Gateway to Nifleheim (8 page)

“And look up there,” said Ob, pointing to the ceiling.

At the inner edge of the arcade, the building transitioned from its octagonal shaped base into a grand ribbed dome of heavy timbers that rose up some 75 feet above the altar at the building’s center. The dome’s apex was open to the sky. A huge mural of Odin riding a chariot pulled by an eight-legged horse dominated most of the dome’s inner surface, its once vibrant colors muted by long years of exposure to smoke and to the elements. Below the mural was Ob’s line of stained-glass windows, inset between each of the dome’s timber ribs.

“They always put a beard on him,” said Theta under his breath.

“Of course they do,” said Ob, hearing the remark where a volsung's ears would not have. “Everybody knows Odin has got a beard, long and white, and such. In times past, most every man in Lomion wore a beard, not like today, though they’re still common enough here in the North, especially after winter sets in.”

A knight walked to a lectern on the dais at the hall’s center and shouted to all to find their seats and quiet down.

“Glimador is calling things to order,” said Ob. “Claradon must have finally got his butt over here. Let’s grab some seats. Who are your patrons?”

“What?” said Dolan, confused.

“I have no patron,” said Theta rather abruptly. “I need no patron.”

Ob looked more confused than Dolan. “I’m asking, because by tradition each warrior sits in the section marked for his patron god, or in any section he likes, if his patron is Odin. Don’t your people follow the Aesir?”

“Most do,” said Theta, “but I’m not much of a follower.”

“I can respect that, I suppose. Not every man goes in much for religion nowadays. The thing is, Claradon don’t got the loudest voice—you’ll hear next to nothing back here. Best pick a god, whichever one you followed back before you stopped following.”

Theta sighed. “Odin.”

Ob’s eyes narrowed. “Good choice, same as mine, but why him? I mean, if you sit somewhere you shouldn’t, the gods may take offense. I can’t have that. This mission is too important.” Ob stared up at the big knight demanding an answer.

“Let’s just say that Odin and I are old friends. I doubt he would mind me sitting in one of his pews.”

“You speak as if you know him,” said Claradon, as he stepped up beside them wearing a clerical vestment. “As if he were no more than a man.”

“Some say that he was,” said Theta. “A man, that is.”

“Heresy, my lord?” said Claradon.

“What’s that mean?” mumbled Dolan.

“Not if it's true,” said Theta.

“Truth is in the perception more than the fact,” said Claradon.

“Who taught you that?” said Theta.

“An observation of my own, but I believe it to be correct more often than not.”

“Then you are a man of wisdom, Eotrus. Midgaard needs men with like that to balance out the abundant stupidity,” said Theta, as he glanced sidelong at Dolan, who in turn, stared at Ob, who huffed and took another large gulp from his wineskin.

“Enough chatter,” said Ob. “Get down there, boy, and lead us in the oath. We need to get this done and get a bit of sleep before comes the dawn.”

***

Rising up more than eight feet in height at each point of the octagonal dais at the building’s center was a cylindrical plinth intricately carved with runes and religious imagery. The great altar loomed at the dais’s center; the lectern off to the side. Two white robed pages stood near Claradon, one held a smoldering, perforated iron box of incense, the other, a golden holy symbol.

“Hear me my brothers,” said Claradon as he stood behind the Odinhome’s lectern clad in the priestly vestments, robe, and sash of the revered order of Caradonian Knights, their sigil prominently displayed at his breast. His hooded robe resembled that worn by priests and monks, though it was tailored to accommodate the long sword that he wore at his hip and contained myriad pockets for carrying and concealing gear, large and small.

A thick leatherbound tome lay before him. He reverently opened it to a bookmarked page, though he barely glanced at the words, so familiar to him were they. “The Warrior's Oath, from the
Book of the Aesir
,” he said in a bold, strong voice, enunciating each word. “Now gather close and harken to my words, for they are passed down to us from the Age of Heroes.”

“Good, he’s speaking the modern version of the oath,” whispered Ob to Theta. “We get nothing but the old one from Donnelin and nobody understands a word of it since it’s in Old High Lomerian. Who the heck speaks that nowadays? Nobody, I’ll tell you, so what’s the point?”

The page passed Claradon the chain by which he held the smoldering incense box. Claradon took it and slowly walked to each point of the dais while mumbling some religious words no one could make out. He paused at the corners and swung the box several times, which caused the incense to waft about, its gray smoke billowing up around him. The odor, not unpleasant, soon filled the hall.

“I say that the old version is good for the high holidays only, if even then,” whispered Ob. “But Donnelin will hear nothing of it. He just won’t get with the times.”

“Ain’t he supposed to speak from behind the altar?” whispered Dolan.

“More questions, Mister Chatterbox?” said Ob. “Only the House Cleric speaks from the altar. Anyone what else got reason to speak, stands tall at the lectern. It’s tradition.”

As Claradon recited the first verse, the knights each dropped to one knee and bowed their heads. The sun still several hours from rising, near seventy men were gathered in the Odinhome to hear his words, though that number sparsely populated the great hall. Dolan respectfully lowered his eyes, while Theta looked around, studying the gathered men, taking their measure. Gabriel, Artol, and Paldor (Gabriel’s squire) sat in the front row of Heimdall’s section. Sir Glimador, Sir Indigo, and Sir Bilson sat in Thor’s area, and Tanch lounged in the last row of Frey’s section looking tired and gloomy. The rest of the knights each sat in their chosen place. As Claradon recited the prayer, a page turned a handled wheel beside one of the plinths, which caused the plinth to rotate. Carvings on the plinth’s surface depicted images or symbols evoked by each line of the prayer.

“Look unto the north and behold the Bifrost and beyond—ancient Asgard, shining and bright, though hard and cold as the stone, the ice, and the sea,” said Claradon.

“To the north lies Asgard,” said the men in unison.

“Now look unto the east and behold thy brothers, thy sons, and thy comrades.”

“Now look unto the west and behold thy sisters, thy wives, thy mothers, and thy daughters.”

“Around us are our kinsmen, always,” said the men.

“Now think not again of them until we march on the homeward road.”

“Not until the homeward road,” said the men.

“Now look unto the south and behold thy father, and thy father's father, and all thy line afore thee, back unto the beginning.”

“Unto the beginning,” said the men.

“Now look forward and behold thy fate. Before thee lay the paths to victory and glory, and the paths to defeat and disgrace. Intersecting these paths are the road to tomorrow, the road to Valhalla, and the road to darkness.”

“Beware the dark road,” said the men.

“Now look above thee and behold the all-father. He beckons us forth to meet our fate. He tells us that the path we choose is of our own making.”

“Our path is our own,” said the men.

“Now my brothers, vow thy path.”

“To victory and tomorrow if we can, to victory and Valhalla if we must,” said the men. “This we vow.”

“We will bring Lord Eotrus home, or take vengeance on his slayers if he has fallen,” said Claradon. “This we vow.”

“This we vow,” said the men.

“Rise now my brothers,” said Claradon, “and go to thy fate with Odin's blessing.”

The men arose and stood silently for several moments. Sir Gabriel left his seat and quickly walked down to the dais, his squire and sergeant following. He turned and faced the men. “I’ve some gear to distribute to you before you leave,” he said loud enough for all to hear. “Everyone wait here.”

“What’s this?” said Ob.

Gabriel walked around the central dais, and entered the northernmost section of the hall. He and his men passed the statue of Odin, turned, and disappeared from view.

“That is an odd thing,” said Ob. “Gabe is up to something. I didn’t even think he had a key for that door. By rights, he shouldn’t. A weapons master has got no business back there, no business at all, but there he goes, all la dee da and casual, as if he had been in there a hundred times, and them two with him. I’ll have words with Artol about this, I will.”

“What is back there?” said Theta.

“The ossuary.”

“What’s that—some kind of outhouse?” said Dolan.

“It’s the House crypts,” said Theta.

“The place of the dead,” said Ob. “What gear does he have stowed back there? Old great-grandpap Eotrus’s rusty sword? Makes no sense.”

“No sense at all,” said Dolan.

Claradon was puzzled when he saw Sir Gabriel, Artol, and Paldor enter the ossuary. He thought that only his father, Jude, Ob, Brother Donnelin, and he were permitted entry, except during burials. Only the five of them knew that there were secret ways through the ossuary’s warren of deep tunnels. Ways that led under the wall, to emerge well into the northern hills—an escape route, should the family ever need it. That use aside, he hated the place, but when his attention was drawn to it, he found it hard to turn away. Its very look frightened him—it had since he was a little boy.

Bleached bones were affixed to the door frame, the wall, and the door itself, and countless more were piled in great heaps on either side of the entry. Claradon knew that the bones were merely symbolic—they were not the bones of men, for such a display would be barbaric. Instead, they were bones of horses, deer, elk, mountain lion, bear, and mammoth killed during hunts over the years. He had contributed his share to the pile. Those on display were mostly ribs and leg bones, which were more easily mistaken for those of men, which was the intent. The place was supposed to repulse common folk. And it did.

Claradon hadn't ventured inside since they laid his mother to rest there. Lifting her frail body into the stone coffin and closing the lid had been the hardest things he had ever done. It was the only time he'd seen his father weep. Even years later, Claradon could barely think of that day without his eyes growing wet. He remembered that when she died, the masons labored nonstop for three days to ready the coffin for her funeral. Teams of them worked in shifts to carve it from a single block of black granite hefted down from the hills.

What ghosts and spirits dwelled beyond the ossuary’s door, and worse, in the crypt’s lower levels, he shuddered to think, though his rational mind told him there were no such things as spectres. Dead was dead. No one in the Dor was more superstitious than Ob, yet he never feared going in there, at least not that he let on, so Claradon shouldn’t fear it either, but he did. It was a fear he couldn't shake.

He dreaded the thought of carrying his father down there—of leaving him alone, in the cold dark, to rot. His mother was taken far too young. It wasn’t fair. His father was still in his prime. The norns wouldn’t dare take him too, would they? If he were gone, he wouldn’t put him down there, tradition or not. The old way of placing a chieftain aboard a boat and burning it was better somehow, cleaner. But his father would want to lie next to his mother. They had to find him. He just wasn't ready to lose him. Not yet. Not for long years. Claradon snapped himself out of his daze. He took off his priestly vestment, sent the pages off to their beds, and walked up the steps to where Ob, Theta, and Dolan still sat.

“You know what Gabe is up to?” said Ob.

“No idea,” said Claradon. “But he’s taking his time about it, whatever it is. Lord Theta, I hope that our rite did not offend or make you uncomfortable.”

“Not at all,” said Theta.

“The Warrior's Oath,” said Claradon, “is an ancient prayer amongst our people. We wouldn't embark on a quest or go off to battle without speaking it.”

“We speak a similar prayer in our lands,” said Theta.

“I hope that you don't mind my saying this, but I noticed you didn’t join us in reaffirming your path.”

“I chose my path long ago, Eotrus. I know its every crag and crevice. I could no more divert from it, than could the sun choose not to rise in the morn.”

“Then I'm glad that we will face this road together, since you know it so well.”

Theta stared off into the distance. “Mine is a perilous road; those that walk it with me are seldom long for Valhalla.”

Dolan raised an eyebrow at that; Ob just shook his head.

“Ominous words, my Lord,” said Claradon. “I would gladly end the day in Valhalla, if before I drew my last breath I avenged my father.”

“Be not so quick to fly to Valhalla, young Eotrus, it will still be there however long your journey. It is—eternal.”

“And don’t be so quick to assume Aradon needs avenging,” said Ob. “We are going to find him out there, I'm sure of it.”

“Here they come,” said Ob, as Gabriel and his men appeared. Each dragged a large, ironbound chest behind them. Artol and Paldor looked spent from the effort—even Gabriel was sweating. They heaved the chests up on the edge of the dais, and Gabriel unlocked one of them.

“Gather around,” said Gabriel, and all the men did. Hinges creaked when he lifted open the lid and an unnatural glow crept from within. The open chest smelled of wood and oiled leather. Gabriel reached in and pulled forth a long dagger housed in a bejeweled, leather sheath. When he bared the silvered blade, it glowed with a soft white light. Similar blades filled the chest—all well-kept and shining, without a hint of rust or decay.

The men gasped at the sight of that eldritch blade, ensorcelled as it was with some forgotten magic of bygone days to luminesce so.

“Sorcery,” shouted one knight as he drew his sword.

“Witchcraft,” cried another, backing up. Most of the others did much the same.