Ross Lawhead's Blog, page 3
November 2, 2021
Thorgrim: The Mercenary, Ch 4
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Thorgrim: The Mercenary, Ch 3
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Thorgrim — Serialised Novel Introduction
So I’ve decided to seralise a Viking adventure (with horror elements) novel that I wrote a couple years ago. I have several finished, unpublished projects, and this is the one that I feel best about sharing with you, my supporters! Although I consider it “finished” (I say “finished” because I am of the school of artists that believes that works of art are never finished, only abandoned) I would still welcome questions and comments back on it, especially negative comments, things that I could change in the story in particular, or even areas in my writing as a whole to examine. Honestly, I’m not one to take that kind of thing personally!
It’s just over 50,000 words long, so kind of a novella, but it’s got a lot of research and solid history behind it, which I hope shows. I’ll post around two chapters a week, depending on length, of which there are 29.
EDIT: I’m still working on Godman, bit by bit. Watch for more updates!
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Thorgrim: The Mercenary Ch 1-2
Part One
A Dead Man’s Sword
Chapter One
The Travellers
Summer seemed to turn directly into winter, as it always did this far north in Norway. The days were still bright, but it was the kind of light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. There were no shadows on the ground, and dense clouds obscured the landscape, creating a near impenetrable mist on the upper half of the mountainside, masking the peaks of the fjord from view of the valley.
The two men appeared to be walking down from the sky itself. Wrapped in dark cloth from head to toe, their legs were sodden from shoes to knees. The frost that was embedded on their upper trousers indicated that they had come directly from the mountain passes where the air is freezing cold at all times of the year.
The two travellers paused their descent as they came just below the cloud cover. Here, finally, they could see further than their feet on the ground, and into the open valley before them. They unwound the strips of cloth that masked their faces, the vapour from their heat and sweat wafting off their heads and into the chill afternoon air.
“There is a settlement there,” one of the figures observed. He had a young face, with a hint of a dark beard starting on his jaw.
“Not a settlement. That is Helgistadir,” said his companion, a middle-aged man with yellow hair turning to white in growing patches. “It is just one farmstead. We will find no warm welcome there. It is not just that this valley rarely sees visitors, it is also that the owner of that farm is a thoroughly unpleasant man, in just about every respect. I have met him once before and I am not keen on renewing my acquaintance. But see that, there…?”
The young man squinted at a distant sparkle on the horizon.
“That’s the sea, young Thorgrim,” the old man informed him. “And Asney is where you will find ship transport. I told you I would get you there.”
Baulking slightly at the use of the word “young”, Thorgrim answered, “You have not got me there yet, Gier. Is there any chance that we could make it there by nightfall?”
“None,” said the older man, starting to move. “Even if the path were direct, we would not make it in another full day.” Thorgrim fell into step beside him. Observing the tense silence, Gier added, “But it is just as far for the man that you pursue…”
“I understand that. I just wish more than anything to overtake him and to have my vengeance out as soon as possible. It is hard to see so far forward and not to be able to close the gap, that is all. What is the best place to stay the night?”
“Perhaps Jost’s farm, a few miles further along the valley. If we move quickly we can reach it before dark.”
“Any shelters out in the open?”
“This is all farmed land. Nearly every inch of it is spoken for, and we will not find the valley much warmer than the passes.”
“Very well, let us press on.”
The way was not as easy as Gierhad thought it would be. He had trouble discerning the pathways and claimed that the landscape had been somewhat disturbed since he had visited it last. They continued in silence, winding their way down the valley. The air grew warmer the further they descended and the chill breeze lessened.
The sky was darkening when they passed within view of the farm’s main hall.
“This is not good,” said the older man. “It is too dark to continue on to Jost’s farm, it will be night long before we arrive.”
“So?” said the young man, not breaking his pace, “we will navigate by the stars and the moon.”
The older man did not reply, but pressed his lips firmly together.
“What is it?”
“What?”
“You obviously have something on your mind.”
“There are many thoughts that a man has at night that he should not—must not say aloud, for fear of attracting evil ears…”
“You won’t tell me that you think that there are still trolls in these parts,” the young man said with a smile.
“Not at all,” said Gier, rebuffed, “It’s just—you don’t know what the people around here are like. The old superstitions are not so old in these secluded valleys.”
“I come from a secluded valley and I can tell you that it is just ignorance that keeps you inner-dwellers afraid of us.”
“Truly? You never saw anything of the elder races?”
“Well… there was a giant in one of the forests nearby that we knew not to go near, but it has been long years since anyone actually spied him. I’ll wager he has died by now.”
“Such is the way. The old things are passing.”
“Aye,” said Thorgrim, humouring his guide. “Very well, so you are not in danger of trolls, what is it that you are uncomfortable about?”
“You just don’t know how unpleasant a man this Helgi is. I have had dealings with him in the past and I am not eager to renew my acquaintance. He is rumoured to live in those old ways we were just talking about—the ways of sacrifice and Norn worship.”
“People will rumour anything about an unpleasant man.”
“Men are unpleasant for a reason. I don’t pretend to know what is in a man’s heart when he perpetrates dark acts. I only know that those acts are harmful, whatever the backwards intent may be.”
Thorgrim considered. “It needs to be decided if we will stay the night here, or if we will continue on to this Jost further along the valley. You know how pressing time is for me, but it is for you to decide if the price I paid…”
“Very well. We press on.”
“Thank you.”
They came to a series of paths that the older man had not seen before. “This has all been built up and moved. He stood in the middle of a crossroads and looked around. “I hate to say it, but it is best that we ask directions from someone at Helgi’s household.”
“Well, let’s not dally, then. Let’s be fast about it.”
They both turned back and it was a short time before they were standing at the large wooden gate that marked the start of Helgi’s property. The farm was a large stone hall with a wooden roof surrounded by various out-buildings—a couple storehouses, a privy, and a livestock enclosure. A tall stone wall surrounded the buildings and a large mound stood near the entrance.
“Is that a grave mound?” wondered Thorgrim. “Why is it so close to the farm buildings?”
“Very odd,” said Gier. “I don’t like it.” He turned toward the house and cupped his hands.
“Hello!” he shouted,“Is there anyone about?”
A serving man emerged and ran towards them from across the yard, but when he came close to the main hall, he darted inside without a word.
“This bodes not well,” said Gier. “I have a mind to carry on regardless.”
“Wait,” said the younger man.
A woman emerged from the hall. She was thin and weary looking. She seemed quite elderly, but when she came closer it was clear that she wasn’t old, but was haggard and worn.
She stopped some distance from the gate. The man who had run to fetch her hung back in the doorway of the hall. They waited for some words of welcome but the woman just stared at them, as though puzzled.
“What business have you here?” the woman asked after a while, not with hostility, but almost with concern.
“My name is Gier,” said the older man. “I am a guide for this young man of honour. But I am afraid I have need of directions. Can you spare someone to show us the way to Jost’s farm? I am unfamiliar with these new routes.”
“The footpath washed out last spring,” said the woman. The hollowness in her eyes was harrowing. “The way to Jost’s now is… longer.”
The young man looked at his guide and then at the sky. “Let us hurry, then.”
The haunted woman continued to stare.
“My young master, a word,” said Gier. They stood aside and Gier continued in a low voice. “I have a bad feeling here. Things are not as they should be. Helgi must be gone. He kept everything in smart shape, his servants and wife least of all. When I say ‘gone,’ however I believe that he’s right now in that grave mound.”
The mound appeared darker now in the fading light.
“That said,” continued Gier, “I think it is best if we change tack and ask to stay the night. It is already unfavourably dim and we would not make it to Jost’s before nightfall. There’s a chance we could miss it entirely. Bedding down in the cold forest where there are probably bears and wolves to contend with—whatever strangeness we face here will be of small matter compared to that, even if one of us must stay awake all night.”
Thorgrimnodded his head and they went back to the gate. The woman, who had not moved away from her place, seemed to be swaying slightly.
“Stay… the night?” She asked when they made their request. Her gaze returned from wherever it had been fixed, in this world or another, and she studied them—their clothes, their weapons, and their faces. “Are you warriors?” she asked uncertainly.
“We can handle ourselves in a fight,” the young man said after a moment.
“I am Thordis,” the woman said, opening the gate for them. “My husband Horsa owns this farm. He is not here right now, but you are welcome to warm yourselves in the hall. I can see that you are both sodden and must be cold. There is a fire. You can dry yourselves in there until he returns.”
It was almost night when the master of the household arrived. He looked to be in a hurry, and immediately after he entered he barred the door with a large beam before he turned to look at his guests.
“You should not have come here to stay,” he said, once he had seen them.
Thorgrim shot a glance to Gier. “We felt that there was little other option,” he said. “But no one has told us yet—what is it that has put this entire farmstead in such disarray. I’ve never seen such a shambles before.”
“Shortly put,” said Horsa, “this farm is haunted by the ghost of its previous owner. He’s a man so vile that Hel herself sent him back as a torment to the living. When he died I was fool enough to think that we were rid of him. May those that buried him on this ground be plagued as I have been for their thoughtlessness—he should have been taken through the wall and put in the ground out of sight of this property, so that if he did wander, he would not easily find his way back here.
“But as it is, almost every night he besieges us, scares the cattle, and chases off our servants. If we venture out of doors, he kills us, like he killed his own wife, his widow, when she tried to reason with him. If I could leave this place I would, but he stops us from making preparations by smashing our carts and terrorizing our pack animals. In truth, we’re to the point where we’re going to run off into the mountains with just the shirts on our backs. Is that account brief enough for you?”
“It is scarce to be credited,” said Geir.
“Astounding,” said Thorgrim. “But how did this all begin?”
“You don’t want to hear that story.”
“Tell us,” said Thorgrim. “We may be able to help.”
Horsa sat down at the fireside and a refreshment cup was passed around. Some food was also produced, but it was poor, stale bread, and thin strips of dried meat. They ate it on the floor without even setting up the benches and tables.
“Where shall I begin?” said Horsa.
Chapter Two
The Tale of Helgi’s Death and Revenge
When Helgi was alive he was an evil-spirited man who never had a kind word for anyone. It’s fair to say he did the least amount of work possible, and was stingy with his property.
He was quite a picture: a wide, reptilian mouth with bulging lips and pale watery eyes. His brows were always pulled together in distrust, like he was trying to work out what game you were playing with him. While living, he walked with a staff, which he would not hesitate to use against someone to emphasize his point. Everyone hereabouts had unpleasant dealings with him but what other choice did they have? He owned one of the most prosperous farms in this valley.
Helgi demanded that when he died he should be given a burial like a hero or chieftain. This was going too far, most said. When he got on in years he had workers build that ugly monstrosity that you can see outside, and on his deathbed he dictated the removal of all his valuable objects and ordered them to be placed in the mound. So when he died—hunched over a table clutching a purse full of silver marks in his hand—he also was carried into the mound. They sat him in an ornate wooden chair like he was a king of old.
Signy, his wife, must have been as afraid of him in death as in life—maybe she had an inkling of what was coming. Regardless, she didn’t touch any of the valuables that he was laid to rest with. The purse of marks that Helgi had been clutching in his death was enough to allow her to travel far away to any relative that she would choose. But her final act as a wife was to toss it into the gaping hole of Helgi’s tomb. Perhaps she feared him or perhaps she didn’t want any more part of him.
The mound was then sealed, and it was thought that would be an end to the matter, and the last of Helgi, but it was not.
Bad-tempered and stingy in life, Helgi was even less agreeable in death.
Because Helgi had no son, father, or brother, his property passed to me, his nephew. His sister is my mother. I had not met the man during his life. I came here with my family at the end of the summer season. The first night we stayed at Overbygda, Helgi made his displeasure known.
Just as the sun set, and everyone at the farm had gathered here for dinner, there was a wild rushing of wind that rattled the rooftop’s eaves and made the roof timbers creak. Within the howling of the wind these words were heard, as if a strong voice were calling from a distance:
“In wind I rise, a wrathful wight,
Direly displeased in death.
A bastard son sits on my seat,
Will I not right this wrong?”
The voice was recognised as Helgi’s by those that knew him. Those in the hall sat in silence, not knowing what to do. Presently, loud footsteps were heard outside, shaking the earth as though a troll was walking the grounds. There came the noise of splintering wood as something moved among the cattle, and they were heard to moan loudly and scatter from the house. We barred the door and spent a sleepless night huddled around the fire, much like now.
The next day I and the other farmhands lifted the door bolt and went out to survey the damage. The fencing of the wooden holding pens had been shivered apart in many places and the livestock had nearly all been driven off. Many of the stone walls in the fields had been collapsed, and all over there were deep indentations the ground that were Helgi’s footprints, leading to and from the burial mound and all around the farmhouse, almost creating a trough.
Some of the men went into the hills to find the cattle while the rest made temporary repairs to the fences. Much was done to fix what had been brokenthe previous night, but the next night Helgi visited again.
A few people in the hall suggested that Signy go outside and try to reason with Helgi. Personally, I argued against it. It was clear that the poor woman was terrified.
Nevertheless, she was persuaded and she went out.
I won’t tell you about the screams that we heard. She did not return.
The next day the destruction was as before, and this course of events has continued until this day. We are all that are left of the household. The servants have all run off, all except Hvit-Grim over there.
Helgi sometimes strays further afield than this farm, sometimes up into the mountains, sometimes over to Jost’s farm. On those nights we get sleep. I always offer reparation to damage done on any other farm, but I am nearly beyond my means to do so.
In truth, I do not know how long I will still be here. Either I will be driven off or will be killed like Signy. All we can do is bar the doors. For some reason, Helgi is loath to damage his own hall.
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The Red Book of Mythology and the Blue Book
When I was in third and fourth grade there were many books I checked out repeatedly. Two of them I found by accident on the loading cart as I was walking by, both the same oversized, illustrated editions, one with a red cover and one with a blue cover. The red book retold Greek myths, the blue book retold Norse myths.
I have distinct memories of both books, and I favored them both equally, always checking them out together, but after all these years I remember the Norse myths much more distinctly. And at the time, as a nine year old, I was more eager to read of Thor sleeping in a giant’s glove than I was about Hermes being the messenger of the gods. Not that I was comparing them at all, I loved them both, but the Norse myths stuck with me.
Greek myths, for whatever reason, have always struck me as urbane, tending towards the philosophical, the moralistic. Perseus and Medusa is a bloody good romp, but the story of Daedalus always struck me as overly moralistic. Zeus and his pantheon acted arbitrarily, if not downright inscrutably. They would get an idea in their heads and you wouldn’t know why, or they’d take a shine to a mortal for tangential reasons.
The Norse gods were a different kettle of fish entirely. The Norse gods seemed constantly at war with each other as much as with the trolls and giants around them. They bickered and cheated and tricked each other. The apparent head of the gods, Odin, seemed far more wily and ruthless than the supposed god of mischief, Loki. He took what he wanted and didn’t let anyone stand in his way. Loki was also a slave to his own passion, and was undeniably clever, but his brains got him into trouble the exact same number of times they got him out of it. Thor was constantly getting made a fool of and humiliated. The giants were intimidating but less physically powerful than they were volatile. Reality didn’t seem to work the same way when a giant was on the scene.
If there was a message or a moral proven by the Norse gods it was don’t trust anyone. Because while the tale of the death of Balder had, not so much a twist as a barb in it, comparable to a Greek tale, it taught no real lesson, except that one of cautious distrust. Trust no one, not even your heroes.
This impression from these tales in the blue book struck more of a chord with me than the fussy cautions against flying too close to the sun in the red one. One book seemed to emphasize personal responsibility for marshaling your individual virtues, the other one was outwardly focused and told you to watch your step, that something as basic as poetry had dark origins in gore and betrayal, knowledge was won with pain, humiliation, and sacrifice, and that those possessing beauty could expect terrible tolls and payments to be exacted for the privilege.
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Going Mobile
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December 2, 2018
What’s Your Sequel?
My first (and probably last) sermon ever, entitled “What’s Your Sequel?” Revealed: what people don’t understand about sequels and the dark times in our spiritual life. Incorporating The Empire Strikes Back, The Godfather Part II, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, The Dark Knight, The Dark Night of the Soul, Aristotle’s Poetics, and Anna Karenina! Given at Cross Way United Methodist Church on November 25th, 2018.
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July 5, 2018
In The Region Of The Summer Stars Review – Spoiler Free
In The Region Of The Summer Stars by Stephen R. Lawhead
In the Region of the Summer Stars[image error] is the 30th novel by Stephen Lawhead and although it is in the same genre as much of his other books, there is a lot of new material to excite if you are a Lawhead reader.
To start with, this is the most High Fantasy Lawhead book since The Song of Albion, and I would argue that it is even more fantastical than that. Magic, curses, and non-human races from other worlds (or otherworlds, rather) abound. It’s fairly low level, and in the background, but this magical milieu fundamentally affects the plot and the characters themselves.
Second, Ireland isn’t a place that Lawhead has spent much time in, in a fictional sense. Patrick ended up there, after a fashion, and Byzantium started there, but no one book has taken place solely on the Emerald Isle. It’s a very fresh setting for him and he uses it well. The characters range all over the island, which is a treat if you know the geography of the country. He also makes the characters themselves feel Irish in a very real sense. There isn’t even a hint of the stereotypical “Begorra, an’ a top o’ the mornin’ t’ye!” Instead we have characters who are boastful, joyful, sullen, and spiteful, but all expressing themselves colourfully.
The main character, Conor, is an especial delight to read. Very smart and often two steps ahead of anyone he is talking to, he is charismatic and masterful in conversation. He’s a personified ideal that is expressed in one of my favourite Chesterton quotes, written about the Irish in his epic poem The Ballad of the White Horse:
For the great Gaels of Ireland
Are the men that God made mad;
For all their wars are merry,
And all their songs are sad.
Thirdly, this is the first time, ever, that Lawhead has written a historical novel in a pre-Christian era. Set roughly 1000 BC, the inspiration for the story is taken loosely from the Lebor Gabala, which is a kind of mythic chronicle about the different people (or god) groups that moved into Ireland in the Bronze Age.
One of the aspects that is handled really well in this book, and throughout the series, is the concept of honour and nobility. Life in this era, as portrayed in this book, is lived on a knife’s edge between death and survival. You rely on the help of those immediately next to you and therefore your reputation is of utmost importance. Whether as a warrior, a farmer, or a king, your reputation in how you conduct yourself, how you treat others, and what you are able to provide is the main consideration–sometimes the only consideration–for how others will treat you. And with such close-knit societies as Lawhead writes about, you really feel for the characters that find themselves on the wrong side of the judgement of others, and what a heavy cost comes when the feelings of others turn against you.
But mingled in with that are the themes of love, nobility, Truth, and liberty–all swirling together to make In the Region of the Summer Stars one of the most emotional reads that I’ve experienced.
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July 4, 2018
Who is Ant-Man and/or The Wasp?
Marvel Studios is about to release its 20th movie, Ant-Man and The Wasp! As a long-time comic nerd, that blows my mind. Ant-Man is a very unlikely hero who has been around since the beginning and has a hard time keeping his own series. The Wasp has generally been a tag-along character to him. Along with Guardians of the Galaxy, he’s been one of the most obscure characters picked to headline his own movie. So who is Ant-Man and/or The Wasp? Who are they in the comics, and who are they in the movies?
Ross’ Show Notes
My Fantastic Four review site is called FF 1 by 1, and it is totally ongoing (even though I’ve been taking a break this year).
The best info on comic characters (apart from me) is still probably Wikipedia. Here are the entries for Ant-Man and The Wasp.
Peyton Reed isn’t a name you probably knew before Ant-Man, but he directed the first Bring It On (2000), as well as Yes Man (2008), and every episode of The Weird Al Show (1997). For those alone I will forgive him Down With Love (2003).
My personal favourite tale featuring (the original) Ant-Man and The Wasp is Kurt Busiek’s 12 issue limited series Avengers Forever. Carlos Pacheco’s art is top tier and although it reaches deep into pre-90s comic lore, it’s friendly for a newcomer.
I don’t know if I made it clear, but Hope Van Dyne did appear first in Marvel Comics, although not in strict continuity. MC2 (Marvel Comics 2) were a spin-off imprint from the late 1990s, created when Tom DeFalco (one of my personal favourite writers) was removed from marvel as Editor-In-Chief in 1994. Fan outcry (or, let’s say, demand) was such that Marvel gave DeFalco creative control over a small group of titles, MC2, which essentially showed how the key marvel characters would have progressed under his supervision. Spider-Girl, with Ron Frenz, was the forerunner success and became known as the comic they couldn’t kill after fan outcry (it really was an outcry this time) forced Marvel to rescind several cancellations–eventually going on to be Marvel’s longest-running female-titled comic, hitting 100 issues. Other titles were The Fantastic Five, J2, Wild Thing, and A-Next. Hope Van Dyne, as the daughter of Hank Pym and Janet Van Dyne, appeared in issue 7 of A-Next as The Red Queen, leader of the Revengers, squaring off against Cassandra Lang (that name familiar?) a size-changing hero called Stinger.
I’m supposed to put links out and embeds into my notes for SEO purposes. Here’s a trailer, I guess:
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June 26, 2018
Chekhov’s Gun and the Mystery Box – Fiction Hack Episode 5
As Russian playwright Anton Chekhov once said: “I’ve got a gun!” Why is this an important statement in the history of fictional narrative? And how does it relate to some sort of box that J. J. Abrams once got as a kid? (Hint: Alfred Hitchcock)
The answers are inside…
Ross’ Show Notes
The Chekhov quotes are on Wikipedia.
The Hitchcock quote about suspense vs surprise can be found on Goodreads, but the book it is from is called “Hitchcock” by Francois Truffaut.
The Damon Lindelof quote about Star Trek: Into Darkness is from Collider.com. I just found that it was originally from an interview with the LA Times.
J. J. Abram’s TED talk is still up on their website, but I’ll also post it below. I’m still scratching my head about it. I don’t know, should I let it go?
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