Page 92 of Viking Warriors: Vol. 1-3
What better time to consult those unseen forces? To seek out the seer who existed between the dark souls of the mountain and the world of men.
He’d only once visited her cave. When Beornwold had first taken Eldberg as his commander, offering him a permanent home, he’d insisted on Hildr casting the runes.
She’d spoken in riddles, of course. He’d been impatient, wanting to know what she beheld. Those white-shaded eyes had unnerved him; blind, yet seeing something others could not. She’d touched his left side, then pulled her hand away. Too hot, she’d said. Then, covering his eye with her palm, had mumbled something about Odin’s mark.
It had seemed nonsense at the time.
He knew better now.
Eldberg pulled his wolfskin closer and turned his face to the mountain.
* * *
His memory hadn’t failed him. Though the entrance was overhung with vines, the patch of ground in front bore evidence of feet; those of the crone and those who visited her.
There was a flapping of wings and an owl swooped low, coming to rest in the tree to one side of the entrance, turning its slow-blinking gaze upon him.
Inside, the cave was as he remembered it. Twigs and stones sat in piles, runes were scratched into the walls, and there were the rudiments of living—bundled blankets, a cooking pot, knives, and an axe.
The scent of her fire—pine branches and moss—was strong, but the cave was cold, despite the well-stoked flames, brought high by a draught from above. Smoke curled upward, drawn through a crevice in the upper rock. Water dripped somewhere in the back.
Hildr lifted her head, sniffing the air, her clouded eyes turned in his direction. She was more bone than flesh, sinew wrapped in rags.
“I’ve been waiting for you.” She gestured with her hand. “Sit. Drink with me.” There were two cups.
Eldberg brought his nose cautiously to the brew; fungi and twigs. He grimaced and heard her chuckle.
“Nothing to poison you—only to help.” She sipped from her own cup. “You’ll live long yet, but you’ve not come to ask that, have you?”
“Nay.” Eldberg took some of the liquid into his mouth, making himself hold it there, ignoring the bitterness.
The runes were laid out beside her: fragments of bone—some carved, beaks and claws, an owl’s feather. She touched them lightly with her fingertips. “But you have a question.”
“Perhaps.”
“Then tell it to the dark ones.” Her voice, previously as frail as a moth’s wing, was insistent. She reached for him, taking his hand, placing it within the runes. “Picture all in your mind. They will hear.”
He enclosed the fragments between his two palms, rattling them as he’d done the first time, then tossing all upon the ground. They scattered, falling randomly. He peered, looking for some pattern, but there was none. Nevertheless, the seer bent forward, her fingers trembling over the pieces, feeling for where each had settled.
“Yes,” her voice crooned. “I saw it even before you came.”
“What?” Eldberg had to stop himself from shaking her. “What do you see?”
“Two claws are touching. There is conflict. In your past, in these days you are living, and more to come. The beak is upward—sharp, dangerous, the threat of wounding. Life hangs in the balance. Someone wishes ill upon you. There is envy. There is betrayal.”
Eldberg hissed. “This I know without you telling me. What else, old woman?”
Revealing more gum than tooth, Hildr smiled. “What you desire will not bring you happiness.”
Eldberg closed his eyes, suddenly weary. His journey had been wasted. She’d told him nothing of value.
“You do not wish to hear, but you must learn.” Carefully, she gathered up the runes, placing them as they had been, each in their allotted place. “You are the spider in the web and the fly. Each movement determines what will come. Much is written, but there are many paths. You must choose.”
Eldberg sighed. He’d heard enough.
Only as he stood, did she crawl forward, her fingers grasping, hooking through the crossed laces that held the fur about his leg.
“Leave the dead to rest.” Her voice rasped. “And look to the living.”
