Page 45 of Song and Sword
The watch before dawn was always the hardest. You had just enough time to begin to fall into a deep sleep before being rudely wakened and set to your post in the cold night hours. The fires had been extinguished, and the sun was not yet up, so there was no warmth or light to be had. Instead, there was chill, and mist, and tiredness. And when the watch was done, there would be no more sleep, only the beginning of another long marching day.
Just as annoying was the sheer amount of noise the forest could generate before dawn: all sorts of strange cries, rustling and movement that were alarming and off-putting, making for an unquiet heart even as you dreamt of warmth and soft sleep. The watch before dawn was for the poor souls who had angered their commanders.
Skulpa of the Crowbone Clan had not meant to be the object of his commander’s wrath. All he had meant to do was relieve himself during a day’s march. The fact that Skulpa had pissed into a creek upstream of where Clan Elder Mudi was washing his beard and having a drink was more bad timing than anything else, really. But still, Mudi carried a grudge, and so Skulpa was on the predawn watch.
If anything, it seemed the forest noises were louder than usual, especially the frogs’ chorus. Skulpa frowned. It was his experience that the frogs sang their songs just after the sun went down. Why were they singing in the predawn, and so loudly? As he turned towards the camp, he could see his fellow Skraelings turning and twisting in their beds, their sleep disturbed by the amphibian chorus.
There was a rustling in the grass, and a frog jumped right onto Skulpa’s boot. It looked up at him, its throat working as it madeboomingnoises. The Skraeling muttered an oath and shook the creature off. Suddenly, there was more and more rustling, and it seemed like the grass and undergrowth was alive with the wretched creatures, all hopping through the camp while making their mating calls. It was not long before everyone in the camp was awoken, and people cursed as they discovered frogs everywhere from their boots to their backpacks.
“What in the Nine Worlds?” cursed Skulpa’s friend Stapa, shaking his boots free of frogs as he joined the man on watch. “What did you do?”
Skulpa thought this was an unfair accusation. “Nothing!” he protested. “Do you think I sang a song tothe frogs, telling them tales of beautiful lady frogs hiding in our camp?”
“Sounds like something you would do,” grumbled Stapa as he rubbed a hand over his face. “Wretched creatures. What are they looking for?”
“Perhaps,” said Skulpa, unexpectedly thoughtful, “the frogs are not so much runningto, asfrom.”
The Skraelings looked at each other, and it was at that moment that disturbingly large rats exploded out of the undergrowth and ran between their feet, heading directly for the camp.
“Gods!” cried Stapa, hopping from one foot to the other. “They’re everywhere!” There were cries and howls from throughout the campsite, as well as the sounds of tents being pulled down, pots and kettles being turned over, and a general cacophony of chaos.
After what seemed like an eternity, the forest floor stilled. Skulpa and Stapa tried to calm their breathing down.
“Were you bitten?” asked Skulpa.
“No,” replied Stapa, still panting heavily. “You?”
“No. I hope that was the last of the—”
It was at this point that clouds of midges and botflies descended onto the Skraeling camp. The midges bit at every inch of exposed flesh they couldfind, and the botflies dove directly at the faces of the Skraelings, seeking to bury their eggs in the sensitive membranes of their noses and eyes.
Hakon and Gunnar, perched in trees outside of the campsite, watched in awe at the havoc wrought by the forest magic of the Ironwood witches. “If this is what they can do while still outside of the Ironwood itself,” murmured Gunnar, “only a madman would dare set foot in their territory.”
Hakon nodded. “No wonder the Skraelings drive so hard to catch the witches before they reach it. Although I must confess, it is still a mystery to me why the Skraelings want to kill the witches so badly. Surely there was greater wealth among the Visby refugees who travelled north with the Jarl?”
Gunnar shook his head. “We know there are larger forces at work here. Freya has told us as much. This is the evil work of gods as much as men.”
Screams of afflicted men rose up from the Skraeling camp as they battled the clouds of insects. Some sections of the camp were on fire from where insect-blinded men had attempted to use smoke to drive away the tiny pests.
“Isa throkk din hurduu!”
The deep baritone cry seemed to come from everywhere all at once, accompanied by a deep thrumming vibration, as if an enormous giant had just stamped its foot. Hakon and Gunnar had to struggle to hold on to their perches in the trees. They looked at each other in fear and confusion, and said at the same time, “What the—”
“Ekkem te skugge!”And with those foreign words, a great blast of air roared through the trees, blasting the clouds of insects far and wide. The gust caught Gunnar full in the chest, and he would have been blown from his branch had Hakon not grabbed him and held on with all his strength.
“What in the depths of Darkalfheim wasthat?” murmured Hakon in awe, helping his shaken brother descend from the tree.
“Nothing of Midgard, that’s for certain,” muttered Gunnar. “Hakon, we need to leave.”
“I agree, but not before understanding what just happened,” replied Hakon.
“I hate it when you’re right; have I ever told you that?” whispered Gunnar in exasperation.
Hakon laughed softly. “I’ve lost count, beloved brother.” The two warriors crept forwards, careful to avoid being noticed.
They needn’t have bothered. All of the warriors of the Skraeling camp were on their knees, bowing in the direction of a figure in the center of the camp. The figure was man-shaped but enormous; perhaps half again as large as a full-grown warrior. He was covered in boar skins and wore an enormous grinning boar skull as a helmet. In one massive fist, he clutched a thick shafted spear. Along the deadly leaf shape of the spear’s blade ran vivid orange flames.
“Thor protect us,” murmured Gunnar, grasping the hammer pendant he wore beneath his tunic.
