[Author's Note: The stories I write here, regarding Aislif's past, presence and sometimes maybe future are inspired by the natural love to the Norse Mythology, that I have and so the stories will take place in the lands of Dale and the north of Eriador, mainly the lands surrounding Bree and the lands lying further to the north. Enjoy!]
Within in moon shine plunging forest
Saw I lately ride the Elves;
Their horns I heard sound,
Their bells I heard cling.
Their white steeds wore
Golden hart antlers and flew
Quickly therein; like wild swans
Came they rushing through the air.
Smiling hailed me their Queen,
Smiling passing by:
Was it a sign of love,
Or shall it signify my death.
-Heinrich Heine,
(A rough English translation by me of his poem ''Durch den Wald im Mondenscheine'')
THE UNDOING
In midst the snow-covered glade lay the corpse of an elk bull. The battered flesh was still filling the air with steam. Kjeld and his three companion knew exactly what that would mean: They must have had startled the hunter. The carcass was covered by bloodied weal, the heavy skull of the elk had been broken. Kjeld knew of no animal that killed its prey in the matter of crushing its skull. A musty sound let him turn around. In whirling cascades fell snow from of the high branches of a pine at the edge of the glade. The air was filled with thousand small crystals of ice. Suspiciously was Kjeld's look as he gazed into the undergrowth. Now the wood was quiet again. Far above the foliage of the trees drew the green fairy-light its lines dancing over the sky. This was no night to be entering the forest!
"Just a branch that broke beneath the weight of the snow," said the red haired Asmund and brushed off the snow from his heavy cloak. "Now do not look like a rabid dog. You will see, in the end we just follow a pack of wolves."
Worry had made its way silently into the hearts of the four men. Everyone of them thought of the words of the old man that had warned of a death-bringing beast coming down from the mountains. Were his words but more than fantasies, spoken in high fever? Asmund was the Thane of Firnhjall, of the small village that lay far behind the woods at a broad river, they called Firn. It was his duty to deflect any danger that might be threatening the village. The words of the old one had been so insistent, he had to follow them. And yet ...
In winters as this one, those that began early, that brought too much cold and in which the green fairy light danced upon the sky, came the Elves into the lands of men. Asmund and Kjeld knew that and their two companions knew that too.
Ragnar had put an arrow unto his bow and blinked nervously. The lanky, also red haired man had come two years ago to Firnhjall. They said he would have been a famous rustler in Esgaroth and that Jarl Horsa Strongshield had put a bounty on him. Kjeld did not care for it. Ragnar was a good hunter who brought much venison into the village. That counted more than any other reason.
Gudleif, Kjeld knew since he was a boy himself. He was a broad and tall man with the powers of a bear; ever-being in a good mood, he could name many friends although he counted to be a bit simple-minded.
Wistfully thought Kjeld of Aislif, his wife and Asmund's daughter. She certainly was sitting now at the fire-pit and listened into the night. He had taken a horn with him. To let the horn sound once meant danger, sounding it two times would let everyone know that the village was safe and that the men would return home.
Ragnar had lowered his bow and lay warningly his finger unto his lips. He raised his head like a hound that had taken up a certain scent. Now Kjeld could smell it too. A strange odor drew over the glade. It reminded him of foul eggs.
"Maybe it is a troll," whispered Gudleif. "They say, in hard winters they come down from the mountains. A troll could kill an elk with a single strike of his fist."
Asmund looked sinister at Gudleif and made him clear with a gesture to be silent. The wood of the trees creaked quietly up in the cold. Kjeld had the feeling to be observed. Something was here. Very near.
Suddenly was the bush of a hazel shrub shattered and two white schemes stormed with loud beating of their wings over the glade. Kjeld raised instantly his spear, then he breathed relieved out. It had only been two ptarmigans.
But what had startled them? Ragnar aimed with his bow for the hazel shrub. Thane Asmund brought his spear into a readied position. Kjeld felt how his stomach drew itself together. Was the monster sitting right there before them in the bushes? Silently they remained where they stood.
An eternity seemed to pass but nothing moved. The four men had formed a wide half-circle around the thicket. The suspense became unbearable. Kjeld felt how cold sweat ran down his back and gathered at his belt. The way back into the village was far. If his clothing would have been drowned in his sweat and could no longer protect him against the cold, they would be forced to make camp somewhere and to make a fire.
The broad Gudleif stuck his spear deep into the snow. Then he bend down and dug his hands into the fresh snow. Creaking he formed an orb of it. Gudleif looked at Asmund and the thane nodded. In a wide bow the ball flew into the thicket. Nothing moved.
Kjeld breathed out his tension. Their fear had let the shadows of the night come alive. They themselves have it been who had startled up the birds!
Gudleif grinned relieved. "There is nothing. The bastard that killed the elk is since long over the mountains and gone."
"A fine hunting company are we," jested now as well the old thane. "Next we run away from a few rabbit-farts."
Gudleif stood up and took his spear. "Now I put the shadow's head on my spear!" With laughter he began to puncture the thicket.
Suddenly he was pulled forward with a yank. Kjeld saw a big, with claws equipped hand that held the spear shaft. Gudleif issued a shrill scream that abruptly ended in a throaty bubbling. The sturdy man stumbled backwards, both hands pressed on his throat. Blood squirted out between his fingers and ran down his wolf pelt gambeson.
From the thicket stepped out a giantous figure, a massive troll, like Kjeld had never seen before. Through the weight of the massive head, the creature stood there a bit bend over, and yet it rose up two times the height of a man. The body of the monster was as thick as three huge mead kegs, thick and nodular muscles ran down its arms from its shoulders. The fingers ended in dark claws.
The troll issued a deep, throaty grunt. Fangs long like daggers were protruding from its maw. Its eyes appeared to devour Kjeld.
Ragnar raised up his bow. An arrow flew from the sinew. It hit the troll on the side of its head and left a fine red scratch. Kjeld drew his sword Nothung.
Gudleif however sank into his knees, remained a heart beat long wavering and then fell to the side. His cramping hands relaxed. Still the blood ran out of his throat and his legs were twitching helplessly.
Blind rage took Kjeld. He stormed forward and rammed Nothung into the chest of the troll. It was as if he had run against solid rock. The blade of the sword slipped to the side, not able to cleave through the heavy rips. But blood the sword had tasted now and the troll roared up. A clawed hand rushed down on Kjeld. Asmund attacked the monster now from its unprotected flank in order to get its attention from Kjeld. But also his spear could not truly harm the troll.
Kjeld let himself fall into the snow and hit with all his power after the ankles of the troll. The monster grunted. Then it lowered its massive head and rammed the warrior. One of the longer fangs hit Kjeld in the inner side of his thigh, destroyed muscles and shattered the horn with the socket out of silver that had hung on his belt. With a sudden yank, threw the troll his head into his neck so that Kjeld was hurled into the hazel shrub.
Almost completely paralyzed by the pain, he pressed his hand unto the wound, while he used his other to rip off a piece of cloth from his cloak. Quickly did he press the wool into the gaping wound and took his belt in order to somehow cut off the blood flow from his leg.
Loud screams sounded from the glade. Kjeld broke a branch from the thicket and pushed it between his leg and belt. Then he drew the leather string tighter until it lay about his leg as strong as a drum band. The pain let him almost loose conscious.
The screams on the glade had gotten silent. Carefully did Kjeld bend the branches of the thicket to each side. His comrades lay lifeless in the snow. The troll stood over the body of Ragnar and pierced his chest over and over again with its dark claws. Kjeld's sword Nothung lay near to the beast. Everything in him called him up to just jump on the back of the troll and to fight him, not caring for if he was armed or not. It was dishonorable to sneak away from a fight! But it was foolish to fight a battle that was doomed to be lost. He was the only survivor and the thane was dead, he carried now the responsibility for the village. Therefor he had to warn those who were yet alive.
But he could not just return to Firnhjall. His tracks would lead the monster straight towards the village. He had to find another way.
Inch for inch did Kjeld worked his way backwards out of the thicket. Every time he broke a twig, his heart threatened to stop. But the monster did not care for him. It was cowering on the glade and held its gruesome feast.
As he had made it out of the thicket, Kjeld dared to stand up. A stinging pain rushed through his leg. He touched over the woolen pieces. A fine crust of ice had formed itself there. How long would he make it through the cold?
The man hobbled the short way to the edge of the forest. He looked up to the cliff, that dark crown was risen high river the river Firn. Up there was an old stone circle. And in the very near they had placed wood for a beacon. If he could light up the fire, the village would be warned. But it were two miles of way until he would reach the top.
Kjeld held himself by the edge of the forest, but he came only slowly forward in the newly fallen snow. He breathed deeply in and out, then he hobbled out onto the wide snowfield. His left leg was completely numb. At least one good thing the cold had, he did not feel any pain now in his wound. But the numb leg did not make the walking easier. Half crawling, half walking did he fight his way forward. Of the troll he heard nothing. Had it finished its grisly meal already?
Finally he reached a broad field of rubble. A tricky surface lay hidden beneath the snow. Kjeld's breath became intermittently. Thick white clouds of steam rose from his mouth and laid itself unto his beard as hundreds of ice crystals. Damn cold!
The man thought back on last summer. Sometimes he had come here with Aislif. They had laid in the grass and looked at the stars. He had been bragging about his adventures and how he had accompanied Jarl Horsa Strongshield on a campaign against the Easterlings. Aislif had always listened patiently and sometimes teased him when he bragged about a bit too much. Her tongue could be sharp like a knife! But she could kiss like ... No, better not thinking of that! He gulped hard. He was father since the last four years. But he had the feeling that he would not come to see his daughter again in this world. He wondered what Aislif and Jarevrån did now.
Kjeld leaned against a big rock in order to focus the rest of his powers. He had made half of the way. His eyes swayed back to the edge of the forest. The darkness of the wood could not be penetrated by the green fairy light, but here, half way up the cliff, one could see everything as clear as in a cloudless full moon's night.
Nights like these he had always liked, although the scary light on the sky brought fear to the most people of the north. It was seeming as if huge lines of fabric, woven of glimmering shine of the stars, be drawn over the entire sky.
Some said, the Elves would hide within these lights, when they at night, rode to hunt over the frosty sky. Kjeld smiled.
Aislif had found relish of this thought. She loved it to sit at winter evenings at the fire-pit in order to listen to his stories; Stories of the dwarves from the Lonely Mountain and of the Elves, whose hearts were as cold as the winter stars.
A movement at the edge of the forest ripped Kjeld out of his thoughts. The troll! The monster had taken up the pursuit of him. Good so! With every step up the cliff he would lead it away from the village. He just had to hold out ... Should it tear his chest apart to eat his heart, if he could only light the beacon!
Kjeld rose up from the rock and stumbled. His feet! They ... They were still there, but he could not feel them anymore. He should not have rested! Was he a fool ... every child knew that rest by such a cold would mean inevitable death.
Kjeld looked down at his feet. Frozen and without any feeling, they would not warn him anymore of any tricky surface and rocks beneath the snow. They had proven to be betrayers on him, had deserted to the enemy who did not want that he would reach the beacon.
The man laughed up. But it lay no amusement in his laughter. His feet had deserted him. What nonsense! He slowly lost his mind. The feet were merely now dead meat, as would the entire man would soon be dead meat. Angry he kicked against the big rock. Nothing! As if his feet were not there. But he could still walk! That was only a question of will. But he had to be careful where he stepped.
Full of worry, did he look back. The troll had left the forest and walked out unto the snow field. It did not seem to be in a hurry. Did it know that there was only one way down from the cliff? Kjeld could not flee anymore. But that had not been laying in his intentions. If he could only light the fire, then everything else would no longer matter!
A sound let him startle. The monster let out a deep growl. Kjeld had the feeling that the troll looked right into his eyes. Of course was that on such a distance impossible and yet ... something touched his heart like a frosty breeze.
The man began to walk faster. He had to hold his start. To light up a fire, he would need a bit of time. His breath went with a whistling voice. Again did he look back. The monster did not seem to make any haste to move through the deep snow. It should have overtaken him already. Why was the troll playing mice and cat with him?
Kjeld slipped; his head hit heavily on a stone, but he felt no pain. With his hands he touched his forehead. Dark blood poured from over his eyelids. He felt dizzy. That should not have happened! In haste he looked back. The troll did not advance any further. It had laid its head into its neck and peered up to him.
Kjeld could not stand up anymore. What a fool he had been. Looking back while walking forward! With all his remaining power he tried to get up. But the half frozen legs denied him any service. he would have needed a rock of his height in order to pull himself up. Now he had to crawl. What a humiliation! He, Kjeld Torgridson, wielder of Nothung, crawled away from his enemy. Seven men had Kjeld killed alone in single combat on Jarl Horsa's campaign. For every overthrown enemy he had proudly woven a braid into his blond hair. And now he crawled away.
This was another kind of battle, he reminded himself. Against this monster one could not fight with the weapons they have had. He had seen how Ragnar's arrow was deflected by the skull of the troll and how his own sword had almost caused no wound at all, were it normally cleaved a man's head into two. No, this battle had different laws. He would be victorious if he could lighten up the beacon.
Desperately, Kjeld crawled onwards on his elbows. His thoughts were now only by his wife and daughter. He had to rescue them! His power must not fail! Onward and always onward!
Blinking he looked about himself. The snow was gone, he lay on blank rock. In front of him protruded one of the stones of the circle into the air. He pulled himself up and came to stand. Long his legs would not carry him anymore.
The summit was flat and as even as the ground of a wooden bowl. Normally he would have made a wide bow about the stone circle. No one stepped between the stones! That was no question of courage. During summer, Kjeld had once observed the summit an entire day. Not even birds flew over it.
To the river Firn, the cliff was leading straight down to the ground. Down from the village it looked like as if someone would have placed a stone crown unto the top of the cliff. More than three times as a man was tall, protruded the granite blocks up, that closed in a wide circle around the entire plateau. They said, they would have stood here, long before Man had entered the lands of Dale. They bore ornaments of swung lines and filigree musters. So fine was the web, that no Man could imitate it. And if one would look at it too long, he would feel like having drunken the heavy and spiced winter-mead.
Years ago, a wandering skald had come to Firnhjall who claimed that these ancient stones were Elves, who had been punished with a curse. They were damned with unending, lonely guard, until the day the land itself would call for aid and the magical spell would be lifted. Kjeld had mocked the skald. Every child knew that Elves were of delicate shape and not much taller as Man. The stones were too big, too massive to be Elves.
As he had crossed the circle, an icy wind hit Kjeld. Now he had almost made it. Nothing would ... The beacon! He must have seen it from here! The wood was placed protected from the wind behind a few rocks. Kjeld fell to his knees and crawled forward. There was nothing!
The cliff went down here good two hundred steps. Had the summit been broken away? Had there been a rockfall? Kjeld felt like his fate would mock him. All his powers he had sacrificed to come here and now ...
Leaden fatigue grasped after his limbs. With every breath taken, did the cold cut into his throat. Exhausted he leaned against the stones. Strong wind drew on his frost bitten clothes. The belt around his thigh had gotten loose, blood dripped out from the wound.
Kjeld laid his head into his neck. Still did the ghostly fairy light roam and dance over the night sky. Aislif and Jare ... Already took him darkness. Had his eyelids gotten too heavy without him noticing it? Sleeping ... only for a short time. The dark was tempting. It promised peace.
