The World Serpent

“What a fine day,” Kóri said, as his boots squelched through ankle-deep mud. He sniffed wetly and pulled his fur-lined cloak tighter about himself. “What beautiful weather.”

He knew better than anyone that a lie repeated often enough became the truth.

“It’ll be warm enough where you’re going, skald,” said the man behind him.

Kóri and his four bedraggled companions made a sorry procession. Four thanes and a skald, four miserable guards and their blithe prisoner, clambering like drowning rats up the thin brown thread of a path. The path coiled and wound out of the valley and up the slope of a hill, to where the whittled points of wooden stakes emerged like the spars of sunken ships, marking the outer rim of the walls of the jarl’s stronghold.

On either side of the valley, the grey bones of ancient hills poked through their coats of moss and grass. Low, ropey bands of iron clouds looped over their heads, like the World-Serpent squeezing shut the sky. They were pelted with hard pellets of rain that turned the lifeline of the path into a slick, treacherous trap. The other four slipped and staggered, sometimes falling to their knees, but Kóri kept his feet and waited patiently for them to get back up. Their hands were burdened with axes, their bodies with mail and their heads with dark omens, while his were quite free.

Thunder grated and murmured sulkily across the moors. One thane’s hand went to his neck, and he muttered a prayer to himself. Inside his cloak, Kóri smiled. It was a twitching, serpentine thing that slid across his face and vanished into the russet tangle of his beard.

“Beautiful weather,” he said more loudly, over the pebbly rush of the rain. “Rained like this the day I rowed for Skollheim with Einulf Alfblood and his sea-wolves. Stubborn as an old sow, ‘Ulf was. Half a day out from Krakavik and the fog was thick enough to drink, the wind sharp enough to shave. But ‘Ulf insisted we plow on, lashed himself to the tiller and threatened to gut the man who didn’t row. No point in rowing, I says, oars’ll snap, anyway the wind’s carrying us like a leaf. But he wouldn’t hear it. 'Row, you bastards, row.' Battered by the storm morning, noon and night for three days. 'Row, you bastards, row.' ‘Course we couldn’t row, just huddled about the mast and prayed to Vedfathir Stormfather, to Trustworthy Tryggvar, to the Blind God and the Hearthwife, even to the World-Serpent, to anyone to bring us home safe. Row, you bastards, row, Einulf kept shouting. Right up until the mast snapped and fell on him, crushed his skull like a rotten apple.”

Kóri clapped his rain-slick hands together for emphasis and chuckled. “Silly bastard couldn’t move out of the way, on account of lashing himself down. And then damned if the fog didn’t lift, and we sighted land. We made it, we shouted, we’ve made it to Skollheim. Oh, such cheering and clapping each other on the backs. We’ll be legends, we said. Heroes. Hah.”

He paused dramatically, forcing his guards to slither to a halt. “We’re dragging the boat ashore, on the mythical, legendary shores of Skollheim, hah, when a freeman comes sauntering down the road and says, ‘Oh, you lot back already?’ Weren’t Skollheim at all. Damned if the storm hadn’t carried us straight back to fucking Krakavik.”

He chuckled and rubbed his hands, nodding at the man who’d clutched his amulet. “So you see lads, that’s how the gods answer our prayers.” Which was a lie, but one that bore repeating.

The four guards looked sidelong at one another but made no comment. When Kóri spoke, it was like a drakkar keel cracking, like they were suddenly aware how fragile their world was, how small the ship that held their lives, how vast the ocean. When Kóri spoke, his bright, pale, almost colorless eyes looked right past you, as though he were talking to your shadow.

“Jarl Einulf Alfblood is alive and well and still rules in Krakavik,” grunted one of the thanes. “Enough stories, Vikkir. Move.”

Kóri shrugged. “Is that so? Well, they say the wolf-men of Skollheim can take many shapes.” He began to plod up the hill again. “Watch your step,” he said, just as the man behind him placed a foot into a deceptively deep puddle and went sprawling with a startled curse. Kóri stopped and turned and watched the man flounder, one knee sliding from under him and sending him back into the muck. “Oh, bad luck son.”

While the mud-soaked man finally levered himself back to his feet, using the haft of his axe like a crutch, the other three fingering lead amulets and charms, miniature replicas of the Stormfather’s axe or the Hearthwife’s wheel.

“Not to worry lads, it’ll all be over soon, eh?” Kóri nodded towards the walls, now just over a bowshot away.

Three grey figures rippled and swam in the shadows beneath the nearest gate, the center one seated astride a horse whose reins were held by the one on the right.

“Look, the jarl himself’s come out to welcome you, skald,” said the man who’d spoken earlier, with grim satisfaction. There was only one horse in the district, and only one man was allowed to ride her. “Lucky you, you’ll be out of the rain and roasting in no time.”

Jarl Baldr Hornbrow was built like an ox, though not quite as pretty. He had thighs like ash trees, hands like oars and a face like a broken shield wall. Two pale blue eyes glowered from under a granite slab of brow. He slid from his horse and landed like a boulder in a puddle, splashing mud halfway up his calves. Kóri thought he heard the horse wheeze in relief. Baldr’s grey cloak was pinned with a silver brooch, and a jeweled sword hung from his belt.

To the right, holding the reins, was Baldr’s son Arne, spear-slim where his father was axe-broad. Handsome, young, tall and fit, on the cusp of becoming a man, all the things his father had once been, and no longer was. To the left was Baldr’s second wife, Aslaug, her resigned eyes endeavoring to look at nothing. Her amulet at first seemed round like the Hearthwife’s wheel, but sharper eyes saw it was a snake biting its own tail.

Balder was bellowing as he splashed towards Kóri, one hand clapped to the hilt of his sword. “You liar, you filthy worm, you greasy, arse-faced Vikkir!” His other hand thrust an accusing finger. “I’ll string you by your guts from the Stormfather’s tree. You lied and called me a coward in my own hall, in my own bloody hall, insulted my name and my honor.”

Kóri hadn’t, actually. He had offered the jarl a gift, a skald’s gift, the gift of a tale, and the jarl had accepted. So Kóri had told the tale of the Battle of the Shallows, and told it true, but nobody remembers the truth, nor wants to. He’d told how Sweyn Magnusson, Baldr and a dozen other jarls had risen against King Ivar Deepfathom, and been caught by the king’s army when their boats were blown ashore in a storm. Baldr and his thanes had sat out the battle until both sides were exhausted, then switched sides and fallen on the rear of his former allies. He’d been rewarded with this land, this title, and Aslaug, the wife of the man he’d betrayed.

The skald Kóri had stood in the jarl’s hall and sung the truth, sung the tale of the Battle of the Shallows. And then the shouting had started.

Kóri had been ready, and sprung for the door, knocking over a brazier and starting a fire that burned half the hall and fueled the jarl’s anger. He’d even made it as far as the doorway amid the smoke and flames (that would cause comment, later, when they remembered how quickly the fire had spread). He’d nearly been yanked off his feet when hands grabbed his fine, fur cloak, but then Aslaug had staggered free of the smoke, straight into Kóri’s captor. The hands on the cloak had released, and Kóri had vanished into the night.

He hadn’t gotten far, nor wanted to. He just needed to give Baldr time to stew on what had happened, to let him polish this grudge to a hateful shine and whet his appetite for revenge. The four thanes had found the skald in a farmer’s field, wrapped in his cloak against the rain, under a great ash tree, smiling and quite unconcerned.

In front of the stronghold walls, the skald pushed back his hood, his serpent’s smile flickering.

“I lied,” Kóri agreed. “Forgive me, for I lied and insulted your honor, great jarl.” This was the best kind of lie, the lie that was also the truth.

The casual admission caught Baldr off guard. His eyes narrowed, and he advanced another step. “Vikkir have neither brains nor courage,” he growled. “Only things you love are yourselves and gold.”

“We don’t,” Kóri nodded happily. “They are.”

“Someone paid you, put you up to this.”

“Not at all. I drank too much, perhaps a madness took me. Nobody paid me, great jarl.” His dancing eyes looked past Baldr’s shoulder. “Who would do such a thing?” Once a man had wrapped both hands around a lie, you see, every blow struck by the truth only made him dig his heels in deeper. Nobody was as suspicious as those who lied to themselves.

“I have many enemies. Weak enemies, cowards, who dare not strike me. They want to make me look weak, look like a fool.”

“Come now, jarl. It was an ale-joke, a mead-jest, nothing more. Who would profit from your shame?”

The jarl glanced over his shoulder, where his son Arne stood. The boy looked regal even in the rain, blond hair slicked back like a foam-born godling. Baldr twisted back to face Kóri again. His voice dropped. “Who? Ivar? Arvakr? The woman? The boy? Who? Not the boy. The boy? Tell me and I spare you.” Fingers of oak gripped the front of Kóri’s cloak and hauled him close enough to smell the ale on Baldr’s breath and feel flecks of saliva strike his face. “Tell me, worm, if you value your life. Nobody has paid you enough for the pain you’ll suffer if you lie. Was it the boy?”

Kóri’s eyes met Baldr’s, and for once grew still. “Why would your own son want to weaken you?” He all but radiated innocence.

Baldr’s smile was cunning and cruel. “Oh ho,” he said only. He let go Kóri’s cloak and shoved him back a shambling, slippery step, then reached down and drew his sword. A short, cleaver-like thing, beautiful in its brutal utility, sharpened along one side and tapering to a chisel point. “Arne!” he bellowed. “Arne, come here. Let your father instruct you in justice.”

Arne frowned, shrugged, handed the reins to his step-mother, and came towards the two, eyes flicking from skald to jarl and back again. “Father?”

“Did you order this worm to tell that false, vile, insulting story in my hall?” Baldr asked without turning.

“What?” Arne was caught between amazement and disbelief. “Are you mad?”

“Mad, is it boy? Mad? Call me mad? I will show you mad!”

With a roar Baldr whirled and lashed out with the blade. Arne jerked back, too slow, and clapped a hand to the red ruin of his face with a scream. Baldr drew back for another swing, but Kóri grabbed his arm, shouting for him to stop. Baldr knocked him back with a swat of his hand. Arne dropped his hand from his face and ripped a dagger from his belt, hurled himself at his father. Hooked an elbow around the back of the jarl’s neck. Baldr dropped his sword and grabbed his son by the throat, forcing Arne’s head back, red fingers squeezing into his neck, but too late. Arne’s free hand drove the point of the dagger up, under Baldr’s chin, through his jaw and into his brain.

Kóri stepped back lightly as the jarl’s body fell at his feet, still wriggling worm-like, back arching and heaving in a series of strangled spasms.

“Now, just stay calm lads,” Kóri held up his palms and grinned to the four thanes, standing in shock. They had been sword-brothers to the dead jarl, drinking and hunting companions, their futures tied forever to his. A future now kicking and gagging, drowning in mud, rain and its own blood. “No need for any more killing.”

The jarl thrashed once, twice, thick fingers fumbling at the blade under his chin. Then arms, legs and face went slack.

Arne stood panting over his father’s body, hands on his knees, blood flowing freely down his face, marring those handsome features of his. His eyes were wide, disbelieving. He looked at his hands as if they were a stranger’s. Then one of the thanes stepped forward with a cry, axe raised over his head in two hands, and brought it crashing down on Arne’s shoulder. The blade cut through bone, separating the arm, burying itself in the young man’s heart.

Arne was still screaming and coughing blood when the thane was in turn hacked down by two of his fellows, who then turned against the third. The jarl’s horse was screaming too, bucking, rearing, hooves lashing out at the fighting men.

Kóri met the lady Aslaug’s eyes as she backed away, pale, and pressed herself against the walls. One hand wrapped around her amulet, her endlessly self-devouring snake. Kóri stepped away from a wildly-swung blade, looked from the thrashing men to Aslaug and gave her a helpless little, what-can-you-do shrug.

When only one thane was left alive, on his knees and head bowed with exhaustion, Kóri picked up one of the discarded axes, walked up to the man and hacked his head from his shoulders with one blow. Kóri watched the knees fold, the body topple like a broken mast. He tossed the axe aside with a flick of the wrist, and turned to Aslaug.

“Why.” She breathed the word like a prayer, like a talisman.

Kóri said nothing but smiled, a wicked and secret thing, and watched her thumb moving around her amulet, moving endlessly around and around the heavy metal, around and around.

Voices were raised within the walls. Others would be coming soon.

She followed his gaze down to the base of her throat, then back to those pale, pale eyes.

He gave her a wink. “The gods answer your prayers,” he said, and felt the lie in those words become true.

With a cry of rage, revulsion and shame, she tore the chain from her neck and threw the talisman at the skald. He caught it, one-handed, and gave a mocking bow in thanks.

The jarl’s horse calmed at Kóri’s touch and let the man heave one leg up onto its back and then the rest of himself the saddle. The dozen men and women who came shouting and boiling through the gate saw only the back of his cloak flapping as the horse crested the nearest hill, before they stumbled to a halt amid the churned muddy earth and sprawling, maimed bodies of their lord, his son and four closest retainers.

It stopped raining soon after, though it was a while before the jarl’s twice-widowed wife noticed.