"That vaetki – have you seen the vaetki around?" asked the miller, his voice heavy with anger and the tread of his feet was equally heavy. "I swear I saw it a moment ago."
"No, Master Hvati," was the quiet reply of clerk who sat by the door of the mill and inscribed the daily quotas of each individual who brought in the various imported grains to be ground down further for meal. "I have been sitting here the entire time and saw nothing."
"I swear I saw it in the corner of my room just a moment ago – dipping into the corn stores which Skira gave us to grind –"
"Well, since Skira did not weigh it beforehand, it matters not –"
"Oh, he didn't?"
"No," smiled Vani, the clerk, "but I will keep my eyes opened for that cursed troublemaker nevertheless."
"You do that. So will I. I know he was the one who took the hvaeta [1] meal from Elder Orn the other day." Master Hvati glared down at his young clerk and sniffed. "Go ahead and laugh. I know you think my age is catching up with me."
"I am thinking no such thing," Vani lied smoothly.
A week before, Master Hvati had burst in saying that Elder Orn's hvaeta [1] sack weighed one measure short – and that it had been the vaetki's doing despite the fact that it had been stored overnight in a triple-locked room. Really, Vani sighed, at this rate I will be the one shouldering the burden of this place...
But Vani had a wonderful sense of self-preservation and held his tongue. If Master Hvati wished to blame the vaetki (however nonsensical it sounded), none could gainsay it. After all, on this side of Utgard, anything unfortunate was usually laid in blame at the vaetki's door.
[...the wind did not carry their whispers to the East...]
"Aha – there you are!" Oklo chuckled darkly as the group of short youngling Jotunn circled around a small corner on the far end of the Gothahus, where they had trapped the small stripling who now stood, back to the wall, chin down and eyes trained on its feet.
It was the vaetki. The abomination, their parents called it something. The kinder ones called it dvegr [2]. It had no name. Living curses were not gifted names; they were usually gifted death. And if not death, which was the natural order of things, then dishonour and shame – and punishment for continuing on a burdensome existence.
"Where have you been hiding all day?" Oklo asked theatrically.
He was the leader of the small band of younglings who roamed the disintegrating citadel and scavenged stones and excavated items for their parents. On lucky days, they left the city for the Myrkr Skogr to hunt for fell wolves in the forest or sea serpents below the thick ice of Vollrvatn Lake. Today was a free day and it was time to hunt down the vaetki and inflict justice upon its dark head for the insult it had paid to Shavi's father, Ekil the master weaver.
Apparently, Mage Opna had sent money with the vaetki to pay Shavi's father for a wall hanging – but upon arrival, there was found to be a shortage in the amount. Mage Opna blamed Shavi's father and the vaetki. Ekil had unfortunately voiced his first thought – that it was perhaps the fault of Mage Opna – but a few days later, apparently, the mage had searched the little beast's hideout and found the missing coinage, resulting in a shaming on Ekil's name for having spoken out against the mage.
All because of the vaetki's trickery.
Oklo's hand darted forward and he grabbed ahold of the creature's hair shaking it roughly as he lifted it up by the long black stuff. The creature came to his waist – but there was not much meat on it to weigh down Oklo's arm. A small whimper emerged as he bent the head back forcing small red eyes to meet his own. Dead-looking, empty red eyes. He snorted with disgust tossing it at the wall. It fell to the ground in an ungainly sprawl and lay there stunned for a moment.
"There is not a hint of a warrior in that thing," he sneered. "Did you see, Valki?"
"Well, that would be a crime against the concept of being Jotunn, would it not?" asked Valki in his usual pretentious manner.
"Particularly considering that it is a thief-" Here, Shavi kicked at the thin ribs. "-and a liar also!"
The vaetki was moving now, scrambling backward and sideways in an vain attempt to slip past Elo's weighty mass, but Valki easily caught it and held it upside-down, pinning it to the wall.
"A crime, yes," Oklo agreed. "It's very continued existence is a crime. That's what Father said."
"Well said," Shavi sniffed. "What should we do with it then?"
"Teach it a lesson, obviously," Valki snorted.
"Hey, hey." It was the youngest of the bunch, Navi. "So, is it true it is one of the Nameless Ones? That is why it is deformed? That it is even unable to bear children?"
"If you believe witless giant tales," Valki shrugged.
"I should hope they are not able to bear children," Shavi huffed. "The last thing Jotunheim needs is some kind of weakling breed leeching from its soil."
"I heard that they have no manhood or womanhood," Elo muttered slowly. "Mother said that it is nature's way of ensuring their poisoned seed does not infect our Realm."
"Hearsay," Valki replied dismissively. "But we have a live specimen – hold his legs apart, Elo. Don't break them, idiot! Do you want Mage Opna cursing you for disabling his slave?"
Elo eased up – but not before leaving long dark bruises along the calf muscles and ankles. The vaetki began to struggle in earnest as Valki tore off the small canvas kirtle wrapped about its waist. Large heads crowded round and peered down and small hand below scrabbled to find purchase against the Gothahus's stone wall.
"Well, that's disappointing," sighed Valki. "Everything looks normal."
"So the thing could bear children!" Elo said horrified, nearly dropping the creature on its head.
"Of course not," snapped Oklo. "Have you seen the others with child? The size of a Jotun babe would split its body in two."
"Forget the act of getting with child," Valki added suggestively.
The others tittered nervously, their uneasy laughter drowning out the increased whimpers below.
"No, I think it is in no position to be of real danger to any of us. Unless it grew larger."
"I think that is impossible, Oklo," Valki shook his head. "From what I have read, there is no account of a tall runt. Then again, most runts do not live within the week of their birth."
"What about a slow grower?" asked Elo. "What if runts were merely slow growers?"
"Slow growers?" Oklo and Valki chimed together in disgust.
"Is that even a word?" Valki laughed. "No, Elo. I think not. It may gain several more heads in height – but the end result will probably be more alike to an Aesir than a Jotun."
"Aesir garbage. Perhaps this thing could be sent to Prince Thor as – Helheim!" Oklo's sentence broke off as uncomfortable heat blossomed against his chest.
Jumping backwards, the group of teens scrabbled at the flames which had appeared out of nowhere underneath their noses. Elo dropped the vaetki with a dreadful scream as his hands caught on fire. For a moment, there was panic as everyone dived into various snowbanks and rolled in the comforting cold, cursing and exclaiming over where it had come from. When they finally emerged, the torn canvas kirtle and vaetki were gone.
-0-0-0-
That night, in the secret of the darkness of his cupboard, the vaetki chewed the hunk of meat it had snagged off Lind's plate and a hvaeta [1] loaf it had stolen from an inviting window three streets over. With sustenance in his belly, the vaetki found the strength to chant a healing song and ease the bruised muscles, allowing his skin to return to its recently much more healthy blue. Its fingers lingered along the lines which branched over its thighs and down to its knobbly ankles.
Mage Opna had told the vaetki that one day they would rise with age and harden into smooth lines. It would happen, the Master Mage said, sometime after its horns began to bud (if they ever were to grow). One day, the swirls would tingle with a heated fire which only another's tongue could quench. The words of Oklo and Valki however spoke of an eternal loneliness. Which was worse? It was hard for the young mind to decide.
Wrapping thin arms around equally thin legs, it nestled its head on its knees and smiled. The incantation for fire went well – and the flame was quite hot... Carefully, it ran fingers over its face and headband to check for any singes. Nothing. The grin grew wider. Elska was right – magick feels so right. Another part of me I did not know.
[...that night the Casket of Ancient Winters swirled brighter...]
[...but no one was there to see...]
[... Elska saw – and he smiled proudly...]
Several moon cycles later, the vaetki grew its own ice. As the variegating pearlescent and transparent natural Jotunn ice grew along its left arm, the vaetki eyed it with wonder. Its fingers (with sharp, black fingernails now) trailed along the cold dagger which formed naturally into its hand. Squatting there in the far north-east corner of the Gothahus (his remaining secret haunt), the vaetki raised its blue hand and stared at its fingers now entwined with the natural weapon of all Jotunn.
I am Jotunn, it thought, tears forming at the corner of its eyes – small beads of ice which froze on dark eyelashes. I am Jotunn and my mother is Heimsrsal just as she is for the others. Elska was right... in the end, I will not be forgotten. Even if I die tomorrow, I know I will go to the arms of the For-Eldra.[3]
The ice cracked easily in its grip as it released its will and hold on the dagger and the pieces fell to the ground beneath its feet. Out from beneath its small blue toes sheets of ice spread before the vaetki and behind it up the wall. Unheeded. There was only relief. Relief from the unspoken fears which had grown in the darkness of its cupboard seeded by the cruel words of its betters.
If the snows of his Ancestors accepted him tomorrow, Elska would be waiting for him. That was enough.
The vaetki rose at the distant roar of its name. Mage Opna was calling – but that didn't matter. Summoning small daggers as it walked along the side to the corner and around to the eastern door, the vaetki practised its aim. Who cared what Mage Opna thought now? Today it had been granted the power of the Jotunn. There was hope.
[...that night, the stars danced...]
It was one such winter season, when the healers had returned to Dagaheim and Mage Opna was once again in Gastropnir and Thyrstr had departed to the dark regions of the Myrkr Skogr to hunt for wolves, that the vaetki was able to sustain himself enough to practice one of the new magicks he had been, as yet, unable to complete thanks to complete exhaustion.
From the rising of the cold suns to the domination of starlight, the vaetki was worked hard – running errands, cleaning, cleaning, cleaning, washing and scrubbing and sweeping and dusting and answering to his many masters – and fed little. Those were the hard months of the slow years which passed. But one winter season, the vaetki foraged along the edge of town and using a simple misdirection spell and a notice-me-not magick chant, it was able to steal the left hank of a wild hog and several rare fruits which had been imported from Alfheim and Asgard itself.
Partaking of his unusually large feast, the vaetki leaned back and patted its belly, eyeing the small sack he had packed in preparation for what he wished to attempt.
Short-distance transportation. Of himself and his small pack.
Once again he considered what he had stowed away. Two short knives, flint and tinder box, tiny bundle of coal, his journal, the ink and pen he had long since stolen from Ketill, his second kirtle, four leather thongs for his hair, food stuffs (including dried fish and sea serpent), a fishing rod, twine and bait. Over it all was laid his second, small fur blanket-cloak, which he carefully wrapped about his shoulders and secured with a black piece of twining rope.
He looked about the room and double-checked that everything was in its place and the hearth was safely clear of any possibility of wild fire. Pulling on the pack, the vaetki rose to his feet and stood there, imagining the place which he wished to see – the damaged portion of the South Wall which he had scouted out previously as a possible hiding place for short-distance transportation. Twisting his hands, letting his fingers drift down in the now familiar sigil, and chanting the short command, the vaetki felt a jolting pull from the centre of his stomach – there was a flash of green and black smoke.
He was gone.
When he opened his eyes a few seconds later (somehow they had closed of their own accord and he berated himself for his cowardice), the vaetki surveyed his surroundings, forcing down the bile and nausea that caused him to sway on his feet. Waiting for the sickness in his belly to settle, he imagined the bit of wall on the other side of the city's massive ramparts now falling into disrepair. He disappeared and then reappeared gain - now outside of Utgard. From there, the vaetki took his time, moving slowly on foot or by magick to the far bridge which crossed the Flara River a half-days journey outside of Utgard. On the last teleportation step, sharp red eyes widened as he recognized the black tall jarnvithr [4] posts which rose about him along the sides of the wide bridge which Thyrstr had described to him in excruciating detail that one time he had gotten drunk and talked the vaetki's ear off about his hunting exploits. Head swivelling about, the vaetki took stock of his surroundings – and then without hesitation, darted southward down the road toward the lake he had visited several times Elska: Vollrvatn, Lake of the Plains.
The Flat Plains, known as the Holkn Vollr to the Jotunn, were situated south of the large Garfjall mountain range – and in the middle of its narrow western section was the large Vollrvatn Lake, into which streamed the Flara River and out of which streamed the Holdra River, which, it was said, a mighty Jotun had carved in a battle against one of the ancient Titans. Another tale told of two powerful Jotunn magi, battling for dominance in the ultimate holmganga [5]. These plains were wide desolate places and filled with only scrub, the hardy blakkrgras [6] and the wild wind.
To the young vaetki, it was a glimpse of oft-wished for freedom and terrifying emptiness. Carefully, he stepped forward onto the snow, leaving the wide road, and made his way magickally in short bursts down the side of the river, crouching low in the snow and trying to make as small a profile in the open spaces as possible. An hour later, when he arrived at the shores of the eternally frozen lake, the vaetki found enough energy to dig deep down into the snow, creating a small warm burrow which he hollowed out carefully as Elska had taught him so long ago–
-when he could leave Utgard in the protective arms of the one he considered father–
-when he was happier–
Better not to think of it, he scolded himself and he began to press down the snow carefully as he had been taught and then carefully hollowed out a deeper, harder hole below and a smaller hole for ventilation above. Afterwards, the vaetki laid several stones down which he scrounged for at the edge of the lake. On the rocks, he laid the coal and the tinder he had brought and lit the small fire, curled up by it and fell asleep.
Several watches later, the vaetki rose, tended his small fire again, ensuring that the hole at the top of his burrow remained clear before he left with his fishing gear. Scurrying over the ice in the bright starlight, the vaetki avoided the small village of huts which perpetually sat on the edge of Vollrvatn Lake, and made a beeline for an abandoned fishing hole. Several hours later, he had a fair catch – four hafnathr [7], eight silvrfiskr [8] and two holkimurtr [9].
Well, that was surprisingly easy, he thought, eyeing his catch. If I come for one night once a week, I will eat like a king every night. He was quite pleased with himself.
Of course, the winter months passed by in their own good time and Mage Opna and the others returned in no better temper than when they had left. Nursing his new bruises, while healing the worst ones, the vaetki sighed. Perhaps they do not love Utgard after all. Perhaps it is the place which makes them so unhappy.
Every night, he was once again locked away in the jarnvithr cupboard in which hung several robes (which he was not allowed to "maul with his dirty paws") of office – and experience had taught him that jarnvithr [4], the dense wood so easily grown in Jotunheim (and nowhere else if you believed the books) dampened his magick and disallowed him from magickal travel. (Teleportation, the books had said, but the vaetki did not know how to say the word.) It was a dismal stuffy prison and bred the voices of condemnation deep inside.
PERHAPS IT IS NOT THIS PLACE AT ALL, a dark voice within whispered, PERHAPS IT IS YOU.
-0-0-0-
Mage Opna sighed as he read over the King's missive yet again. Laufey-King was choosing to travel to the far east to Thrymheim for the clement months, ignoring the state of the citadel once again. When will we be released from this cursed place, he scowled. Tear it stone by stone to the ground and be done with it – It is under the watchful eye of Odin and his Gatekeeper, forever shadowed and it will never raise its head again.
But no, he told himself, Laufey-king is a grasping king and does not wish to part with anything that may have some kind of worth – although what worth there is to be found in Utgard nowadays is beyond me. It is nothing.
Nothing.
At the word, Mage Opna thought of the steadily growing vaetki who now stood three spans tall. No sign of ageing in the Jotunn fashion, of course. Still blessed with soft hair and skin– The older mage's lips quirked up and for a moment, the older Jotun considered calling the creature to him for some evening company.
The tall Jotun rose and eased open his door and peered out into the gloom. An icy eyebrow rose at the sight of the ever puny vaetki kneeling before the Under Altar head bowed and hands clasped. His jaw dropped open. Surely not... the thing... was praying to the nattura? [10] The... impudence...
His eye twitched. (For a moment he saw red and all the injustices of his life reared up before his mind.) Nearly tearing his study's door off the hinges, Mage Opna stormed out, taking pleasure at the startled squeak of the impudent thing which had thought to desecrate the sacred place with its abominable prayers. And who does it pray to anyways? Who does it think will listen?
[...Heimsrsal is always listening...]
Scrambling backwards, the vaetki pressed up against the tall sides of the Under Altar (on top of which burned the eternal scents of tunglbloms [11] now farmed by Lind). It trembled like a leaf, flinching as Opna's broad hand descended to slap it soundly across the face, sending it tumbling down the steps from the force of the blow.
The mage swivelled, didn't even have to turn, to grab the beast by its long matted hair and unceremoniously dragged it across the floor, its short legs trying to keep up and failing. Ignoring its soft whimpers of fear and pain – and the small fingers which scrabbled at the hand which jerked its head along painfully, Opna pulled it into his study. Ketill and Lind put their heads out of the storeroom and jeered something about Opna showing the little dwarve its place in life.
The thick, slightly stiff leather belt around Opna's waist was good enough – and within minutes, he had pinned the vaetki against the table and applied the leather strap to its back, over its bottom and down to its legs. A good twenty minutes later, he stopped – uncertain as to how many strokes he had applied – but it was enough.
The creature had passed out. A few seconds later, dark lashes fluttered and he gave the vaetki a few ungentle slaps before he hauled it unresisting to its feet. Stomping down the hallway, the Master Mage threw open the small cupboard and tossed the thing inside, yelling something about sacrilege and it learning its place.
"Don't feed it," he snarled at Thyrstr who nodded with disinterest. "You can keep it inside the whole day and on the second, make it work extra for its food. As soon as it gets ideas, foolishness will abound, you hear?"
"Certainly, Mage Opna."
"If it protests, you know what to do."
"Of course, Mage Opna."
"I will retire for the evening. Tomorrow, I go to the West Gate to see what can be done to partition off or build supports for the new cracks appearing in the West Courtyard pavement."
"Very well, Mage Opna."
The Mage disappeared for the evening. After a few moments, Thyrstr rose and left for a late night snack of blakkrbjorr [12]. The scrap of nothing locked away in the cupboard cried silently.
[...the spirit of the realm had been stolen...]
[...but its soul remained strong – and it flared with anger...]
Three months later, the Mage and Thyrstr rode to the Myrkr Skogr to receive the annual taxes due to Laufey-King from the two villages situated within its murky, gloomy depths. Mage Opna thought it was a dreadful waste of time since the entire amount collected from either village was not even enough, he thought, to buy the King a comfortable bed. Still, I must finish this one task, he smiled to himself, and then I can ready myself for Gastropnir. The Dagaheim blargras [13] is running out and Myko says that the traders from Alfheim this year are particularly generous.
Fog was drifting in now across the path and the steady tread of Thyrstr grew faint as Mage Opna dropped behind. When he came to the crossroads of two small paths, the Jotun turned to his partner only to find that Thyrstr was nowhere to be seen.
"Is it my lot in life to be surrounded by fools?" grumbled Opna to himself – and at the sound of a howl far in the distance, he gathered his fur cloak tighter about him and glared up at the canopy of dark leaves above his head. The giant, silent forest of Myrkr Skogr. Never before had it seemed so empty. And ominous.
Howling again. Closer now – and Opna, glancing about nervously, eyed the roads. Which way did Thyrstr say again... I rarely come out this far, since it is as abandoned as Helheim, he cursed to himself.
"Thyrstr!" His voice boomed loudly in his ears – but it could not penetrate the thick fog rolling in. "Thyrstr! Holla! You idiot! Where are you!?"
No answer. Only increasingly more distinct howling. Opna shifted uneasily and turning back down the road he had come from, he decided to return to the North Gate and then return with one of the farmers who would no doubt come to the market to trade around mid-day. Thyrstr will be fine on his own, the hot-headed fool.
After slipping and slithering down the treacherously slippery ice path which wound downwards from the hills rolling through the forest, Mage Opna found himself puffing and panting in a very embarrassing kind of way as he eased out from under the eaves of Myrkr Skogr. Behind, he swore he could hear what seemed to be a large wolf pack coming from the depths of the forest. It was hard going thanks to the winding paths which ran up and down the hills situated to the north of Utgard. They were troublesome, but unavoidable since they spread from the uncertain ground of the Eybjarg's edge [14] and thence eastward to make steadily higher foothills before building up into the Grarfjall Mountains.
With these thoughts in mind, Mage Opna fixed his eyes ahead of him – to the far walls of Utgard which seemed like a pinprick in the distance and he began to move quickly, abandoning the narrow roads and making a beeline across snow and stone and uncertain ground. At the sound of one long particularly long-drawn wail, he turned slowly and then began to run in earnest as the quick glance imprinted itself clearly on his mind.
A pack of thurblakulfr. [15] Giant black wolves which roamed the far north-
[...what lives in Utanheim but the wind, the wolves and the spirits of Jotunheim?]
According to Ketill and Lind, these could tear a Jotunn apart before you could finish chanting the First Prayer. What are they doing so far south? He spared a thought to the puzzle before focusing on the most important task at hand – getting safely across the wastes to the North Gate of Utgard. He could see the sentinel watches on the walls. Other dark shapes swarmed inside and the mage bit back a curse. If those witless fools lock the door on me, I'll–
Another howl. Too close for comfort. Mage Opna sped up, cursing his long nights spent reading and sleeping and not running with the others on the wastelands to the south. Why must this happen to me, he wailed. The large Jotunn's sense funnelled to the sound of his heart thrumming in his chest, his feet pounding over the sharp ice ignoring the cuts growing on his thick soles, the sight of the slowly growing black walls and the still open gate.
Heimsrsal, he prayed. Let me make it in time. [16]
[...the wind carried laughter from the heavens...]
[...he had forgotten the creeds of all Jotuns...]
[...do not disrespect the Heimsrsal...]
[...they will find you...]
-0-0-0-
[1] Wheat
[2] Dwarf
[3] Ancestors
[4] Ironwood
[5] A method of ending feuds/disagreements
[6] Black grass
[7] Great Fish
[8] Silver Fish
[9] Long Eel
[10] Spirits
[11] White blossoms
[12] Black bear
[13] Blue grass
[14] Chasms of Forever
[15] Great Black Wolves
[16] Spirit(s) of the Realm