21
" Images of a pale dragon caged and raging, locked within a
chamber among the roots of a great tree. A wolf upon a plain, a thick chain
binding him, small figures swarming, stabbing, the wolf’s jaws wide as it
howled.
“Ulfrir, wolf-god,” Kráka breathed.
“It’s the Guðfalla,” Biórr whispered. “The gods-fall.”
So many images, Elvar struggled to take it all in: figures hanging from the
boughs of trees, many of them, skeletal wings spiking from their backs.
“The Gallows Wood,” Elvar said. She remembered that tale, of how the gods Orna and Ulfrir had found their firstborn daughter slain, her wings hacked from
her back. Lik-Rifa had done it, the dragon, Orna’s sister. As vengeance Orna and
Ulfrir had hunted Lik-Rifa’s god-touched offspring and slaughtered them.
Ripped their backs open and hacked their ribs apart, pulling them out in a parody
of wings and hanging the corpses from trees.
The blood-eagle, it was now called.
The first blood feud, Elvar thought.
The images went on and on, telling the tale of the gods at war: Berser the
bear, Orna the eagle, Hundur the hound, Rotta the rat, many, many more; and
Snaka, father, maker, coiling about them all, glowing venom dripping from his
fangs as he entered the blood-fray and consumed his children.
“I thought all of the oath stones had been destroyed,” Sighvat said.
“We are on the arse-end of the world,” Agnar said. “This one has survived.”
He was still staring up at the huge slab, eyes following the glowing lines as they
traced the images.
“So, that is where your bloodline comes from,” Agnar said to Berak in his
chains. He pointed to an image of a giant bear, jaws wide, spittle spraying.
Berak said nothing, just glowered at the image.
“They are the fathers and mothers of all us Tainted,” Kráka said. “Snaka
loved his creations, when he was not feasting on them, and so did his children.”
She stared at the serpent-coils that spiralled across the granite.
“Why did they fight?” Sighvat muttered. “What started this war, led to the
near-destruction of all?”
“Jealousy and murder,” Uspa said. “Blood feud. Lik-Rifa the dragon thought
her sister was plotting her death, and Rotta the rat fuelled her paranoia. She
murdered Orna and Ulfrir’s daughter, created the vaesen in secret, would have
used them to destroy Orna and all those who supported her. But Orna found out
and lured Lik-Rifa into the caverns and chambers deep within the roots of
Oskutreð, the great Ash Tree, and with her siblings bound Lik-Rifa there. That is
what caused the war. "
― John Gwynne , The Shadow of the Gods (The Bloodsworn Saga, #1)
24
" Images of a pale dragon caged and raging, locked within a
chamber among the roots of a great tree. A wolf upon a plain, a thick chain
binding him, small figures swarming, stabbing, the wolf’s jaws wide as it
howled.
“Ulfrir, wolf-god,” Kráka breathed.
“It’s the Guðfalla,” Biórr whispered. “The gods-fall. "
― John Gwynne , The Shadow of the Gods (The Bloodsworn Saga, #1)
26
" The Vackna rang loud,
Waking-horn bold and blaring,
In the hills ringing as red sun was rising,
Filling all Vigrið,
This Battle-Plain,
This land of ash,
This land of ruin.
Gods stirred from slumber deep,
Fell Snaka, the slitherer shed his skin, that slayer of souls.
Wolf-waking, hard-howling Ulfrir, the breaker of chains ran roaring,
Racing to the Guðfalla,
The gods-fall.
Orna, eagle-winged came shrieking,
wings beating,
talons rending,
beak biting, flesh tearing.
Deep-cunning dragon,
Lik-Rifa,
Corpse-tearer from Dark-of-Moon Hills, tail lashing as she swept low.
Berser raging, jaws frothing, claws ripping.
Gods in their war glory, Brave Svin, mischievous Tosk, deceitful Rotta,
Gods and kin, their warriors willing,
Blood-tainted offspring, waging their war,
all came to the Battle-Plain.
Death was dealt,
Red ran the rivers,
Land laden with slaughter’s reek.
There they fought,
There they fell,
Berser pierced, Orna torn, Ulfrir slain.
Cunning Lik-Rifa laid low, chained in chamber deep,
Beneath boughs of Oskutreð, the great Ash Tree.
And Snaka fell, serpent ruin, venom burning, land-tearing, mountain
breaking,
cracked the slopes of Mount Eldrafell.
Frost and fire,
Flame and snow,
Vaesen clambered from the pit,
And the world ended…
And was born anew…
A silence settled, all staring at the skáld, though "
― John Gwynne , The Shadow of the Gods (The Bloodsworn Saga, #1)
