Falcon Saga

The fifteen-foot-tall beasts, lumpy and spiked as if made from lava, had their backs turned to Magnús’s tree. They jostled and pushed at each other over some prize he couldn’t quite glimpse. One punched the other in the arm with a noise like two boulders colliding, earning an angry bellow. The other swung back with what looked like a gnawed leg bone.

Scanning the carnage around the trolls, he spied torn jackets and other cold-weather clothing scattered on the ground. A bent and twisted backpack had been ripped open, its contents strewn across patches of snow that remained among the tree roots and scree. A splash of black across the front of the troll cave glistened wetly in the moonlight. It wasn’t reflective and silvery like elf blood, so most likely it had come from a human.

That all signaled bad news for one or both of the missing English tourists. Was Magnús too late to do any good?

No, he could almost taste fear coming from the cave. At least one hiker was still alive, though in what condition he didn’t know. Before the trolls could feast on their remaining captive, he had to act. He couldn’t risk waiting for help, even if anyone had been near enough—and willing—to distract the monsters. As always, he would have to protect humans from supernatural threats by himself.

This is crazy. Magnús’s stomach churned with adrenaline. Messing with one troll was difficult enough; two was a nightmare bordering on suicidal.

He wet his lips and reached into his pocket to retrieve a stone engraved with a rune, willing himself to become visible at the same time. “Týr One-hand, show favor to me in this battle,” he whispered, a prayer to the war god. Týr had also risked Himself foolishly, as the gods chained the huge wolf Fenrir. Hopefully, Magnús wouldn’t lose a hand as Týr had.

A sense of calm and strength grew in his body, starting with his head and seeping down through his limbs. He felt surer in his course as his invocation drew Týr’s favor, stronger and faster. He would get the trolls out of the way, free whoever was still alive, and run. Yes.

Now.

Magnús hurled the stone with all his might as he sprang from the tree to the ground. It flared with blue light as it flew through the air, smack into the back of one troll’s head. He crouched in sight of the trolls, ready to sprint up the side of the nearest hill where he’d laid a trap. He just needed them to take the bait.

The bait being Magnús.

The monster he’d hit raised a huge hand to feel its scalp for what hurt, grunting as it turned. It completely missed sight of Magnús’s enchanted stone, still glimmering at its feet. The second troll was quick on the uptake, though, and rose on its stout legs. It lumbered toward Magnús, earth shaking beneath enormous feet as it picked up speed. The charging troll roared at him, its rank breath and spittle close enough to turn Magnús’s stomach.

He dodged a wild swipe from a stony fist, rolling backward to land in a crouch that put him closer to his prepared battleground. He pulled a second stone from his pouch. At a whispered word, the rune on it burst into brilliant blue fire as he threw it straight at the nearest target. The missile hit the onrushing troll square in its left eye, making the creature rear back and howl in pain.

The other troll finally figured out what had hit him and stomped its way toward the fight. Magnús kept low but stayed in place until he was sure he had the attention of both creatures.

“That’s right, you bastards. Chase me,” he muttered.

One troll shot out a craggy hand to grab the trunk of a nearby birch. It ripped the tree from the ground in a torrent of dirt and leaves, then roared and shook the makeshift club. The tree-weapon slowed down that troll but made it all the more dangerous. The other had no finesse and simply charged toward Magnús.

He waited until they were twenty yards away, fifteen, ten…then darted away again, farther up the hillside. More of his dwindling supply of stones arced blue fire through the night over his shoulder. Loose stones slid under his left foot, and Magnús fell. The troll with the club bellowed and swung at him. The branches whistled as the weapon came down. Just in time, Magnús rolled out of the way. Fire burned on his back where the tree tore his sweater.

Magnús struggled to his feet and jumped away from a descending fist. He led the trolls on that way for a hundred yards, feeling blood drip down his back, fatigue burning his legs and in his lungs. Panting, he continued awkwardly up the hill sprinkled with the jagged volcanic rock that made up the setting he had prepared for a fight.

Spinning to send another missile, he drew the trolls on. The one with the uprooted tree swung it furiously and hit the other troll instead. But still they came at him, up the hill that rose higher and higher, blotting out the night sky, so tall it might be a mountain. A quick glance showed Magnús where he’d placed his trap minutes earlier, once he’d sized up the situation. He skidded to a halt right at the edge of it.

Turning, he pelted his two final runestones. The enraged trolls charged uphill at him with their boulder feet, an avalanche in reverse. The ground shook under their heavy tromping. Keeping an eye on that swinging birch, Magnús held his position as long as he dared.

The weaponless troll reached him first. It leaned down as it shambled forward, hands outstretched to grab Magnús. With its terrible strength, he couldn’t afford to let it get hands on him. Yet he held his position, heart pounding. At the last possible second, he vanished, desperately twisting light to make himself invisible even as he whirled away and to the right.

The beast grasped at empty air as its momentum kept it staggering forward. It stepped past the barrier of Magnús’s spell, shattering the magical illusion he’d created to hide that they actually battled at a jagged cliff’s edge. Beyond that edge was nothing but night; below was a crevasse at least fifty yards deep. The troll hollered its fury and dismay as it stumbled over the cliff, plunging down into the darkness.

The second monster tried to skid to a halt when the illusion dissolved, but the birch club overbalanced it and kept it floundering. Hidden beside the troll, Magnús swung his leg in a roundhouse kick to its enormous backside. It skidded forward more on loose stones, then teetered at the edge of the cliff. Magnús exhaled in relief.

Too soon.

Some vestige of cunning seemed to tell the behemoth to use the birch tree to get its balance. It stretched a thick arm out, the weight of the tree helping it to regain footing. Before it could get both feet planted again, though, Magnús leapt forward and pushed against the troll with all his strength.

It was enough, barely. Uttering a bellow like rolling thunder, the troll pitched forward into space. Still clutching the birch, it fell after its fellow, cursing all the way down.

Panting, Magnús rested for a moment with his hands on his knees. The fall wouldn’t be enough to kill the creatures, of course, unless they found themselves still trapped and exposed at sunrise. His mother Bryndís could have worked a spell to keep them frozen until the sun turned them to stone, but Magnús lacked that kind of power and polish. Before the trolls made their way back, he needed to see what aid he could give the humans.

Inside the cave, the horror that was a troll meal nearly made Magnús turn away and retch. The monsters had ripped apart one of the hikers, it looked like. The scent of violent death and troll inhabitation, more foul than untreated sewage, was enough to make him gag.

Moonlight picked up a silvery gleam that drew Magnús’s attention. Something had been painted crudely on a rock face, reminiscent of a rune. He paused, curious, but then he noticed what lay above it on a ledge: a human head.

So, it was the man who died, Magnús thought, looking quickly away. Swallowing bile that burned his throat, he followed the trail of fear he could feel with his mind. It led him deeper into the cave. There he found a smallish pit, partly covered with a flat rock. The terror rising from the pit was like biting a piece of tin foil.

“I’m here to help,” Magnús said in English.

Immediately a woman’s voice cried out from inside the pit. “Please, please, get me out. Those things took Henry already. Please,” the captive begged. Clarissa—he thought that was the name mentioned in the message that had alerted him.

“We have a few minutes. I tricked them out of the cave. Now, let me work.”

Crouching at the edge of the pit, he contemplated the rock covering. Far too large for him to move alone, and if he pushed, it might tumble into the pit below, killing Clarissa. He would try asking the stone to help him, then. Magnús’s reserve of magic was depleted from enchanting the stones and creating his illusion; he hoped he had enough left to get the captive free.

“Get as far back against the side of the pit as you can,” Magnús called down. “Where you aren’t under any part of the stone cover.”

Laying hands on the rock, he let power fill him. Silently, reverently, he drew on the light of Álfheimr, the world made by the gods for the elves. It seeped into his body and out to the mortal world, burning his insides already because he’d overdone things somewhat. Yet he gritted his teeth and opened himself further to the magic.

A glow bloomed from within his hands, creating sharp shadows in the cavern. His bones became visible through his skin as the essence of Álfheimr filled them like a rising tide until it overflowed and spread throughout his limbs.

“What’s that light?” Clarissa said. “What’s happening?”

Magnús ignored her, focusing instead on the poetry of invocation. He knew he had it right when he could picture the spell in his head, its runes flickering like fire.

“Stone-friend, Rock-friend,
Solid as a mountain’s root,
Show me how clever you are, good friend,
And lend me your aid under foot.”

The rock remained firm to his touch, but the glow from his hands oozed across its surface. The covering rippled and softened like melting wax, then sagged in the center. Stone dripped lower and lower until it touched the bottom of the pit, forming rough steps in its surface. When the glow from Magnús’s hands receded, the stairs again had the appearance and feel of rock, barely warm to the touch. Blessed coolness filled his limbs as he released his magic.

“Come up,” he called out. “Quickly. It’s safe.”

Clarissa scrambled up the newly formed stairs and hurled herself at Magnús. “Thank you, thank you. Where’s Henry? Can we get him out, too?”

Gently, Magnús disentangled himself. “I’m sorry. I was too late.” Clarissa froze, shock visible in her eyes. “We need to be gone before the trolls come back.”

Taking the trembling woman’s arm, Magnús led her along the wall of the cavern and back to the opening. Her human eyes would be almost useless in the dark, so she shouldn’t notice when they crept past the carnage that had been Henry. Magnús wasn’t so lucky.

Why had the trolls done this wretched thing?

INTERLUDE

Long, long ago, Óðinn the Allfather fashioned the first man and woman from two trees. With his brothers Vili and Vé, Óðinn bestowed life on them, and named them Askr and Embla.

Time passed, and Óðinn sent his ravens, Thought and Memory, ahead to tell Askr and Embla that he was coming to see them. Askr and Embla had managed to beget a surprising number of children, and they set about to prepare for the Allfather’s visit. Embla tidied her children as best she could, but some of them had been out playing very late and were quite dirty.

Over a hill, a man wrapped in a gray cloak appeared, a raven on each shoulder. Embla knew Óðinn approached, and she was out of time to prepare. So, she hid the unkempt, playful children in a back room and bade them remain quiet.

The gray-cloaked wanderer arrived at their door and rapped on it sharply with his wooden staff. Askr, Embla, and the neatly scrubbed children all hurried outside to greet him and to enjoy a feast.

Looking over the assemblage, Óðinn asked Embla, “Are these all your children?” At this time, Óðinn still had both of his eyes, and they glinted at her like shards of obsidian.

Embla swallowed hard but said yes, these were all.

After the feast, Óðinn rose to leave. He bestowed a blessing on Askr, Embla, and their children, and started to turn away. Embla heaved a sigh of relief. Her little trick had not been discovered.

But then Óðinn turned back. The gray cloak shimmered away and revealed Allfather in his great and terrible majesty.

“You have tried to deceive me,” he said to Askr and Embla in a voice of thunder. “Very well. From this day forward, the children you have hidden from me shall be hidden from all men.”

After that, the wild, mischievous children could not be seen by men unless they wished it so. They ran away from Askr and Embla, who could not follow them or find them, and lived in the woods, the hills, and the moors. From those children came the race of huldufólk, sometimes also called elves. From the other children, all humans are descended.