In the Giant's Shadow, Chapter 1
The White Raven
The white raven perched on a grave marker. Its pale feathers, the color of bleached bone, ruffled as it stretched its wings and preened. Gaiur eyed the little beast with wary suspicion, glowering at it as she brushed stray strands of her blue-black hair away from her eyes.
She’d been traveling Stenise’s southern trade roads for a few weeks now, ranging from its northernmost reaches down into its southernmost hills and valleys. It was a journey of hundreds of miles, made difficult by the heavy snows at the end of winter and the heavy rains encountered throughout the spring. But intermittent bad weather and the length of the journey were comparatively small hurdles against the culprit which chiefly delayed her; uncertainty.
Since leaving Valdun a few years back, Gaiur had never truly been sure where she was going. There hadn’t been a destination in mind when she turned her back on the home which had spurned her, just a driving sense that the isolated arctic village wasn’t where she belonged. The wilds were more of a home to her than her tiny house had been, and they were more welcoming of a pariah like herself. So, with her gray-furred greatwolf Varro at her side, she eked out a living by hunting, trading, and on occasion offering both her axe and Varro’s teeth to the rare caravan she encountered along her way.
What changes occurred that suddenly drew her back toward civilization, she couldn’t rightly say. Perhaps the many long months of living alone with naught but an animal to keep her company had worn on her, and a desire for simple human interaction finally made her stick to the roads. Or maybe it was simple necessity, the rigors of living off the land becoming just a bit too much.
Truth be told, she had little confidence in those answers, especially considering where she’d ended up. Jötungatt may have been a larger settlement than her ancestral home, being a proper town of a couple hundred, but it was hardly the height of civilized living. There was little in the way of bustle and while the people weren’t of the same standoffish and superstitious stock as herself, they weren’t known to be warm and welcoming, either.
In truth, Jötungatt only had two things of significance to its name. The first was the graveyard, a sprawling field of the dead that stretched out along the road and surrounding hilly fields for nearly two miles from the town’s northeastern border. For reasons Gaiur couldn’t understand, this place of interment had been erected on either side of the main road leading into town. Why the people had built it this way was a mystery, but it was apparently so large that it alone nearly doubled Jötungatt’s border. That’s what the traders she encountered at the crossroads a few days back had said, at least. It seemed to be true based on what she’d seen while walking the main road, but she wondered how a small community like this could play host to such a massive graveyard.
The white raven cawed and Gaiur’s heart skipped a beat. Having been lost in her thoughts, that damnable bird startled her out of them. It watched her with its head held low and tail feathers raised, as if it planned to launch off the grave marker to try and pluck out her eyes. She scowled at the thing as it regarded her with its own red eyes, bright like gemstones where hers were the earthy brown of red-tinged rust. It hopped along the top of the grave marker, an old plank of wood that had a name carved into it with runic letters. The wood was gray, weathered, and split in so many places that it made the name impossible to read.
Again the raven cawed, its beady eyes fixated on her as she passed. Gaiur shouted and flung her arms out at it in hopes of shooing it away. Even Varro joined in, giving a loud bark and growl as he bared his fangs at the bone-white bird. The albino beast simply tilted its head back and forth in that odd jittery manner birds are known for. Then it cawed again and took to the sky, gliding along in front of their path.
For three days now that raven had been following them, an unsettling thought for Gaiur. Ravens were seen as omens or portents, believed to be animals which bore the words and wisdom of the Gods, be it for good or ill. Gaiur admittedly hadn’t heard any tales regarding white ravens before, but that did little to ease her mind. To be followed by a raven like this was already considered a sign of misfortune. This one was the color of bones, stared with eyes red like thinned blood, and followed her through a graveyard. Not only that, it had stopped twice now to seemingly mock her for it. She had a hard time viewing that as anything but a bad sign.
After a couple minutes the raven landed again, this time perching on a fence post a ways down the road. Behind the bird stood a small and sturdy log house, with others behind that, and a tall stone structure behind them. That must’ve been the Giant’s Gate, the second point of significance the town was known for. The monolithic structure loomed nearly twice as tall as the surrounding houses and was the source of the town’s name. Triangular in shape, it was fashioned from two massive pillars of rough hewn stone that leaned against each other.
Varro, her well traveled late husband and the man after whom Gaiur named her greatwolf companion, told stories of similar ancient structures he’d seen when adventuring across the southlands. Most were found in the desertified lands scoured by the Bayelan Calamity some many hundred years ago, or so he said. As a Valdunite far removed from most Stenisian civilization, which itself was spread across leagues of land spanning from the Great Northern Range at their southern border all the way to the arctic glaciers of the Glimmerfrost, Gaiur lacked a clear concept of that old empire or the sorcerous calamity which felled it.
“Hawr!” cawed the white raven as Gaiur finally passed through the cemetery gate into Jötungatt. Once more she shooed it off, and once more it took to a new perch to continue its spying.
Three things stood out to Gaiur as she made her way into the town proper. Firstly, the gate wasn’t standing on the far end of the town like she thought. Instead it stood directly at its center, reaching up a good six or seven times her own height. Secondly, the surrounding structures formed a ring around the gate, with tall, narrow stones standing in the ground in front of the closest eight. Each of these stones was as thick as her thigh and stood at waist height.
Runes were carved into them as well. However, the alphabet was alien to her; a mix of dots and long, curved lines that contrasted the straight lines and sharp angles of Stenisian runes. But it was the third detail which stood out to her most of all, because it was impossible not to notice. Despite being nearly noon, the sun hanging high in the cloud-spotted sky, the town was bizarrely empty. Gaiur had neither seen nor heard any of it’s people.
It was unsettling, especially since the town still showed signs of life. A sizable herd of long haired aurochs grazed the fields outside the town’s borders. Their bulky, shaggy forms were visible from the graveyard as she came in, and she could still see them now between the widely spaced houses and workshops. Goats and various fowl also wandered the town and broke the silence with their occasional bleats, clucks, honks.
No Stenisian would abandon so much healthy livestock, even if they were being raided. The resources the animals provided were far too valuable to simply abandon like this. They’d either stand and fight or bring as many animals as possible with them when they fled. Besides that, there were no signs of battle to be seen. No blood or bodies, be they animal or human. No arrows jutting from the ground or buildings where they’d missed their mark. No dropped or broken armaments, no abandoned tools, no damage whatsoever. Just an empty town that had no reason to be empty.
“Hawr, hawr!”
The raven again. It cawed from above her, its hoarse cry equal parts annoying and unsettling. Why had it followed her to an empty town? She would’ve thought after three days of trying to chase it off the bird would realize she wanted it gone. Was it desperate for scraps of food? Did it just want to harangue her purely for its own entertainment?
Gaiur’s irritation with that damned bird was quickly turning to anger. Understanding this, she realized she’d both asked herself the wrong questions and made the wrong assumptions. She’d pondered the purpose of the white raven’s coming for a long time, wondered why the bird would follow her so insistently despite gaining nothing from it. She knew full well what a persistent solitary raven meant among her people and culture. Messengers from the Gods bearing omens ill and fair, they carried fate in their little black talons.
Up until now she’d assumed it’d been following her. It didn’t cross her mind to consider that perhaps she was being led by it. But if that was the case, then why? For what purpose did the white raven lead her to Jötungatt? What fate did it carry for her, what purpose?
Maybe she was overthinking this. Gaiur’s entire reason for traveling the roads was to find a place where she could work or trade. Jötungatt just so happened to be the first she learned of, back when she encountered those traders at the crossroads. But Jötungatt wasn’t a large community. Larger than Valdun, yes, but that wasn’t difficult to achieve considering Gaiur’s birthplace lay two days walk away from the glaciers and ice floes of the Glimmerfrost. That region was simply too harsh to support a village larger than the thirty to forty who lived there.
Continuing south would’ve been the better option where work was concerned, no matter the form it took. Larger settlements like Høyfjord, which was well known for its fishing and dairy trades, or Stenbeck with its steel and ironworks would’ve been smarter choices, though she’d have to find something to do about Varro. Even the ancient mountain fortress Isenhalle, the closest thing the loosely unified people of Stenise had to a capitol, would’ve offered better opportunities for paying work than this small farming community with its unusually large graveyard.
Days had passed since meeting the northbound traders. Days since she’d taken that westward turn at the crossroads. She mulled over those thoughts for a little while. Exactly how many days had passed? The raven had been present for at least the last three. She didn’t recall precisely when she’d noticed it, only that at some point on that first day she’d realized its shadow had been keeping pace with her and Varro.
Was that before or after the crossroads, and if it was after, by how long? Moving over to one of the rune stones, Gaiur took her broad bladed axe from the sling across her back and sat down in the grass, moving her plain cloak of tawny wool out from under her. Then, resting the axe across her lap, she closed her eyes and tried to think.
Remember. How many nights had passed since she saw that family of traders? It’d been morning when she found them, and there were four in total: the father, who drove the solitary aurochs which drew his wagon; his two sons, one coming into manhood and the other still in his youth; and their grandfather who minded the boys and their wares.
They’d been startled to see her on the road, though that was mostly Varro’s doing, and they’d been equally amazed to see that she’d tamed such a magnificent animal as he. Varro still wasn’t fully grown. She’d only had him under her care for a couple years, and when she found him he was a pup of a few weeks. Even so, he already stood at the height of her shoulder, and she wasn’t more than half a head shorter than the father. Within a year Varro would overtake her in height, easily matching the size of a bull elk, or maybe even a horse.
Superfluous details, she silently chided. How many days since she met them?
They’d talked for a short while, offered food in exchange for a little hacksilver, and when she asked them of nearby settlements they told her of Jötungatt. At first she’d assumed they were from there, but they’d come from Stenbeck with a shipment of picks, shovels, and hammers for a mine in one of the canyons further to the north.
“We’ve traded with them before, though, mostly tar for waterproofing their homes,” the father had said. “They make excellent yoghurt and grow sweet gooseberries, but it’s the graveyard and that strange gate they’re best known for.”
He’d then gone on to explain that the townsfolk were friendly enough with traders like themselves, though having to pass through the graveyard to get into the town was more than a little eerie. Like Gaiur, he and his kin also couldn’t figure out why that graveyard was so big.
What else? She rhythmically tapped the head of her axe with her fingers. Closing her eyes, her nose scrunched up and her lips pursed into a thin, crooked line as she tried to remember.
“I don’t know how much work you’ll find there,” the grandfather said. “They always seem to have plenty of hands.”
By Luthmor, how could she forget? She’d already been expressly told that there wasn’t work to find here! Then for what reason did she bother to come?!
“Hawr!” called the raven, and Gaiur nearly jumped out of her skin.
“Little bastard!” she spat. It perched on the rune stone at her back, and she swiped at it with a backhand she knew wouldn’t connect. Sure enough, in a flurry of fluttering feathers the raven took to the air, only to circle around and land on the stone once more, eyeing her with those gem-like red eyes.
“Why did you lead me here?” she asked, finally accepting the notion. It cawed again, then hopped around to face west. Peeking back at her, it cawed for a final time and took to the air, circling overhead until she stood, slung her axe back over her shoulder, and started to follow it.
The raven guided her to the far end of the town, flying roof to roof, fence post to fence post until it stopped at the fence on Jötungatt’s western edge. When she came near the bird took off again, flying out over grassy fields, gooseberry and currant bushes, and grazing cattle. Then it swooped towards a solitary structure nestled atop a hill not far in the distance.
“Come, Varro!” she called, and they hurried after the raven.
After a couple minutes she could see the structure was made from rough hewn stone, similar to the gate. After five, she could see the ring of rune stones that surrounded it. After seven, she heard the murmurs of ritual chanting.
Gaiur ducked low as she drew close, hiding behind a large gooseberry bush. Peering between its leaves and the still ripening fruits, she saw the townsfolk gathered around some kind of stone altar. Most were on their knees with heads bowed in supplication, but a few in the middle were standing. The town’s leaders, she wagered. Whatever they were doing seemed similar to the ritual sacrifices she and the other Valdunites would offer gods like Luthmor, Craich, and Shelyn, or to the spirits of the wind and wood which past experience taught her were very much real things.
Usually these sacrifices were of a small animal in its prime. They’d select a healthy young hen, goat, or sheep to slaughter, paint the required runes upon its body, then spill its blood and burn the body. After, the bones were usually arranged by the Ealdorman into an effigy that would stand until the next sacrifice was needed. However, in times of greater need such sacrifices would involve burning the carcass of something more substantial like an aurochs or a captured elk.
Gaiur couldn’t see an animal anywhere on that altar. She’d counted the standing people in the center, six in total. Most were older folk, their skin leathery and wrinkled from age and decades of laborious work, but there was one girl among them who couldn’t be more than Gaiur’s own age of twenty summers. Fair skinned and beautiful, she had lustrous blonde hair and was dressed in finery that appeared regal next to the sturdy woolen and leather clothing of her fellow townsfolk. A robe of flowing green silks was draped over her slender but shapely body, her figure betrayed by the gentle breeze that tugged at the lightweight fabric. She was naked beneath it, and the breeze might have accidentally exposed her breasts had it not been for the necklace of gold pendants that weighed down the loose garment at her chest.
Gaiur’s attention and curiosity was drawn by that necklace. Nearly a dozen heavy pendants of gold hung from its chain. At its center, the largest pendant was inlaid with a great green gem. It was incredible, a single item which contained within it more wealth than Gaiur had ever seen before. How did these people get hold of such a thing? These were simple farmers. They may have been stable in their livelihoods, but that was a king’s treasure! It wasn’t the sort of thing that simply fell into the hands of simple townsfolk.
The murmuring in the crowd grew louder, their muttered words fading into a hum that didn’t quite have the tenor of song. The people raised up their heads and hands, humming in unison as they stared up at the sky. Gaiur shifted a little so she could see between their raised hands.
A seventh emerged from the crowd, an old woman who’s hunched body was draped in a heavy black robe. She doddered along a path up to the altar, leaning heavily on a gnarled staff of birchwood. As she approached the oldest man - Gaiur assumed he was the town Ealdorman - and the young woman, both moved to help her up to the platform. A bench was brought out and placed in the middle of the altar. Then the old woman removed her robe, revealing a woolen tunic, breeches of pale blue and tan, and a necklace, armlets, and bracelets made from woven finger bones.
She was a Völva, one of the old seers; a reader of bones who interpreted fate and the will of the Gods. She handed off her staff to the young woman and with the Ealdorman’s help, sat on the nearby bench. Then she started unlacing a pouch at her waist. Likely the bones the woman would use to read the Gods’ will. Gaiur wondered what they hoped to interpret. Maybe the sacrifice they’d need to make? She watched intently as the old woman reached two thin, bony fingers into the pouch, but as she did so Varro whined with impatience.
Gaiur cursed under her breath. As soon as the greatwolf made that sound, the people nearest to them looked back over their shoulders in surprise. Naturally, the moment they realized a wolf bigger than a man was hiding in the bushes just outside their ritual circle, they panicked.
“Wolf!” they screamed, and the cry was soon echoed by the rest of the crowd. Varro’s hackles raised. He started to growl, then bark, then snarl as the panicked crowd realized the apparent danger that slipped in under their noses. Gaiur tried to calm him, placing one hand on his shoulder and the other under his jaw. She scratched and whispered and shushed him, but the panicked crowd had panicked him, too. His haunches were tightening. He was ready to strike!
“Hawr!” The call of the raven cut through the air and suddenly all eyes, even Varro’s, were upon it. It circled over the altar, slowly descending in a mesmeric spiral until it perched on the bench alongside the Völva.
“We have nothing to fear from those two,” she said. Her voice was reedy and paper thin, but she spoke the words with utmost confidence. The people seemed to believe her, though they kept their distance from Gaiur and Varro both. Then the Völva finally drew her thin fingers from that leather pouch of hers. They were stained in red, almost as bright as the raven’s eyes. She lifted her hand, first motioning for Gaiur to approach, then the young blonde in the silks.
Reluctantly, Gaiur did as she was bade, keeping Varro close at her side while she approached. The other young woman knelt before the Völva, and realization finally struck Gaiur as the old seer raised her red-stained fingers and painted the young woman’s face in the same dots and sweeping lines that marked the gate’s surrounding rune stones. Young, nubile, and in the prime of her life, this young woman was the oblation these people had prepared.
“Very good,” the Völva said. Wordlessly, the young blonde rose and took her original spot near the edge of the altar. Then the Völva’s eyes, made milky by cataracts, fell on Gaiur. “Now you.”
Gaiur stopped in her tracks, her russet eyes narrowed. In a single swift motion her axe was out of the sling in her back and firmly gripped in both hands. “My wolf and axe will carve through the whole of you before I let myself become a sacrifice,” she growled, as did Varro with fangs bared beside her.
“Sacrifice?” The Völva shook her head. “You misunderstand. You are to be the Witness.”
Gaiur didn’t lower her axe, but a click of her tongue saw Varro’s demeanor calm. “Witness to what?”
The Völva rose, and though the Ealdorman protested and rushed to her side with her gnarled staff in hand, the old woman ignored him and stood as straight and proud as Gaiur herself. Then she held her hands out wide, and Gaiur swore she saw the old seer’s wrinkles fade and saw rich, dark brown return to her age-whitened eyes and hair.
“The bones spoke of your coming,” she said, approaching the still armed Gaiur without the slightest hint of fear. “She who rears a wolf as her son shall be guided into the shade of the boughs, where she shall bear witness to new birth.”
Then she paused. Dipping her first two fingers in the pouch of red again, she held them out just above Gaiur’s forehead. “You are that woman. That is why Hunin brought you here.”
The raven cawed behind her, but Gaiur resisted the urge to glare at it again. “Why me?”
“I don’t know,” the Völva said as she started to draw the rune. “It’s not for me to know. I only see what the Gods show me through the bones, and they showed me you.”
Gaiur realized suddenly that she looked just as old and feeble as she had when she first climbed up to the altar. She was even holding the birchwood staff again, though she had no memory of the old seer fetching it.
The Völva finished a moment later. Stepping back, she turned and rejoined the other elders on the altar. Gaiur lowered her axe, watching them all with a mix of confusion, trepidation, and powerful curiosity. What had she just agreed to by staying her hand? What, exactly, was she going to witness? As the Völva turned to address the people of Jötungatt, she supposed she’d soon find out.
Purchase the story in hardcover or paperback:
Purchase the story digitally on the following platforms:
Hmm... not many comments on this story, how insulting. Good job Dave, I like the intro of the Volva, it was nice and atmospheric and like the descriptions you did a good job with those. I've plans to analyse the next few paragraphs still, but will carry on reading Ch 2.
Woah, loving this. The setup and atmosphere is incredible, plus the world-building details are placed perfectly; nothing overt and trotted out but engaging and exciting.