The Bone Fields – SAMPLE
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THE BONE FIELDS
ACT I
Thoril braced against the cold wind, and gripped her oar tight as the storm buffeted the longship Varúlfr. Beneath them, all around them, the ocean was a broiling black cauldron, heaving its might against their own. It had not yet found them wanting.
Inge hunched up beside her, and grinned madly as the sea crashed over the side of the longboat. Her shaven head was lathered with sweat and rain, and the tattoos that covered her skin shone as though freshly inked.
“Njǫrd is in one of his moods again,” she called over the wind.
Thoril spat out salt water, and wiped her lips. “He is always angry this time of year. Halvor was foolish to make us stay for so long.”
She stared along the aisles, past the ragged band of figures that made up the rest of the company. Halvor stood at Varúlfr’s helm, unbowed by the frantic gale that hammered the ship. His long hair was soaked through, matted against his head and neck. His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, in search of their sister ship, Kveldúlfr, who had disappeared into the storm.
“Halvor’s raids are always the most rewarding,” said Inge. “That is why he chose to stay, and that is why we chose to come. This old god’s anger is a small price for what we have taken.”
Thoril nodded. It had been a bountiful raid, and Halvor’s company had made enough for them all to secure land and power upon their return home. They had stuck to the coast at first, like any other raiding party, and taken what they could from the farms they found there. But Halvor was ambitious, and they’d soon found themselves sneaking into larger settlements, and then sacking them. It had been slaughter, but one well worth the wait. She glanced over her shoulder, toward the covered stern of the boat. She’d even managed to secure a slave on this expedition – her first. He sat huddled up beside two others, shivering into his soaking rags.
“Fritjof better not have gotten himself lost.” Inge squinted her eyes against the rain. “Or sailed Kveldúlfr to the ocean floor, then we’ll never see half our spoils. Afterlife or no, I’ll hunt him down and wring his thin neck until his eyes pop out.”
Inge had another reason for wanting to see Kveldúlfr again. Her lover, Akes, sailed with Fritjof. The warrior had spurned her advances at first, but Inge was not easily dissuaded. The first night on Bretland soil had seen them share a bedroll, and they’d spent every night together since.
“Not even Fritjof would dare sink his ship when he carries Halvor’s cargo. You will see, once the storm relents, then you will see that stupid boy’s face again.”
Inge slapped her on the back and grinned. “I’m more interested in what’s between his legs.”
Thoril rolled her eyes, and sank her oar into the water. The pull of the waves was getting stronger, and she struggled to find a rhythm. Others in the company, Herleid and Ovil, but others too, had already given up. They sat wrapped in great furs beside sheltered braziers, taking what little warmth they could.
“Halvor will tell us to stow away the oars soon,” said Inge, her smile fading. “Then we will need to hold-fast until the storm passes, or join Fritjof at the bottom of the sea.”
Thoril shrugged. Halvor was too shrewd a sailor to let a mere storm defeat him, but when one’s time came, even the trickster himself would be hard put to evade his fate. She turned to the sea, and watched as it rampaged and turned beneath grey clouds. For too long she had been away from the open waters, and her mood had dampened with each day they had moved inland. Now that she was back, cold as she was, wet as she was, she felt her spirits soar.
Her eyes narrowed as a wave rose up beside Varúlfr. It drew the ship toward it, until they were tilted horizontally against it, and a gauzy mist of water splashed over them. Halvor rode the wave expertly, bringing the longship over it before it could crest, and plummet them all to their doom. As the wave diminished beneath them, Thoril thought she saw a flash of silver below the surface, the scales of an enormous shape riding alongside them. But when she blinked again it was gone.
“Land!” She shook free the vision, and looked up as the call rang out again.
“What land is here?” Inge rose from her seat beside her, stepping up onto it in an effort to see over the heads of the rest of the company.
“There is nothing,” Ulfgar said from the seat opposite them. He ran a hand over his stubbly head, and shrugged. “Not for many days still. There must be a mistake.”
“There is… something.” Inge leaned on Thoril’s shoulder for support, and rose on her toes for a better look. “I see a thin line, barely a smudge, but it has the look of land about it.”
“To your oars!” Halvor’s voice boomed above the storm. He strode between the aisle, pulling the crew back down to their seats. “We make for the shore, and a break from the storm!”
Inge plopped back down beside her, and laid her hands on the oar. Together, they pulled deep against the chopping waters, for the smudge on the horizon.
***
The howling wind relented as they navigated their way into a sheltered cove, where the ocean was strangely dead and still. The land around them was unfamiliar, and Thoril felt herself tense as she stared up at the grey crags above. Where had they come from? She had never seen this place before, and the maps did not speak of it. Unless the storm had blown them further off course than she realised.
Halvor had them moor Varúlfr along the coast, and then set a team to repair what little damage the storm had done. Thoril took up her sword and shield, and walked along the beach with Inge while the rest set up camp. She could see Halvor’s pathfinders moving up ahead of them, slipping in and out of the trees that hemmed in the shoreline.
“Maybe they will find us another farmstead?” Inge thumped her sword against her shield and smiled. “Or perhaps a little lord and his castle, too far from anyone to call for help. That would be enough to settle my debt with Dag, no?”
Thoril stayed quiet. Her own debts had been covered weeks ago, and she did not have it in mind to raid again.
Inge stared at her from out of the corner of her eye, and then bumped into her with her shield.
“You are never smiling, even when things are good. Troubled Thoril, that is what they should call you in the songs.”
“Only because that hole in your face never closes,” she replied, returning the shove.
Inge laughed loud, and skipped about her, kicking up clumps of sand.
Troubled Thoril!
Aesirs’ daughter did not smile
Troubled Thoril!
Cold as Jötunn, with rage like Freyja
Thoril dropped her sword and shield, and covered her ears. “You sing like a dog, Inge. If the gods could hear you now, they’d cut out your tongue.”
“Good enough for the beer halls, but not for Troubled Thoril eh?” Inge made to push her again, but Thoril raised a hand.
“It’s Bjarki,” said Inge, following her gaze.
Halvor’s chief pathfinder was bounding over the beach toward them, his sword and shield strapped to his back.
“What have you found?” Thoril called as he loped past.
Bjarki slowed, breathing heavily. “Kveldúlfr. We’ve found her, she’s up ahead.”
“See, I told you,” said Thoril, turning to the other shield-maiden. “Fritjof is too much of a coward to lose his ship. He will be sitting fat on Halvor’s loot, like Hreidmar and his dwarves.”
Inge knitted her brow, her eyes still tracking the pathfinder as he jogged over the sand. “And of the crew, are they all there?”
Bjarki shrugged as he picked up his pace, heading toward the camp. “There is no one.”
***
Halvor’s company – over twenty warriors all told – stood at the top of a dune, and stared down at Varúlfr’s sister ship. Fritjof had moored her on the beach, away from the draw of the tide. Her oars had been stowed away, and sails furled, but there was no sign of life anywhere aboard.
Bjarki and his trackers stood by Halvor, engaged in whispered conversation, while the rest of the party edged down toward the ship.
“Do you think an ambush?” Inge’s question lacked any conviction, but Thoril shook her head anyway. She couldn’t see any of the signs of a fight from the dune; no bodies littered the sand, and there wasn’t a drop of blood to be found around Kveldúlfr.
“They must have moved inland.” She waved her shield toward the dense forest beside them, and then squinted into the gloom herself. A coarse thicket covered the land between the beach and the rock face that loomed above. The trees were tightly packed, leaving hardly enough space for a man and his shield to pass through, and malformed roots snaked their way across the forest floor. Fool that he was, it was unlike Fritjof to leave his ship unguarded, and for what? A walk through parts unknown?
A shout from aboard the boat saw Thoril’s eyes snap back to Kveldúlfr. Ubba and Katja, two of Halvor’s senior blooded-warriors, had clambered up the rungs of the ship and were waving everyone closer. The pair of them were covering their faces, and Ubba retched up something watery before climbing back down.
“I do not like this,” said Inge as she grabbed Thoril by the shoulder. The two navigated the steep incline together, slipping and sliding as they made their way onto even ground.
They were among the first to reach the bottom of the rise, and they pushed their way toward Halvor and his trackers, who had moved down ahead. Ulfgar gave them a curt nod, and shifted up to let them through. He was normally the first to crack a smile, but his face was grim.
“Might have been better we remained away from this bay.” He gritted his teeth and turned to look at the sea. Beyond the shelter of the cove, the storm still raged, and the wind still howled. But beneath the crags of this new island, everything was peaceful.
“I am reminded of the tales of Náströnd in this place, of the cursed and the damned.”
That hall is woven
of serpents’ spines
There Níðhǫggr sucked
corpses of the dead
and the wolf tore men
on Dead Body Shore
Thoril shivered. “You are always one to set a mood.”
“It is not me.” The old warrior thumbed his hand, and then rolled his neck, before meeting her eyes. “Old Ove has felt it too. We were not meant to come here.”
Inge guffawed. “Ove always feels something, but sometimes it’s just the madness inside his own head.”
“Mock him if you like, but he has seen more than you can know, more than you can understand.”
Inge shrugged at that, and they walked in silence for a moment, behind Halvor and the pathfinders. Ulfgar took such things seriously, more so than most. To argue with him was like pushing a bull through mud, with its horns pointed at you. He bore his faith on his skin, and his shaven scalp was adorned with symbols of protection – Othala runes, the Fe, and tributes to Heimdall himself.
Inge was about to snap back with a delayed retort when she gagged. “That smell.”
Thoril made a face, and covered her nose with her forearm. “Like rotten fish.” Her eyes started to water at the stench that assaulted her senses, but she walked forward gamely, even as others choked and swore behind her.
The rest of the party gathered at the base of the longship, and waited as Bjarki and Ulfgar clambered up the rungs, and stared over the side.
“They’ve left their shields.” Thoril glanced up at the rack, which remained untouched.
“That’s Akes’s,” said Inge, pointing her sword toward a red and white shield above them. “They must have needed to move quickly.”
Thoril nodded, but she felt the first hint of uneasiness grip her as she watched Bjarki and Ulfgar turn to face the gathered party.
“It is a serpent’s brood,” Bjarki stated solemnly. He made the sign of the Fe and spat at the boat. “This is Jörmungandr’s lot, and we are not welcome in this place.”
Ulfgar dropped down onto the sand, and then helped the older warrior down.
“It is an ill-omen,” he said, once Bjarki was on the beach beside him. A crowd of confused faces stared back at him, until Halvor strode forward, and nimbly clambered up the side of the boat.
“Eels,” he said simply, as he stared down at the hold. “The storm must have seen them dumped in Fritjof’s boat, nothing more.”
Ulfagr mumbled something from below, but Halvor silenced him with a wave of his hand. “There is nothing of the Midgard serpent here. Do you think we would have found this ship if the World-Snake had come upon it?”
Ulfgar shrugged, and thumbed his palm nervously. “I simply say what I see.”
The jarl shook his head and then stared at the party for a moment, sweeping his gaze across the dunes. “Fritjof is a fool,” he said. “We all know this.”
Some of the men chuckled at his words, but most were quiet. Ulfgar had put them on edge.
“He has left his ship unguarded, and charged off to see what treasures he can find for himself. He means to leave us with his ship, like a nursemaid.” Halvor jumped down from the boat and dusted his hands off. “But we are not his nursemaids, are we?”
Thoril found herself muttering her dissatisfaction with the idea along with the rest of the party.
“We will move inland and find the fool, then he can make a bed from the eels he left in his boat!” A grin split Halvor’s face as the mood lifted, and raucous laughter was joined by his warriors.
“Come, now,” said Halvor once the laughter had receded. “Fritjof can’t have made it far.”
He nodded to his pathfinders, who moved off quickly into the forest. “There is still a little light before nightfall.”
As the company moved toward the tree line, Inge pushed past Thoril and headed toward the boat.
“What are you doing?” Thoril sighed, and followed after her friend. “You heard Halvor, we don’t have much light left.”
“I want to see.” Inge dropped her gear into the sand, and turned to Thoril. “Are you not curious to see what Jörmungandr has left us?” She didn’t wait for an answer before pulling herself up the side of the boat.
Thoril sighed again and dropped her own gear to climb onto Kveldúlfr.
The wood had started to rot, and the smell of decaying flesh intensified as she pulled herself up.
Inge exhaled as she reached the top and stared down into the hold. “Gods, Bjarki was right.”
“What is it, Inge?” Thoril asked, hearing her tone. She didn’t wait for a reply before peering down herself.
The entire floor of Kveldúlfr was covered in a writhing, seething mass of serpentine bodies. Their silver forms shifted in the half-light, wrapping themselves around one another in a slippery embrace. Thoril nearly gagged at the sight of them, and turned away as the smell threatened to overpower her.
“There are so many.” Inge curled her lips in disgust, and watched as the creatures rolled across the floor of the boat. “Fritjof and his company will have much to clean once this lot rots in the sun.”
“They will have no help from me,” said Thoril. She took one last look at the flowing mass of bodies, and then clambered back down the rungs. “Come! Inge! Or we will be left behind.”
ACT II
Of Halvor’s company, four were left to guard over Varúlfr, and another two to wait by Frtijof’s ship in case of his return. The rest set out into the dark forest, with torches lit against the coming of night.
“I have not seen nor heard any sign of beast or bird in this place.” Ulfgar swatted away a gnat with his torch. “Only these bastards.”
“Your blood is too pure,” said Inge. “But I have the cure.” She swigged from her flask and handed it to Thoril. “They will not eat you if your blood is poison.”
Thoril shrugged and took a sip, almost spluttering as the bitter liquid went down her throat. “What is this?” She asked, wiping her mouth with a hand, then looking at the flask sceptically.
“Baht gave it to me as a gift before we left. It was all he had left from his journey East.”
“No wonder his mind is so addled.” Thoril sniffed at the container and made a face. “I would rather be eaten, I think.”
“Suit yourself,” said Inge, taking back the spirits. “But don’t cry to me when your skin is raw from scratching.”
Ulfgar snorted. “Inge the generous.”
“It is Inge the Bloodied, now that I have fought the Christians, and stolen their silver.” She adjusted the shield on her arm and stared up into the canopy.
They had walked for many miles beneath the outstretched limbs of ancient trees, and there had been no sign of Fritjof or his company. Not long after leaving the shore, Bjarki had found a single path that cut its way through the forest. It was the only way past the near impenetrable undergrowth, and Halvor led them on it toward the great crags they’d seen from the boats.
“There are no stars.” Inge frowned up at the branches, and then shook her head. “They hide from this place.”
“They’re hidden behind clouds,” said Thoril. She’d felt uneasy since finding Kveldúlfr and its slippery cargo, and didn’t need Inge’s superstitions compounding that. “There was a storm, remember?”
“Or it is that this place is outside of our own.” Ulfgar glanced around him, holding his torch close to the trees. Their boughs and roots were scarred with age, and the leaves seemed to shrink away so close to the open flame. “Beneath the roots of the World Tree, there exists a place of terrible suffering, it is Hel’s kingdom.”
Thoril rolled her eyes. “But we have not died, Ulfgar. Ove is getting into your head with his stories. Unless you think we sunk to the bottom of the sea in that storm?”
The warrior shrugged. “Who’s to say that we didn’t?”
“Our flesh!” Thoril pulled down her sleeve and pointed to her bare skin. “Our sweat and thirst! Do you think the dead suffer these things?”
Ulfgar flinched at the tone of her voice, and raised a hand in supplication. “It is only a thought, I do not mean to anger you, storm-maiden.”
“It is not you, Ulfgar.” Thoril took a deep breath and rolled her knuckles against her shield. “I am sorry. It is this place, the quietness is getting to me.”
“It gets under my skin too,” said Ulfgar. “When these bastards aren’t busy eating me.” He swung his torch at a cloud of insects, and then beckoned to the other shield-maiden. “I’ll try some of your poison now, I think.”
Inge grinned and handed him the flask. “It gets better after the first sip, promise.”
Ulfgar raised a sceptical brow, and took a hesitant sip. His face paled and his brow creased as the liquor passed his lips. “This is what Baht calls a drink?” He spat on the forest floor and groaned. “No wonder he always stinks of cat piss.”
Inge grinned and took back the flask. “It has kept me warm through many a cold night, and it’s better than being eaten alive.”
“That it is,” said Ulfgar pressing on ahead. He waved an arm toward the thinning trees as a pale moon emerged from behind the diminishing canopy. “It looks like this dark forest has finally come to an end. Now we will see what wolfish murderers and serpent spines haunt this island.”
***
The forest opened up into a wide valley nestled between steep, windswept hills. A thin strip of silver hinted at the existence of a river not far ahead. Its snaking path ran the length of the valley, and then disappeared beyond the grey walls of the mountain range in the distance.
Halvor ordered the company forward, beyond the shelter of the forest, toward the river. The warriors were relieved to find themselves with empty skies above their heads once more, and moved with purpose.
As they moved out from the undergrowth, Thoril couldn’t help but notice the lack of stars. Even without the cover of clouds, the sky was like a black sheet, with only the wan light of the moon guiding their way.
“We will camp by the river.” Halvor led the company himself, setting a gruelling pace that soon saw them all wet with sweat and breathing heavily. He waved his axe at his chief scout and motioned to the grey peaks.
“Bjarki and Sigurd will move into the mountains while we rest.” He turned to his warriors, walking backward as he took them all in. “Do not sip too heavily on your mead this night, I think we will all need to be sharp come the morning.”
His warriors grumbled to themselves, but accepted his warning without rebuke. Most were too tired for thoughts of drink, and the idea of a proper night’s sleep was enough to keep them motivated.
Inge had gone off to see if she could not join Bjarki and his scouts, and Thoril found herself walking between Ove and Ulfgar. The moon had not yet reached its zenith, and its pale light made everything look a shade of grey.
“There is no sign of that fool or his company,” said Ulfgar. “No tracks, no fires, nothing of our friends. Halvor leads us on a merry chase.” He spat at the ground and shook his head. “This place is empty.”
Ove snorted from beneath his hood. “It is not empty, Ulfgar. You are just blind to what occupies this land.” He waved a hand at the mountains before them and smiled. “We walk where few have walked before, in the place between the living and the dead.”
It was Thoril’s turn to snort now. “Old Ove, you have seen so much, and yet your stories are always the same. The living and the dead, the beasts of Náströnd, the serpent that eats the world. Why have we seen none of these things? Every year you cry your tale, and every year we ship back home, alive and richer than before!”
“I only repeat what I have seen, girl.” Ove made the sign of the Fe with a gnarled hand, and then turned to look at her. His skin was weathered by years of salt and sun, but his blue eyes were as piercing as ever.
He stared at her for a moment, and then smiled. “You have seen something too, I think.” Thoril shrugged, but in her mind’s eye she recalled that flicker of silver beneath the waves, that formless shape slipping through the sea.
“It is no blessing to have hold of the sight,” Ove continued. “To see one’s future played out before one’s very eyes has damned many a man to insanity. But you must be better than that.”
“What is it that you saw?” Asked Ulfgar.
“It was nothing.” She shook her head, readjusting her shield on her arm. “Ove is mad, you know that as well as I.”
“I have seen it too, girl,” Ove barked. “It is the world’s end that slithers behind your eyes!” He retched out a hacking cough and laughed. “Do not be afraid. Soon they will all see!”
Thoril snarled at the old warrior and picked up her pace, leaving the pair of them behind. It was only when she was at the head of the company, and Ove’s choking laughter had faded away that she felt her mind settle.
He is mad, she thought to herself. Him and Bjarki both. Still, there was something in the way he had looked at her that made her think otherwise. The old man had seen more years than any of them, and his words, though often veiled by myth, were rarely false.
She sighed to herself, and tightened her grip on her shield. Either way, she would meet her fate head on.
The first night on the island was cold, and Halvor ordered massive fires to fend off the chill. He cared not that someone might see them. After all, who would dare attack Halvor and his company of bloodied? The warriors drew lots for sentry duty, and those that could, tried to slip in a few hours sleep before dawn.
Thoril and the other shield-maiden had laid their kit out beside one of the bonfires, and sipped from Inge’s bitter liquor while Ove told stories of the night, and of the first fires.
“When Loki, Odin and Haenir crossed the vast mountains, they came across a herd of oxen!” The old warrior took a bite from his dried meat and crinkled his nose. “Fresh meat, not like what we’ve been nibbling on, eh Ulfgard?”
Ulfgard blinked into wakefulness at the sound of his name, and stared across the fire at the old warrior. “What now?” He said.
“Come, come,” Inge rolled across the grass, and extended her flask toward him. “Don’t be boring, Ulfgar. Sit with us.”
He shook his shaven head, and pulled his blanket tighter about his chest. “I have the next watch. It would look poor for me if Halvor caught me drunk. You heard what he said.”
She stuck out her tongue and took a steady draught from the bottle. “You will be sad when there is none left.”
He shrugged and closed his eyes. “As long as I get my sleep, I do not care.”
“What about you, Ove?” Inge turned to the veteran. “Something to fend off the cold, and make your heart kick like a newborn’s?”
“I already see things that are not there,” said Ove, chewing on his meat. “I rather not tempt fate with your fire water.”
“More for me and Thoril, then,” she said as the others laughed. She took another sip from her flask and squinted into the darkness surrounding the camp.
The mountains were mere silhouettes in the distance, looming over the sides of the valley like the bastions of some great castle. The river they’d seen from afar was, in fact, two concurrent streams, racing beside one another toward the sea. They’d bathed in its water, and even fished, but there was no life to be found in it, and the warriors had made do with dried meats once more.
For a moment, she thought she spotted a movement on the ridge above their camp – a single figure stepping into the moonlight. She squinted up at the hill, trying to bring it into focus, but whatever it was she’d seen had gone.
“You alright, girl?” Ove cocked his head, a strange look on his face.
“It’s nothing,” said Inge, shaking her head and then bringing her eyes back down to the fire. “It is only shadows.”
“Is it nothing or is it shadows?” Ove showed his teeth, before winking at Inge. “They are not the same.”
The shield-maiden rolled her eyes, and leant back on her bedroll. She was tired of Ove and his riddles. “It was both and neither,” she said, turning her back to him and the fire. He could figure that one out for himself. She closed her eyes and let the warmth of the fire, and the soft hum of her friends chatter lull her to sleep.
In the morning, Ulfgar was gone.
***
Bjarki shook his head as he walked over to Thoril and the others. “There is no sign of him. Sigurd saw him take the watch, but after that he did not return.”
“Where did he stand sentry?” Thoril had been the first to wake, and to find his bedroll empty.
“Not far from here,” Bjarki said. He pointed to the base of the ridge, on the other side of the river. “He took over from Eyva, and left camp well after midnight. His watch was to end a few hours before dawn, but no one has seen him.”
“He can’t have gotten far,” said Inge, staring at the ridge.
“But why would he have left us in the first place?” Thoril licked her lips and followed Inge’s gaze. The drink had given her a splitting headache, and she was finding it hard to concentrate. “It makes no sense,” she concluded.
“I am inclined to agree,” came a deep voice from behind her.
Halvor stood next to Bjarki and nodded to them each in turn. His mane of hair was wet from the river, and his beard had grown out. Flecks of white and grey dotted the scruff, making him appear even more distinguished.
“It is not like Ulfgar to disappear like this.” Thin lines creased his forehead as he frowned. “I suspect he has been taken by whoever has been tracking us this last day.”
Thoril and Inge’s immediate questions were ignored, and Halvor silenced them with a wave of his hand. “Bjarki spotted them when we landed. A small band, maybe three or four in total. They have been shadowing us since we moved inland, but I had not expected them to act so boldly. Not against our numbers.”
Inge shivered, remembering the silhouette she’d seen on the ridge.
“Who are they?”
“I cannot be sure. Locals, perhaps. Or other folk like us who’ve been washed up by the storm. The pathfinders have been instructed to catch one of them, if possible. Then we will see.”
“And what of Ulfgar?” Thoril’s eyes narrowed as she watched her jarl. She already suspected the answer.
“There is nothing that can be done. We don’t know the land, and Bjarki says the surrounds turn into more gulleys and ravines than he can count – too many places to disappear. We will find what has happened to him when we catch one of his captors.”
Thoril nodded. She knew Holver did not allow for dissent. What was done was done, and she’d just have to hope Bjarki and his trackers were as good as they thought they were.
“None of this to the others.” Holver met her eyes, and then stared down Inge and Ove. “I would not have fears of shadow men spread through the company. They will learn of this when the time is right.”
“We will keep your secret, Ironnson.” Ove smiled. “But do not think to catch these spectres, or to harm them. They cannot be hurt. They walk between the worlds. This I know, Ulgfar knows it too.”
“We will see, old man,” said Halvor, already turning to leave. “There is little that walks in this world that does not fear the sharp end of my axe.”
