Skath blinked her feathered eyelids, adjusting to the dim daylight filtering through the thin veil of snow. Muffled voices rose and fell in the distance, dulled by the walls of her burrow on the snow-laden mountainside. Her ptarmigan heart gave a jolt, shaking off the last remnants of her nap’s lingering fog. Hunters?
She considered shedding her snow-coloured bird-skin—the guise wrapping her small Jotun form in a ptarmigan’s plumage—but then it struck her. These voices must belong to strangers. No one from Thrymheim would make such noise without good reason. Anything might be lurking behind the craggy outcrops. And the mountains held other dangers too. Dark clouds brooded over the countless peaks, covering them in unstable blankets of snow, made even more treacherous by the early spring thaw. The change of season also brought furious thunderstorms, earning the mountain range its name. When they struck, the ground shuddered so violently, entire slopes would tumble down, swallowing whatever lay in their path.
It was to take shelter from one of those tempests while she waited for the Asgardians that Skath had carved out her retreat. Even if it was a minor one, it was enough to trick her into sleep. She'd never been able to resist the lulling tremors and whistling winds of these storms. Still, it was careless of her. She could have missed them.
Them. The Asgardians. The voices must belong to them! They were here.
Skath edged out of her burrow, as cautious as she could manage in her excitement. She had never seen an Asgardian before. She had only ever heard of them—the most powerful magick-folk there were. Well, them and the Vanir.
The stories she’d heard in her youth had left her somewhat confused. Some spoke of the Asgardians as fierce and dangerous, the greatest living threat to the Jotuns. Others made them sound like figures from fairy tales—tales told by travelling minstrels at Drumfire Fort, of fine-featured princes and princesses draped in exquisite, colourful garments and adorned with jewels sparkling like the night sky! Her father had called them allies, yet from the way he spoke of them, he did not seem to like them much.
Skath had been playing hnefatafl* with him when he received a raven from Vili Borsson, Elder God of Asgard. Vili had requested 'safe passage through Thrymheim, three rooms, and a stable with suspended mats for horses and soldiers, one night only.' Skath had hoped the suspended mats were meant for the horses, but her father had informed her that writing concise messages on small pieces of parchment was never the Elder God’s greatest strength.
He’d also been irritated. Their visit had confirmed some suspicion of his, though he wouldn’t explain it to Skath. Instead, he’d gone off to prepare for their arrival, leaving her with nothing to do but fidget and wonder what was to come. She’d tried to be patient. But when they failed to arrive at the earliest expected time, she’d risen before dawn, donned her bird-skin, and flown towards them, eager for an early glimpse.
She settled upon a coal-dark rock, dappled with white and half-buried in snow. Her black-speckled fur merged with the landscape, granting her a safe vantage over the narrow valley. Below, a modest band of warriors wrestled their way through the slush-filled passage, their colourful attire standing out against the bleak terrain. None of them were particularly imposing—smaller than half-giants, yet taller than crones. Five rode poorly prepared horses, struggling to keep their footing on the treacherous ground. Sitting ducks came to mind.
At the forefront rode an elderly man of unmistakable high status, accompanied by a grim-looking warrior. She decided the older man must be Vili, if not because of his age and clothes, then because the other bore too much resemblance to her Jotun kin, suggesting a mixed heritage. Behind them, three young men, sitting atop their well-groomed horses, scanned their surroundings. They looked several years older than her, though not yet full-grown men. They were of little help to their horses, somehow leading them, time and time again, to the most slippery patches of ice and slush. Each time, the dozen or so soldiers trudging behind were forced to slow down or come to a complete halt.
Disappointment battled with relief and gratification. They didn’t seem particularly threatening—weak even. But at least the three adolescents fit some of the more flattering descriptions. Had she not known of the Asgardians' arrival, she might have even mistaken them for Elves. They looked lavish enough.
"I swear, I’ve never seen such spectacular icicles in all my days!"
Out in the open, unobscured by her burrow's walls, the incessant chatter of the fairest of the three reached Skath easily. She recognised his melodious voice as the one that had awoken her. The boy nudged his black-haired companion.
"Ullur... Ullur! Look! Look at the rotation. It’s as though they’re crafted from finely braided cords! And such sharp points, too. They resemble colossal candles—you know, like the ones your mother decorates with at Yule? Do you think you could bring some to Nanna? Keep them frozen until we return—or whatever it is you do? I wager she could create something remarkable with them. Perhaps she could..."
"...stab you with them?" the curly-haired, brooding boy behind them interjected.
The fair-haired boy fell silent. It didn't last long though. By the next curve, his incessant tendency to marvel at every feature of the valley had taken over again. He found the mountain peaks impossibly grand, the jagged black rocks enigmatic. The half-frozen brook winding through the valley reminded him of molten pearls, and the narrow waterfalls of a kelpie’s silvery mane. Even the snow, streaked with mud, reminded him of something called marble, while the crowberry shrubs, clinging desperately to life between the half-frozen rocks, 'contrasted beautifully' with their surroundings. Beside him, the one he’d called Ullur tugged at his horse, his brashness causing it to stumble. What a strange pair.
"This path is impossible! Was there seriously no other way than through these wretched mountains? Why couldn’t we have just gone through Jotunheim instead?"
Skath fluffed her feathers in irritation. At the front, Vili’s armour clinked as he turned to face the boy, Ullur, and ordered him to be silent.
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“You’ve never even set foot outside Asgard. What would you know about which way to take? You wouldn’t find your way to your mother’s tits without someone leading you by the hand.”
Ullur opened his mouth to protest, but Vili cut him off.
"What? Did you think this would be like one of your rambles with your friends? Just mind you keep away from the edges and don’t overwork your horse."
When Ullur started again, Vili gestured toward the brooding, curly-haired boy trailing behind them.
"I don’t hear Hoder complaining, so why are you? "
Behind him, the one he’d called Hoder stared blankly into the distance. They had brought a blind Asgardian with them? What a mad idea. Given that, along with their woeful lack of provisions, suitable robes, and proper mounts for the terrain, it was a wonder, really, no marauders had seized the chance to attack. Even if her father had granted them safe passage, all it meant was that they shouldn’t be right out slaughtered. The Norns must be smiling upon the Asgardians today—well, besides one. Ullur continued voicing his grievances, but kept them confined to his fair-haired friend.
"And where is the bloody sun? We’re well past morning, yet it might as well be evening for all we know."
The boys gazed over the mountain peaks. Troll-shaped rocks and monstrous cliffs were bathed in a faint gloom, while the sky, a muted shade of blue, cast a dim light over the narrow pass. His fair-haired friend pointed towards the sky.
"What a pretty sight!"
A cloud of azure-coloured birds emerged from a large, dark crevice high up in the mountain. They neither sang nor shrieked, but clacked, their cries echoing off the surrounding cliffs like loud claps. Witchings.
Skath dug her feet deeper into the snow, pressing herself against the cold rock, until she was certain she had become one with the ground. Sweeping through the peaks, the Witchings swirled and shifted like a restless storm-cloud. At the forefront of the group, the grim-browed warrior bellowed a warning.
"Raise your shields! Guard the horses! "
Below in the valley, the soldiers formed a protective circle around the five riders, raising their colourful shields to the sky. Silly Asgardians. If the Witchings hadn’t noticed them before, they certainly had now. Didn’t they know Witchings were deaf?
The Witchings regrouped, shifting into a shape resembling an arrow. With increasing speed, the arrow-like formation hurtled toward the valley floor. The boys raised their shields in imitation of the soldiers, though Hoder—the one Skath suspected to be blind—struggled to raise his. Ullur, leapt from his horse to help him adjust the shield. He barely made it back before the flock of Witchings altered their course and dove toward them with terrifying speed.
Splinters flew as the Witchings’ dagger-like beaks hammered against the shields. One soldier slipped on the ice, his grip failing. As he scrambled back into position, the Witchings' beaks cut at his exposed arm.
But instead of crimson staining the snow, the soldier’s blood dripped green. How strange. Skath had only ever seen green blood in bottles sold by peddlers—most often hags—at the great market in the Fort. Whether it was the colour or the taste, the Witchings lost interest and in a fluid motion vanished back into their cave.
A heavy silence settled, broken by the faint drum of distant waterfalls. When the witches didn’t return, the men lowered their shields. Ullur fought to rein in his frightened horse.
"What in Surtur’s name was that?!"
Before anyone could answer, his fair-haired friend cut in, voice trembling.
"Is everyone all right?"
Vili and the warrior dismounted and checked on their men and horses. Once everyone had been accounted for, the warrior tended to the wounded soldier. Sinews hung from a gash in his gangly arm, but the soldier merely looked at it with an irritated expression. Skath was impressed—she knew plenty of sturdy Jotuns who would have raged over lesser wounds. From a leather pouch slung over his shoulder, the warrior retrieved a jar of some sort of balm, which he smeared generously across the soldier’s wound. All the while, he muttered something under his breath—too incomprehensible for Skath to make sense of. The soldier endured the treatment without flinching, and soon the sinews drew back in, the wound sealing itself. That was some powerful magick. Those Asgardians might not be hopeless after all.
The group returned to their positions, some casting uneasy glances around.
"They won’t be back," Vili remarked. "They want their blood red. Now, let’s hope they don’t realise we’ve got some fresh meat among us."
"Will someone now tell me what that was?” Ullur demanded. “A little warning would have been appreciated. Might have been useful to know about those—things—before we set off. Should we be expecting more of these…?"
"We did," Hoder interrupted.
"I beg your pardon?"
"We did learn about them. They are Witchings—dark creatures who dwell in covens up in the mountains. They use bird-skins to hunt and sleep upside down in their caves—like bats. We learned about them last summer—or you would have, if you hadn’t been too busy ogling Nanna."
"Ogling Nanna...? I do not ogle anyone."
"Yes, you do. So does Baldur."
"How, in Underheim’s undergarments, could you possibly...?"
"You don’t learn about dark creatures from scrolls—" Vili raised his voice. "Nor do you learn anything else worth knowing that way. You learn by doing and by seeing for yourself. And it’s high time you did. You’ve been coddled far too long with your tamed training and your pointless parchments. Consider these witches your first lesson, and see that you keep up!"
"Witchings. They’re called Witchings, " Hoder muttered.
Vili grunted a warning, then set off again. Sullen, the boys shifted in their saddles.
"Now, second lesson: keep your voices down if you want to reach the Fort in one piece."
Skath anticipated the one about to receive the real lesson was the old man himself—and that he'd soon realise not to bring unseasoned youths to Thrymheim. Regardless, their education promised to provide her with ample entertainment. She couldn’t wait to tell her father. But first, she’d better change.
Hopping on her small, feathered feet, she retreated behind a large rock, its moss mantle frosted, and shed her bird-skin. She shuddered as the feathered cloak fell to the ground, completing her transformation. Crisp, earthy scents hit her as she adjusted to her Jotun form—poor compensation for the diminished sight it brought.
Once settled, Skath fastened her wild bush of black-and-white locks atop her head, before adjusting her bow and quiver. Stowing her bird-skin away, she slipped after the stumbling group of men, eager to witness what other misfortunes would befall them.
* Hnefatafl: A two-player strategy board game where one player controls the king and the other attempts to capture him.