovered Mag nus face down in the straw.
“Rika, Rika.” Jorand started the chant and a couple of the nearby fighting men joined in. The cry was taken up around the hall, accompanied by scores of fists pounding on the benches. “Rika, Rika.”
She raised her hand to silence them before starting on the Saga of Sigurd. The joy of her art sang in her veins, flooding her with power and charging her body with so much energy, it seemed to flash from her fin gertips as she gestured.
Bjorn leaned forward, the better to watch her face. He’d never seen the like. And to think he’d believed he could take this woman captive. As he listened to her weave another spell with words, he realized that he was the one who was in real danger of being captured.
Chapter 6
He
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