The Hungriest Month |
Gregory L Norris: www.gregorylnorris.blogspot.com
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Arild of the Hauge sensed the wrongness in a quiet shiver that stroked the nape of his neck before tumbling down his spine. A fresh snow had fallen over the valley during the course of the previous night, and the new day broke bitterly cold. Still, as the procession rode nearer to Arild’s farm, he began to sweat, and the disquiet grew.
Confirming Arild’s worry was the lack of smoke from the hall-house’s central chimney. The sky above the family’s dwelling was a frigid wash of blue broken by scuds of gray clouds.
“Dagfinn,” Arild called.
The nearest rider nodded. “I see it, my friend.”
The two men drove their horses into gallops. The time it took to reach the hall-house’s front door, which stood ajar, seemed far longer than the actual seconds. An eternity.
Arild dismounted. He pushed through the door. The hall-house’s interior was no warmer than the outside world, its hearth absent of embers.
“Yadina!” Arild cried out.
No answer came from his wife. His panic doubled, but with it was a clarity that enabled him to see the hall-house was curiously in order. Furs and blankets lined the sleeping benches. All of the slabs of rock were in place over the channel of water diverted from the stream to run beneath the plank floor. The wax-fueled lamps were still lit. All was as it should be, save for the most important aspect of his home.
Arild’s family wasn’t there.
Confirming Arild’s worry was the lack of smoke from the hall-house’s central chimney. The sky above the family’s dwelling was a frigid wash of blue broken by scuds of gray clouds.
“Dagfinn,” Arild called.
The nearest rider nodded. “I see it, my friend.”
The two men drove their horses into gallops. The time it took to reach the hall-house’s front door, which stood ajar, seemed far longer than the actual seconds. An eternity.
Arild dismounted. He pushed through the door. The hall-house’s interior was no warmer than the outside world, its hearth absent of embers.
“Yadina!” Arild cried out.
No answer came from his wife. His panic doubled, but with it was a clarity that enabled him to see the hall-house was curiously in order. Furs and blankets lined the sleeping benches. All of the slabs of rock were in place over the channel of water diverted from the stream to run beneath the plank floor. The wax-fueled lamps were still lit. All was as it should be, save for the most important aspect of his home.
Arild’s family wasn’t there.
He tore through the hall-house and into the pens where the family kept their livestock. The cold could not remove the fetor of death that hung over the pens. Whatever enemy had invaded his home while he and his allies in the Hauge Chieftain had attended the meeting of the Thing Political Council had not laid claim to the goats. The small flock was dead, bodies crushed against one corner of the stall. In their wide, glazed eyes was a look of utter terror and in his state of clarity, Arild realized that his livestock had died of fright.
“Where are they?” Dagfinn asked.
Arild turned and stormed back into the hall-house’s central room. “Not here.”
“Who would dare to travel this deep into Valley Hauge?”
“An enemy that will pray for the swiftness of my blade,” Arild said, and continued on to the cold outside.
“Where are they?” Dagfinn asked.
Arild turned and stormed back into the hall-house’s central room. “Not here.”
“Who would dare to travel this deep into Valley Hauge?”
“An enemy that will pray for the swiftness of my blade,” Arild said, and continued on to the cold outside.
The six men—Arild, Dagfinn, Nadim, Hackett, Pace, and Zerach—hastened toward the dense stand of trees that marked the way north. Spirit-voices whispered around them with secretive giggles. It was only the wind, Arild knew. Still, the trees on this day seemed more shrouded in shadow, and an invisible weight pressed down from the sky. Arild was not given to the custom of prayer but found himself offering a plea to Heimdallr, father of all families.
Arild caught himself, felt as stupid for the prayer as he was desperate, and blinked out of the spell. The tracks across the forest floor were better preserved than those left out in the open and exposed to the wind. There were four sets that Arild recognized: Cadmael, his servant; Cadmael’s son, Faas; Yadina’s, and the small pair he knew must belong to Gabby, his daughter. The thin prints running beside those of his family belonged to something that didn’t appear human.
The breeze gusted, scattering a curtain of powder and ice flecks through the trees. The heat engulfing Arild’s body loosened. His stomach complained over how long it had been since their last meal of bread, porridge, and fish at the ceremonial conclusion of the Thing. The food had been filling though meager, a reminder that February was a hungry month that tested farmers and the bellies that depended upon them.
Gabby. He hadn’t dared speak her name. Instead, Arild again invoked Heimdallr’s and repeated his prayer. As though hearing his plea, the wind stilled, and the curtain of snow thinned. Standing in the shadows directly ahead of the six men was a lone figure—short, thin, barely clothed. At first, Arild’s imagination transformed the creature into a dark messenger from another realm, an elf or troll come to deliver grave news. But the apparition turned out to have been born of Scandinavia.
“Faas!” Arild called.
The boy stood as rigid as the timber planks on the exterior of the hall-house, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his eyes wide, not blinking even when the six men surrounded him.
Arild spoke the boy’s name again. If not for the slight rise and fall of Faas’ bare chest and the shivering of his bare skin, which stood in goose bumps, Arild would have believed Cadmael’s son dead of fright, like the livestock.
The men removed furs and woven outer shirts and swaddled the boy. Finally, Faas blinked and unclenched his fists. Something made of metal slipped down and into the snow. Arild retrieved the talisman by its chain.
“What is it?” asked Zerach.
Arild turned the chain around. Attached was a simple metal charm upon which was etched the Odala rune. He started to explain that Cadmael had given the necklace to his son as a gift, symbolic of protection, but Faas roused from his bewitchment and began to scream.
Arild caught himself, felt as stupid for the prayer as he was desperate, and blinked out of the spell. The tracks across the forest floor were better preserved than those left out in the open and exposed to the wind. There were four sets that Arild recognized: Cadmael, his servant; Cadmael’s son, Faas; Yadina’s, and the small pair he knew must belong to Gabby, his daughter. The thin prints running beside those of his family belonged to something that didn’t appear human.
The breeze gusted, scattering a curtain of powder and ice flecks through the trees. The heat engulfing Arild’s body loosened. His stomach complained over how long it had been since their last meal of bread, porridge, and fish at the ceremonial conclusion of the Thing. The food had been filling though meager, a reminder that February was a hungry month that tested farmers and the bellies that depended upon them.
Gabby. He hadn’t dared speak her name. Instead, Arild again invoked Heimdallr’s and repeated his prayer. As though hearing his plea, the wind stilled, and the curtain of snow thinned. Standing in the shadows directly ahead of the six men was a lone figure—short, thin, barely clothed. At first, Arild’s imagination transformed the creature into a dark messenger from another realm, an elf or troll come to deliver grave news. But the apparition turned out to have been born of Scandinavia.
“Faas!” Arild called.
The boy stood as rigid as the timber planks on the exterior of the hall-house, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his eyes wide, not blinking even when the six men surrounded him.
Arild spoke the boy’s name again. If not for the slight rise and fall of Faas’ bare chest and the shivering of his bare skin, which stood in goose bumps, Arild would have believed Cadmael’s son dead of fright, like the livestock.
The men removed furs and woven outer shirts and swaddled the boy. Finally, Faas blinked and unclenched his fists. Something made of metal slipped down and into the snow. Arild retrieved the talisman by its chain.
“What is it?” asked Zerach.
Arild turned the chain around. Attached was a simple metal charm upon which was etched the Odala rune. He started to explain that Cadmael had given the necklace to his son as a gift, symbolic of protection, but Faas roused from his bewitchment and began to scream.
Hackett covered Faas with another blanket. “The boy sleeps.”
Arild drew in a deep breath and glanced around at the hall-house, where his family and their former slave and his son lived. Cadmael had been loysing, according to the Gulating Law. But he and Arild had grown up together more like brothers, and Arild had granted his servant freedom without the usual purchase required by loysing rules. Cadmael had stayed on to help at the farm, and both he and his son were family in ways greater than those according to the Gulating Law’s definition.
“Will you stay with Cadmael’s son?” he asked Hackett.
The older man shook his head. “It is my duty to go with you in aid of your family, as you would mine.”
Arild set a hand on his friend’s shoulder. He faced Hackett before turning to the others. “You all have families, and you must see to their safety while I track down these demons who have stolen mine.”
Gripping his ax and shield, Arild hastened away from the hall-house. The dark woods loomed before him, more black than green as the sun retreated and night pressed down. Soon, the forest swallowed him up. It, too, was starving in the month of February.
Arild drew in a deep breath and glanced around at the hall-house, where his family and their former slave and his son lived. Cadmael had been loysing, according to the Gulating Law. But he and Arild had grown up together more like brothers, and Arild had granted his servant freedom without the usual purchase required by loysing rules. Cadmael had stayed on to help at the farm, and both he and his son were family in ways greater than those according to the Gulating Law’s definition.
“Will you stay with Cadmael’s son?” he asked Hackett.
The older man shook his head. “It is my duty to go with you in aid of your family, as you would mine.”
Arild set a hand on his friend’s shoulder. He faced Hackett before turning to the others. “You all have families, and you must see to their safety while I track down these demons who have stolen mine.”
Gripping his ax and shield, Arild hastened away from the hall-house. The dark woods loomed before him, more black than green as the sun retreated and night pressed down. Soon, the forest swallowed him up. It, too, was starving in the month of February.
Before departing the hall-house, Arild had reached beneath his sleeping bench for the package wrapped in fabric that his mother had woven when he was a boy. Stopping beside a tall spruce, he stowed shield and ax and unfolded the fabric. Chanting the sacred words, Arild stripped out of his coat and tunic. The new night’s chill attempted to devour his skin. Teeth chattering, he continued to speak the incantation. When finished, he checked the blade in its sheath at his belt and then drew the cloak of wolf’s fur over his spine, wrapping his torso within its protection.
“Uffe,” he murmured. Wolf-man.
Pain wracked Arild’s body. Blood pulsed. Bones cracked and reformed. His insides caught fire. Arild screamed. He screamed again. At one point, the cries became the howls of an animal. A predator. A hunter.
The pain shorted out, taking the cold with it but not Arild’s hunger. He gazed up. The moon floated far above the spruce’s tallest branches, nearly full and radiant. Arild tossed back his head and howled, thirsty for blood and hungry for vengeance.
The wolf ran out of concealment. Soon, it picked up the scent.
“Uffe,” he murmured. Wolf-man.
Pain wracked Arild’s body. Blood pulsed. Bones cracked and reformed. His insides caught fire. Arild screamed. He screamed again. At one point, the cries became the howls of an animal. A predator. A hunter.
The pain shorted out, taking the cold with it but not Arild’s hunger. He gazed up. The moon floated far above the spruce’s tallest branches, nearly full and radiant. Arild tossed back his head and howled, thirsty for blood and hungry for vengeance.
The wolf ran out of concealment. Soon, it picked up the scent.
Hungry, so very hungry. But the part of the beast that was in control—that was still Arild—knew it would be wise to stoke the emptiness in his gut with coals of rage. Rage for Yadina and Cadmael, and especially Gabby. Gabby…her name meant ‘bravest girl’. He prayed to Heimdallr—to all the gods, and especially the god of the wolves—that she stayed brave until he reached her.
The wolf made out their direction, along with something other it didn’t recognize. Among the traces of scent from the three captives was a mystery its wolf’s memory couldn’t place: a thin, bitter smell, what its mind attempted to translate into ashes mixed with starlight. Only that wasn’t exactly correct.
Whoever stole my family wasn’t of the Hauge Valley, Arild thought. The wolf whose skin he wore responded with a throaty growl. They aren’t of Scandinavia. They are not even of this world!
As soon as the notion passed through Arild’s consciousness, he knew it to be truth.
Anger pulsed in his blood. He caught his wolf-self salivating and smacking its jaws. The tracks were mostly gone now, lost to the elements, but that bitter trace of stars that had burned down to ashes thickened until it stung in Arild’s nostrils.
The wolf sprinted through the forest. It had traveled so deep that Arild wondered if he’d ever make it back to the hall-house, where three generations of his family had lived good lives. If he didn’t save Yadina and Gabby, a fourth wouldn’t prosper there.
No, the gods will bless you, Arild thought. The wolf raced, kicking up snow. Moonlight spilled down, illuminating the forest. A brighter glow glinted from close ahead. The wolf sniffed at the ground and then the air. The smell of ashes was everywhere. The trees thinned. The moon’s radiance pierced the night, almost too bright to bear. The first real flicker of fear the wolf had suffered since setting forth into the woods near the hall-house challenged its resolve. The light no longer seemed natural, only of the moon.
The hunter reached the edge of the trees. A slope covered in snowfall dropped down to another valley nowhere near as vast as the Hauge. This depression was bordered by crags of barren rock on one side, perhaps the last of the mountains before reaching the sea at the top of Scandinavia. A fjord or river glistened in the distance, its surface iced over.
Rising up from the valley floor was a tree taller and more fantastical than any Arild had ever seen. The wolf gazed upon its shimmering trunk and forgot, for a moment, that it was wolf.
“Yggdrasil,” it approximated with a yelp.
The tree soared into the heavens, its branches clawing at clouds, its trunk reflecting the moonlight in a manner associated more with metal than wood. Numerous lanterns, each perfectly round, adorned the trees' boughs and were inset into its trunk. The oils used to fuel the lanterns burned in blues, purples, and greens, though Arild had only ever seen such intensity of colors in lightning strikes when they lit up the summer sky. Stamped high up on the tree’s trunk was a symbol—the runic Odala, just like on Faas’ talisman.
Breathing was no longer easy. The wolf snapped at the air, tasting the charred smell of other, distant realms. Yggdrasil, the World Tree…here?
Tree of Life, Yggdrasil was reported to grow in the heart of Asgard, where the gods lived. The tree’s branches were believed to stretch out across all of the nine known worlds.
Had he traveled so far that he’d arrived to Asgard? Impossible. The wolf searched the top of the giant metal tree for the Eagle rumored to nest in its branches, then the trunk for the mischievous Squirrel said to run back and forth, spreading gossip. Finally, to the base, where the blood-drinking Dragon lived, according to the tales.
The wolf’s fear deepened. The trail led to a place of the gods. Only the smell in the air, the sinister image glowing at the heart of the valley, existed in conflict with everything he believed. The tree was not Yggdrasil.
Tree of Death, thought Arild.
And the demons that lived among its sky-reaching branches had stolen his friend, his wife, and his daughter. Arild’s fear evaporated. Rage flared.
The wolf resumed running down the slope and headed toward the metal tree of death.
The wolf made out their direction, along with something other it didn’t recognize. Among the traces of scent from the three captives was a mystery its wolf’s memory couldn’t place: a thin, bitter smell, what its mind attempted to translate into ashes mixed with starlight. Only that wasn’t exactly correct.
Whoever stole my family wasn’t of the Hauge Valley, Arild thought. The wolf whose skin he wore responded with a throaty growl. They aren’t of Scandinavia. They are not even of this world!
As soon as the notion passed through Arild’s consciousness, he knew it to be truth.
Anger pulsed in his blood. He caught his wolf-self salivating and smacking its jaws. The tracks were mostly gone now, lost to the elements, but that bitter trace of stars that had burned down to ashes thickened until it stung in Arild’s nostrils.
The wolf sprinted through the forest. It had traveled so deep that Arild wondered if he’d ever make it back to the hall-house, where three generations of his family had lived good lives. If he didn’t save Yadina and Gabby, a fourth wouldn’t prosper there.
No, the gods will bless you, Arild thought. The wolf raced, kicking up snow. Moonlight spilled down, illuminating the forest. A brighter glow glinted from close ahead. The wolf sniffed at the ground and then the air. The smell of ashes was everywhere. The trees thinned. The moon’s radiance pierced the night, almost too bright to bear. The first real flicker of fear the wolf had suffered since setting forth into the woods near the hall-house challenged its resolve. The light no longer seemed natural, only of the moon.
The hunter reached the edge of the trees. A slope covered in snowfall dropped down to another valley nowhere near as vast as the Hauge. This depression was bordered by crags of barren rock on one side, perhaps the last of the mountains before reaching the sea at the top of Scandinavia. A fjord or river glistened in the distance, its surface iced over.
Rising up from the valley floor was a tree taller and more fantastical than any Arild had ever seen. The wolf gazed upon its shimmering trunk and forgot, for a moment, that it was wolf.
“Yggdrasil,” it approximated with a yelp.
The tree soared into the heavens, its branches clawing at clouds, its trunk reflecting the moonlight in a manner associated more with metal than wood. Numerous lanterns, each perfectly round, adorned the trees' boughs and were inset into its trunk. The oils used to fuel the lanterns burned in blues, purples, and greens, though Arild had only ever seen such intensity of colors in lightning strikes when they lit up the summer sky. Stamped high up on the tree’s trunk was a symbol—the runic Odala, just like on Faas’ talisman.
Breathing was no longer easy. The wolf snapped at the air, tasting the charred smell of other, distant realms. Yggdrasil, the World Tree…here?
Tree of Life, Yggdrasil was reported to grow in the heart of Asgard, where the gods lived. The tree’s branches were believed to stretch out across all of the nine known worlds.
Had he traveled so far that he’d arrived to Asgard? Impossible. The wolf searched the top of the giant metal tree for the Eagle rumored to nest in its branches, then the trunk for the mischievous Squirrel said to run back and forth, spreading gossip. Finally, to the base, where the blood-drinking Dragon lived, according to the tales.
The wolf’s fear deepened. The trail led to a place of the gods. Only the smell in the air, the sinister image glowing at the heart of the valley, existed in conflict with everything he believed. The tree was not Yggdrasil.
Tree of Death, thought Arild.
And the demons that lived among its sky-reaching branches had stolen his friend, his wife, and his daughter. Arild’s fear evaporated. Rage flared.
The wolf resumed running down the slope and headed toward the metal tree of death.
As Arild neared, the wolf’s flesh prickled. The unpleasant sensation slithered deeper, beneath wolf, beneath man, to a place that was both and neither. Soul, he thought.
The air pulsed with an undercurrent, like that of a dark summer storm before the first rumble of thunder when the body feels the storm’s anger in evidence ahead of hearing it. The Tree of Death emanated with rage. Arild imagined its shiny metal bark had bottled up thunder, lightning, and the fury of the Frost Giants who were fated to destroy the world come Ragnarok.
The wolf sniffed at the air, its nose wrinkling in response. This was the ending point of what remained of his kin’s tracks through the snow. They continued up a ramp, vanishing at the metal tree’s lower trunk. The wolf circled, snapping as its panic grew—Yadina, Gabby, and Cadmael appeared to have walked through the trunk, according to their footprints. Then Arild spied the incongruity among the bark’s seams, a dimple drilled into the metal. The wolf reared up on its hind legs and tested the groove with its nose. A cold purple light flashed, engulfing the predator’s body. Briefly, before it cut out, Arild recognized the form of the Odala rune among the spindles.
A hollow in the tree, as in any tall oak or elder. Arild backed away from the hollow and focused. The body of the wolf collapsed back into the pelt. He emerged on two knees, holding the wolf fur between both hands. Brutal cold chilled the bare skin of Arild’s chest and spine. He wound the fur like a cloak about his chest and half-transformed, this time only partially to wolf, the hunter’s presence most clear in Arild’s glowing eyes and the sharpness of his fangs.
“Odala,” the wolf-man growled.
Arild reached to his waist. The sheath and blade were there, returned from the magic of the wolf that had gotten him to this evil threshold. He sucked down a breath, steeled himself for the pain, and dragged the blade across his forehead, carving the shape of the Odala into his flesh. Arild bit back the urge to scream. Blood flowed.
Standing, he stabbed at the dimple in the metal trunk. Again, purple light crackled forth. This time, it focused on the runic symbol carved into his flesh, shifted to blue, and the hollow in the tree opened, a doorway leading to the no-man’s land inside.
Holding the blade, the wolf-man entered.
Beyond the metal doorway was a corridor made of what Arild’s mind perceived as polished snow: white, smooth, a cave of frost. Light glowed behind the ice, nearly blinding in its whiteness. Arild raked his clawed wolf-man’s hand over the nearest surface. Not snow, no.
“Metal,” he said.
The cave led forward to a room with rounded walls. The instant Arild set foot in the chamber, he lifted up, up from the floor, carried aloft by invisible hands. The wolf-man gasped, struggled. The Tree of Death swallowed him into its trunk, as it no doubt already had his family.
Arild spun higher, the fingers of those invisible hands tickling the insides of his stomach and chest. Lights appeared overhead—these ones green. He ascended to the lip of a platform. Arild’s soles found purchase on another floor made of metal ice. The green lights turned blue. The odor of burned stars was at its strongest, along with a smell that made the wolf-man’s heart race faster. Blood? More than that. The decay of life going back to Scandinavia’s soil. Only this place was not of the earth.
Past the ledge was an archway housed beneath blue lights. The chamber beyond sat dark, causing instincts of both man and wolf to tense. The wolf-man sent a silent prayer for guidance and mercy to whatever god would hear him.
Under the blue lights. Into the realm of shadows.
The chamber branched in two directions. The pulsing undercurrent grew stronger at the leftward branch. Arild passed beneath a second archway, this one capped by the Odala. He whispered Yadina’s name.
Something in the shadows stirred. Arild looked through the wolf’s eyes and saw what he at first mistook for a child moving toward him.
“Gabby,” the wolf-man mewled.
But the creature in the shadows was neither a prayer answered by the gods nor his daughter. It charged toward him, stopped, and puffed out air, as though it were an angry animal despite walking upright on two legs. Through the wolf-man’s eyes, it appeared half Arild’s height. Skin gray, the eyes of the thing’s misshapen, bulbous head were all pupil, all black. The dwarf’s forehead bore a set of lines and ridges similar to the Odala that Arild had sliced into his, but the raised rune looked crafted of metal. The jewelry was fused to the imp’s flesh.
Black eyes fixed on Arild’s forehead. The creature kept its distance but continued to posture and spit, clearly not quite sure what to make of this unexpected visitor to the inside of the Tree of Death’s hollow trunk. The face it made was repugnant. Arild imagined his own expression as one of revulsion. His stomach clenched into knots at the image of the dwarf. A foul taste painted the back of his tongue.
“Where are they?” Arild demanded.
The imp spat, charged, retreated. It opened its mouth and answered in gibberish, the sound of its voice chilling Arild’s flesh, for the ears of men weren’t meant to hear such sounds from beyond the known world.
It aimed one of its slender hands at Arild’s forehead.
“Odala,” the wolf-man said.
The imp bared sharp teeth along both upper and lower jaws. It surged toward him, snapping. In one fluid motion, Arild drove his blade into the abomination’s head. The dwarf went rigid, staggered backwards, and collapsed.
The rancid blood-smell worsened. Arild moved closer and peered down at the body on the floor. Ichor poured from the wound he’d inflicted. The skin of the imp’s face shriveled around the cut. The hideous creature, Arild realized, was mostly liquid.
Covering his nose with one arm, Arild leaned down and retrieved his weapon. The blade resisted. He tugged harder. The surrounding skin came free with the blade, trailing gore. Arild wiped the knife on his pant leg, horrified but also somewhat satisfied by his victory, small though it was. A decent weapon could beat these emissaries from dark worlds and darker gods. There was that.
His head aimed low, Arild pressed onward.
The air pulsed with an undercurrent, like that of a dark summer storm before the first rumble of thunder when the body feels the storm’s anger in evidence ahead of hearing it. The Tree of Death emanated with rage. Arild imagined its shiny metal bark had bottled up thunder, lightning, and the fury of the Frost Giants who were fated to destroy the world come Ragnarok.
The wolf sniffed at the air, its nose wrinkling in response. This was the ending point of what remained of his kin’s tracks through the snow. They continued up a ramp, vanishing at the metal tree’s lower trunk. The wolf circled, snapping as its panic grew—Yadina, Gabby, and Cadmael appeared to have walked through the trunk, according to their footprints. Then Arild spied the incongruity among the bark’s seams, a dimple drilled into the metal. The wolf reared up on its hind legs and tested the groove with its nose. A cold purple light flashed, engulfing the predator’s body. Briefly, before it cut out, Arild recognized the form of the Odala rune among the spindles.
A hollow in the tree, as in any tall oak or elder. Arild backed away from the hollow and focused. The body of the wolf collapsed back into the pelt. He emerged on two knees, holding the wolf fur between both hands. Brutal cold chilled the bare skin of Arild’s chest and spine. He wound the fur like a cloak about his chest and half-transformed, this time only partially to wolf, the hunter’s presence most clear in Arild’s glowing eyes and the sharpness of his fangs.
“Odala,” the wolf-man growled.
Arild reached to his waist. The sheath and blade were there, returned from the magic of the wolf that had gotten him to this evil threshold. He sucked down a breath, steeled himself for the pain, and dragged the blade across his forehead, carving the shape of the Odala into his flesh. Arild bit back the urge to scream. Blood flowed.
Standing, he stabbed at the dimple in the metal trunk. Again, purple light crackled forth. This time, it focused on the runic symbol carved into his flesh, shifted to blue, and the hollow in the tree opened, a doorway leading to the no-man’s land inside.
Holding the blade, the wolf-man entered.
Beyond the metal doorway was a corridor made of what Arild’s mind perceived as polished snow: white, smooth, a cave of frost. Light glowed behind the ice, nearly blinding in its whiteness. Arild raked his clawed wolf-man’s hand over the nearest surface. Not snow, no.
“Metal,” he said.
The cave led forward to a room with rounded walls. The instant Arild set foot in the chamber, he lifted up, up from the floor, carried aloft by invisible hands. The wolf-man gasped, struggled. The Tree of Death swallowed him into its trunk, as it no doubt already had his family.
Arild spun higher, the fingers of those invisible hands tickling the insides of his stomach and chest. Lights appeared overhead—these ones green. He ascended to the lip of a platform. Arild’s soles found purchase on another floor made of metal ice. The green lights turned blue. The odor of burned stars was at its strongest, along with a smell that made the wolf-man’s heart race faster. Blood? More than that. The decay of life going back to Scandinavia’s soil. Only this place was not of the earth.
Past the ledge was an archway housed beneath blue lights. The chamber beyond sat dark, causing instincts of both man and wolf to tense. The wolf-man sent a silent prayer for guidance and mercy to whatever god would hear him.
Under the blue lights. Into the realm of shadows.
The chamber branched in two directions. The pulsing undercurrent grew stronger at the leftward branch. Arild passed beneath a second archway, this one capped by the Odala. He whispered Yadina’s name.
Something in the shadows stirred. Arild looked through the wolf’s eyes and saw what he at first mistook for a child moving toward him.
“Gabby,” the wolf-man mewled.
But the creature in the shadows was neither a prayer answered by the gods nor his daughter. It charged toward him, stopped, and puffed out air, as though it were an angry animal despite walking upright on two legs. Through the wolf-man’s eyes, it appeared half Arild’s height. Skin gray, the eyes of the thing’s misshapen, bulbous head were all pupil, all black. The dwarf’s forehead bore a set of lines and ridges similar to the Odala that Arild had sliced into his, but the raised rune looked crafted of metal. The jewelry was fused to the imp’s flesh.
Black eyes fixed on Arild’s forehead. The creature kept its distance but continued to posture and spit, clearly not quite sure what to make of this unexpected visitor to the inside of the Tree of Death’s hollow trunk. The face it made was repugnant. Arild imagined his own expression as one of revulsion. His stomach clenched into knots at the image of the dwarf. A foul taste painted the back of his tongue.
“Where are they?” Arild demanded.
The imp spat, charged, retreated. It opened its mouth and answered in gibberish, the sound of its voice chilling Arild’s flesh, for the ears of men weren’t meant to hear such sounds from beyond the known world.
It aimed one of its slender hands at Arild’s forehead.
“Odala,” the wolf-man said.
The imp bared sharp teeth along both upper and lower jaws. It surged toward him, snapping. In one fluid motion, Arild drove his blade into the abomination’s head. The dwarf went rigid, staggered backwards, and collapsed.
The rancid blood-smell worsened. Arild moved closer and peered down at the body on the floor. Ichor poured from the wound he’d inflicted. The skin of the imp’s face shriveled around the cut. The hideous creature, Arild realized, was mostly liquid.
Covering his nose with one arm, Arild leaned down and retrieved his weapon. The blade resisted. He tugged harder. The surrounding skin came free with the blade, trailing gore. Arild wiped the knife on his pant leg, horrified but also somewhat satisfied by his victory, small though it was. A decent weapon could beat these emissaries from dark worlds and darker gods. There was that.
His head aimed low, Arild pressed onward.
The structure resembled a pool like those told of from far way lands, south of Germania, in the former empire of the Romans. Oblong and made of metal, the pool was filled with a white liquid whose acrid smell burned in Arild’s nose. Various channels rose out of the sides of the pool and appeared to carry the white liquid to other parts of the tree.
“Sap,” Arild reasoned.
He leaned over the edge of the pool. A figure floated beneath the surface of the white sap, its body long enough to tell him that its form was human and not another of the gray dwarves. Arild started to reach toward the apparition.
No, Arild!
He drew back his hand. The voice was Cadmael’s, though Arild couldn’t be sure he heard it with his ear. “Where-?”
Here, in the white. But if you touch even a drop of it, my brother, it will consume every inch of you!
“Cadmael?”
I have become part of this structure and know all that they know, Arild. They came from the stars, not the World Tree. Their master sent its drones into the night in search of food. Their ship was damaged, blown far off course, the crew starving…
The words echoed through Arild’s consciousness. “How do I get you free of the sap?”
The body suspended in the milky liquid grew less distinct. You can’t save me. How is my son?
“Faas is safely back at the hall-house. Where are Yadina and Gabby?”
Beyond the next Odala. If you don’t hurry, brother, they too will be devoured by the white. Move quickly while the crew sleeps!
Bubbles rose up from the pool, popping on the surface of the white and unleashing a putrid odor. The multitude of arteries linking the pool to the tree sucked at the sap. To Arild’s horror, he realized that he was gazing down into a kind of feeding trough.
“Sap,” Arild reasoned.
He leaned over the edge of the pool. A figure floated beneath the surface of the white sap, its body long enough to tell him that its form was human and not another of the gray dwarves. Arild started to reach toward the apparition.
No, Arild!
He drew back his hand. The voice was Cadmael’s, though Arild couldn’t be sure he heard it with his ear. “Where-?”
Here, in the white. But if you touch even a drop of it, my brother, it will consume every inch of you!
“Cadmael?”
I have become part of this structure and know all that they know, Arild. They came from the stars, not the World Tree. Their master sent its drones into the night in search of food. Their ship was damaged, blown far off course, the crew starving…
The words echoed through Arild’s consciousness. “How do I get you free of the sap?”
The body suspended in the milky liquid grew less distinct. You can’t save me. How is my son?
“Faas is safely back at the hall-house. Where are Yadina and Gabby?”
Beyond the next Odala. If you don’t hurry, brother, they too will be devoured by the white. Move quickly while the crew sleeps!
Bubbles rose up from the pool, popping on the surface of the white and unleashing a putrid odor. The multitude of arteries linking the pool to the tree sucked at the sap. To Arild’s horror, he realized that he was gazing down into a kind of feeding trough.
The rune marked the door. Try as Arild did, the metal door refused to open. His panic rose up past his ability to keep it corralled. Arild pounded on the door and cried out, “Yadina! Gabby!”
No answers came save that of his own voice as it reverberated through the giant metal tree from the stars. Sweat beaded on the wolf-man’s brow and gathered along his spine. A shiver strummed along his backbone.
“Think,” he growled.
The Odala. Arild’s fingers caressed the runic symbol—it had been carved into the door’s surface, halfway up, at about the same height as the forehead of the abomination he’d slain in the shadows several chambers back.
Arild turned and hastened past the feeding trough, ignoring the temptation to steal another look into the sap. Back in the shadows, he found his kill nearly dissolved in a puddle of rotting ichor. The metal Odala was fused to the dwarf’s skull. Arild picked up the repulsive trophy and trotted back to the door.
The crew of the ship was sleeping, he remembered from his strange, dream-like conversation with Cadmael. As he lined up the metal Odala with the matching grooves in the door, it struck him that the dead dwarf must have been a sentry posted to guard over the ship.
The metal Odala connected with the grooves. The door vibrated and drew up into the ceiling, releasing a fetor of dead things. The chamber beyond was steeped in the blackest of shadows. But as Arild set foot inside, lights rained down from overhead, the coldest white.
At first, his eyes denied what they saw: several creatures too fantastic to be real were positioned around the chamber, things that resembled insects and things from the ocean, only at the size of a grown man. The sour smell of death originated from the unfamiliar beasts he assumed had also come from the stars. The room was the enemy’s version of a livestock pen.
“Yadina!”
A collection of rags in one corner of the room stirred. From beneath the makeshift blanket, a pair of wild eyes peered back. It took the wolf-man a precious extra second to recognize the eyes as belonging to his wife. Relief flooded through Arild’s insides. He approached Yadina, whose mouth hung open.
“Arild?” she gasped.
Hidden by the protection of his wife’s body, Arild saw Gabby. The wolf-man removed the wolf-cloak, and was fully man again.
No answers came save that of his own voice as it reverberated through the giant metal tree from the stars. Sweat beaded on the wolf-man’s brow and gathered along his spine. A shiver strummed along his backbone.
“Think,” he growled.
The Odala. Arild’s fingers caressed the runic symbol—it had been carved into the door’s surface, halfway up, at about the same height as the forehead of the abomination he’d slain in the shadows several chambers back.
Arild turned and hastened past the feeding trough, ignoring the temptation to steal another look into the sap. Back in the shadows, he found his kill nearly dissolved in a puddle of rotting ichor. The metal Odala was fused to the dwarf’s skull. Arild picked up the repulsive trophy and trotted back to the door.
The crew of the ship was sleeping, he remembered from his strange, dream-like conversation with Cadmael. As he lined up the metal Odala with the matching grooves in the door, it struck him that the dead dwarf must have been a sentry posted to guard over the ship.
The metal Odala connected with the grooves. The door vibrated and drew up into the ceiling, releasing a fetor of dead things. The chamber beyond was steeped in the blackest of shadows. But as Arild set foot inside, lights rained down from overhead, the coldest white.
At first, his eyes denied what they saw: several creatures too fantastic to be real were positioned around the chamber, things that resembled insects and things from the ocean, only at the size of a grown man. The sour smell of death originated from the unfamiliar beasts he assumed had also come from the stars. The room was the enemy’s version of a livestock pen.
“Yadina!”
A collection of rags in one corner of the room stirred. From beneath the makeshift blanket, a pair of wild eyes peered back. It took the wolf-man a precious extra second to recognize the eyes as belonging to his wife. Relief flooded through Arild’s insides. He approached Yadina, whose mouth hung open.
“Arild?” she gasped.
Hidden by the protection of his wife’s body, Arild saw Gabby. The wolf-man removed the wolf-cloak, and was fully man again.
The good emotion was short-lived and necessarily brief. Holding the girl in his arms, Arild guided Yadina to the pen’s door.
“We are far from home,” he said. “And even farther from safety.”
“There was a sound,” Yadina said, her lower lip trembling. The rest of her body quivered in response. “A light. People outside our door, only they weren’t…”
“Come,” Arild said. “Our escape requires haste.”
Their eyes met. Much of the wildness fled his wife’s gaze. She nodded, and at that moment Arild could not have loved Yadina more, for she had chosen to fight.
“Fadir,” Gabby sobbed against his neck.
Arild’s grip on his daughter tightened. “I’m here, Gabby. Father’s taking you home.” Then he turned back to Yadina. “Hear me. There is a ledge at the end of a dark tunnel. When we reach it, we will jump.”
Worry crept back into his wife’s expression.
“From beneath, a man jumping up is carried to this level, so in reverse, I believe that jumping down will take us to where we must go. Do you understand?”
Yadina nodded. Arild tucked the hem of the wolf-pelt into his belt and gripped the pommel of the blade in his free hand. The going beyond the metal bark of the tree-ship would be brutal, the night deadly cold. On Arild’s urging, Yadina picked up the blanket and wrapped it around her.
Not a blanket, he thought. Skin, shed by one of those beasts from the stars, those dead beings from the larder of the abominations in charge of this ship.
Arild and his family set off. As they passed through the pool chamber, Arild eyed the white sap. The body floating beneath the surface was barely recognizable now, and Cadmael didn’t speak in Arild’s thoughts. Toward the tunnel of shadows. Toward the cold night outside, gods willing.
A familiar sound drew Arild’s focus in the direction of the right branch where the tunnel split. A lone figure stood at that other entrance—another of the gray-skinned dwarves with bulbous head and blackest eyes.
“Take Gabby,” Arild commanded.
He handed the girl to her mother. Vibrant purple lights erupted from the chamber ceiling. With them came a deafening shriek that repeated in a measured sequence.
“Run, Yadina—and do not stop until you’ve reached our home!”
Brandishing the blade, Arild intercepted the charging imp and drilled the point through its misshapen head. From the cut of his eye, he caught shadows of movement as others of its kind swarmed out of the chambers at that side of the ship. So many. Too many. Then, Arild heard the melody and froze.
“We are far from home,” he said. “And even farther from safety.”
“There was a sound,” Yadina said, her lower lip trembling. The rest of her body quivered in response. “A light. People outside our door, only they weren’t…”
“Come,” Arild said. “Our escape requires haste.”
Their eyes met. Much of the wildness fled his wife’s gaze. She nodded, and at that moment Arild could not have loved Yadina more, for she had chosen to fight.
“Fadir,” Gabby sobbed against his neck.
Arild’s grip on his daughter tightened. “I’m here, Gabby. Father’s taking you home.” Then he turned back to Yadina. “Hear me. There is a ledge at the end of a dark tunnel. When we reach it, we will jump.”
Worry crept back into his wife’s expression.
“From beneath, a man jumping up is carried to this level, so in reverse, I believe that jumping down will take us to where we must go. Do you understand?”
Yadina nodded. Arild tucked the hem of the wolf-pelt into his belt and gripped the pommel of the blade in his free hand. The going beyond the metal bark of the tree-ship would be brutal, the night deadly cold. On Arild’s urging, Yadina picked up the blanket and wrapped it around her.
Not a blanket, he thought. Skin, shed by one of those beasts from the stars, those dead beings from the larder of the abominations in charge of this ship.
Arild and his family set off. As they passed through the pool chamber, Arild eyed the white sap. The body floating beneath the surface was barely recognizable now, and Cadmael didn’t speak in Arild’s thoughts. Toward the tunnel of shadows. Toward the cold night outside, gods willing.
A familiar sound drew Arild’s focus in the direction of the right branch where the tunnel split. A lone figure stood at that other entrance—another of the gray-skinned dwarves with bulbous head and blackest eyes.
“Take Gabby,” Arild commanded.
He handed the girl to her mother. Vibrant purple lights erupted from the chamber ceiling. With them came a deafening shriek that repeated in a measured sequence.
“Run, Yadina—and do not stop until you’ve reached our home!”
Brandishing the blade, Arild intercepted the charging imp and drilled the point through its misshapen head. From the cut of his eye, he caught shadows of movement as others of its kind swarmed out of the chambers at that side of the ship. So many. Too many. Then, Arild heard the melody and froze.
He was aware of walking, his legs carrying him deeper into the Tree of Death, against his will. Any attempt Arild made to stop them failed. The experience was like sleepwalking while awake. A dozen dwarves flanked him. The procession traveled beneath the white arteries filled with sap to another door marked by the Odala rune. The door opened, rising up into the ceiling.
The inside of this particular chamber filled Arild’s paralyzed flesh with horror and revulsion. Sap arteries extended down from the ceiling at twisted angles. At their center was a creature that Arild’s mind likened to a grub or maggot, only far bigger, thrice the height and width of the most rugged of Scandinavian men. The giant grub’s skin pulsated with tiny flickers of lightning. Like the creatures it resembled, it lacked an obvious skeleton structure. What he assumed passed for a mouth on the grub suckled on the end points of the closest sap artery. The creature was feeding off Cadmael’s dissolved remains.
Arild knew the bloated horror was in charge of the ship from the stars. The captain. The master.
His legs halted. Arild listened as the master’s voice boomed, and the dwarves responded. Even without the ability to translate their words, he sensed that he would be next to go into the sap. The music had made him their prisoner, as it no doubt had been used to capture his family in the same way. Gabby and Yadina…he prayed to the gods that they would make it free of the Tree of Death and beyond the deep woods to safety without him. More talking passed in blasphemous voices. Arild focused on his family. What if they still needed him? He was their protector.
Arild reached out to Heimdallr, the god who had seeded the land of mortals, had made possible the creation of families and the societal structure throughout all of Scandinavia and beyond. A desperate last cry for help. Then Arild’s blood filled with anger. The paralyzing music echoing through his mind dimmed. A second later, it was nearly gone.
Arild realized that his right hand rested on the wolf pelt still hanging from his belt. The connection was enough to break the enemy spell. The wolf—Arild thought back to the hall-house, to the dead livestock. The invaders hadn’t taken the goats, only people. The giant, dead creatures in the ship’s livestock pen must have been people, too. People from a place among the distant stars.
The wolf seemed immune to the enemy bewitchment. Arild focused all of his will on gripping the pelt. Pointer finger obeyed. More wild energy roused his flesh from slumber. His middle finger followed. Arild’s palm slipped over the pelt. It was enough.
He fired a punch with his other hand and knocked the nearest imp off its spindly legs. Then Arild lashed out at the dwarf that had disarmed him in the tunnel. He seized hold of the blade and wrestled it from the imp’s grasp. Then, pleading to Thor for strength and Odin for accuracy, Arild fired his weapon at the master.
The inside of this particular chamber filled Arild’s paralyzed flesh with horror and revulsion. Sap arteries extended down from the ceiling at twisted angles. At their center was a creature that Arild’s mind likened to a grub or maggot, only far bigger, thrice the height and width of the most rugged of Scandinavian men. The giant grub’s skin pulsated with tiny flickers of lightning. Like the creatures it resembled, it lacked an obvious skeleton structure. What he assumed passed for a mouth on the grub suckled on the end points of the closest sap artery. The creature was feeding off Cadmael’s dissolved remains.
Arild knew the bloated horror was in charge of the ship from the stars. The captain. The master.
His legs halted. Arild listened as the master’s voice boomed, and the dwarves responded. Even without the ability to translate their words, he sensed that he would be next to go into the sap. The music had made him their prisoner, as it no doubt had been used to capture his family in the same way. Gabby and Yadina…he prayed to the gods that they would make it free of the Tree of Death and beyond the deep woods to safety without him. More talking passed in blasphemous voices. Arild focused on his family. What if they still needed him? He was their protector.
Arild reached out to Heimdallr, the god who had seeded the land of mortals, had made possible the creation of families and the societal structure throughout all of Scandinavia and beyond. A desperate last cry for help. Then Arild’s blood filled with anger. The paralyzing music echoing through his mind dimmed. A second later, it was nearly gone.
Arild realized that his right hand rested on the wolf pelt still hanging from his belt. The connection was enough to break the enemy spell. The wolf—Arild thought back to the hall-house, to the dead livestock. The invaders hadn’t taken the goats, only people. The giant, dead creatures in the ship’s livestock pen must have been people, too. People from a place among the distant stars.
The wolf seemed immune to the enemy bewitchment. Arild focused all of his will on gripping the pelt. Pointer finger obeyed. More wild energy roused his flesh from slumber. His middle finger followed. Arild’s palm slipped over the pelt. It was enough.
He fired a punch with his other hand and knocked the nearest imp off its spindly legs. Then Arild lashed out at the dwarf that had disarmed him in the tunnel. He seized hold of the blade and wrestled it from the imp’s grasp. Then, pleading to Thor for strength and Odin for accuracy, Arild fired his weapon at the master.
Bleeding from numerous bites, Arild ran, wrapping the wolf’s cloak around him.
His aim had been perfect. The giant grub-thing connected to the tree-ship had split open, spilling its innards across the chamber. Arild remembered Cadmael’s warning about not permitting a drop of the white sap to touch his flesh and had hurried from the room, suffering the bites of his captors, whose inhuman screams chased him through the shadows.
The wolf-man sprinted, his soles pounding across the metal floor. He reached the ledge and found it empty. Arild’s worry surged. Then he saw Yadina and Gabby far below at the hollow’s door.
He kicked his boots over the edge and dropped.
His aim had been perfect. The giant grub-thing connected to the tree-ship had split open, spilling its innards across the chamber. Arild remembered Cadmael’s warning about not permitting a drop of the white sap to touch his flesh and had hurried from the room, suffering the bites of his captors, whose inhuman screams chased him through the shadows.
The wolf-man sprinted, his soles pounding across the metal floor. He reached the ledge and found it empty. Arild’s worry surged. Then he saw Yadina and Gabby far below at the hollow’s door.
He kicked his boots over the edge and dropped.
They were coming, more of those hideous dwarves. And they had been driven mad, Arild knew, by the killing of their master.
“Run,” the wolf-man grumbled around his fangs.
Yadina stumbled as they passed beyond the wood line. Holding Gabby, Arild doubled back and helped his wife to stand. The wolf’s eyes detected the enemy’s advance, their misshapen heads gray against the pristine snow, as they followed fresh tracks. Before long, the demons would catch up. Unless…
“Keep moving,” Arild said. He handed Gabby to his wife. “Do not stop until you are home.”
Yadina started to protest. Arild seized her face in his hands and crushed their mouths together. He kissed the top of Gabby’s head and then backed away.
“Go!”
Mother and daughter vanished into the trees. Arild drew the wolf’s pelt fully around his torso, spoke the sacred words, and was wolf once more.
“Run,” the wolf-man grumbled around his fangs.
Yadina stumbled as they passed beyond the wood line. Holding Gabby, Arild doubled back and helped his wife to stand. The wolf’s eyes detected the enemy’s advance, their misshapen heads gray against the pristine snow, as they followed fresh tracks. Before long, the demons would catch up. Unless…
“Keep moving,” Arild said. He handed Gabby to his wife. “Do not stop until you are home.”
Yadina started to protest. Arild seized her face in his hands and crushed their mouths together. He kissed the top of Gabby’s head and then backed away.
“Go!”
Mother and daughter vanished into the trees. Arild drew the wolf’s pelt fully around his torso, spoke the sacred words, and was wolf once more.
The wolf stalked forward, resisting their attempts to hypnotize through the melody’s spell. Six imps. The one in the lead carried what could only be a weapon. As the wolf sprang, purple lightning flashed out of the weapon.
Arild was thrown back, his flesh on fire. Searing agony burned at his body, deeper than skin, even bone. When he was able to breathe again, he saw that he was fully man, his body sprawled across the trail. What remained of the enchanted wolf’s pelt had been reduced to ashes, the tiny pieces floating through air, on fire. The next lightning strike to hit him would do to man what the previous had done to wolf.
Arild picked himself up and ran.
The dwarves pursued. Purple lightning chased his escape, blasting through tree trunks, spilling and charring sap. Heat crackled around him. Arild’s pursuers closed in.
Arild was thrown back, his flesh on fire. Searing agony burned at his body, deeper than skin, even bone. When he was able to breathe again, he saw that he was fully man, his body sprawled across the trail. What remained of the enchanted wolf’s pelt had been reduced to ashes, the tiny pieces floating through air, on fire. The next lightning strike to hit him would do to man what the previous had done to wolf.
Arild picked himself up and ran.
The dwarves pursued. Purple lightning chased his escape, blasting through tree trunks, spilling and charring sap. Heat crackled around him. Arild’s pursuers closed in.
While imagining and attempting to accept his death, Arild grew aware of two changes around him. The first was an increase in the undercurrent in the air that he’d first noticed upon his approach to the Tree of Death. The night thrummed, but the tone had changed, and now it clawed at his ears as he pressed deeper through the trees.
The second was that a new faction had entered the field of battle. He sensed their predator’s eyes upon him and caught their glances as flashes of reflected moonlight, there one instant, gone the next.
As the tree from the stars attempted to lift up from the world of men and navigate the night sky, the four wolves attacked, making quick work of Arild’s pursuers.
Hackett, Nadim, Pace, and Zerach emerged from their wolf-skins.
“Thank you, my friends,” Arild said between gasps for breath.
“You would have done the same for any one of us,” said Zerach.
Arild nodded. “My wife and daughter?”
“With Dagfinn, safe and waiting for you farther up the trail.”
Arild hurried to join Yadina and Gabby. Behind the group and far above the treetops, the ship from the stars ascended, its comet’s tail visible through breaks in the branches. The tree struggled to rise higher; the thrum grew sharper. At one point, the undercurrent cut out completely, and then the sky lit with a massive fireball that mocked the sun. Thunder shook the trees.
Using the dimming light to guide them, Arild led the way home.
The second was that a new faction had entered the field of battle. He sensed their predator’s eyes upon him and caught their glances as flashes of reflected moonlight, there one instant, gone the next.
As the tree from the stars attempted to lift up from the world of men and navigate the night sky, the four wolves attacked, making quick work of Arild’s pursuers.
Hackett, Nadim, Pace, and Zerach emerged from their wolf-skins.
“Thank you, my friends,” Arild said between gasps for breath.
“You would have done the same for any one of us,” said Zerach.
Arild nodded. “My wife and daughter?”
“With Dagfinn, safe and waiting for you farther up the trail.”
Arild hurried to join Yadina and Gabby. Behind the group and far above the treetops, the ship from the stars ascended, its comet’s tail visible through breaks in the branches. The tree struggled to rise higher; the thrum grew sharper. At one point, the undercurrent cut out completely, and then the sky lit with a massive fireball that mocked the sun. Thunder shook the trees.
Using the dimming light to guide them, Arild led the way home.
About the Author:
Gregory L. Norris is a full-time professional writer, with work appearing in numerous short story anthologies, national magazines, novels, the occasional TV episode, and, so far, one produced feature film (Brutal Colors, which debuted on Amazon Prime last month). A former feature writer and columnist at Sci Fi, the official magazine of the Sci Fi Channel (before all those ridiculous Ys invaded), he once worked as a screenwriter on two episodes of Paramount's modern classic, Star Trek: Voyager. Two of his paranormal novels (written under his rom-de-plume, Jo Atkinson) were published by Home Shopping Network as part of their "Escape With Romance" line -- the first time HSN has offered novels to their global customer base. He judged the 2012 Lambda Awards in the SF/F/H category. Three times now, his short stories have notched Honorable Mentions by Ellen Datlow. Follow his literary adventures at: www.gregorylnorris.blogspot.com