Ainjar, though, who came and went in Dark Wood. He had courage enough for all the villagers. They believed him almost as brave as the King.
Ainjar had no family save a one-eyed dog name Freki. He made his living hunting in Dark Wood. When he needed something that the forest could not provide he brought furs to town.
Grownups did not trust Ainjar because of the dark places he walked, but their children loved him. He always had time to describe a huldre wedding or trolls brawling by throwing boulders from wall to wall of canyons deep in the mountains. They thought his tales were tall but he told them well.
Svale Skar awaited Ainjar's coming from Dark Wood with deepening dread.
When a lamb or chicken disappeared everyone knew the huldre had been up to mischief and thought little more of it. It was the way of the land and the forest dwellers. But this had been an evil year all round. Right here in Tröndelag, at Stikklestad, there had been a great battle. The King himself had fallen. Before his death he had built bridges and strongholds, had bested giants and trolls, and had driven the wickedest things deep into the mountains or the icy northern wastes. Now he was gone. The new conqueror king, far, far away, had no time to shield his remote new subjects.
The old evils had begun to return.
Sons and daughters and wives had begun to disappear.
Svale's little girl, Frigga, was among the missing.
"Ainjar," he said when the old man finally came down from the mountain, "you wander Dark Wood. You have converse with the huldre -folk. Have you heard anything of my little Frigga?"
The old man's dog regarded him with bared teeth.
No one liked Svale Skar. He was a troublemaker. He always drank too much, then started something.
"Svale, you talk too loud, you brag too much, and you're cruel to your wife and children. The huldre wise would say you deserve your suffering. So you surprise me now, showing this spark of goodness. For the first time in your life, I think, you want to ask something not for your own sake. I'll ponder that while I deliver my furs to Fat Jens."
Ainjar returned from the furrier's with a smaller pack and lighter step. "Svale, I can give you no good news. This evil plagues the Hidden Folk, too. The huldre wise say the Oskorei has returned."
"The Oskorei? The Terrible Host?"
It was an army of evil spirits. The fallen King had banished it northward, to the realms of always cold. Old tales told of the oskoreien raging through the night, astride fire-breathing black stallions whose hooves struck lightning off the sides of mountains, hunting souls unlucky enough not to be safely home by dark. Their hunting horns could still be heard mourning on winter's bitterest northern winds.
"The Wild Hunt!" Svale stammered, frightened. "What can we do?"
Ainjar stared up the dusty path, tugged his ragged gray beard. "I wonder, are there any brave men left? Men like Hatchet-Face Svien, who plundered the Hifjell troll? Somebody who could lay hands on an iron sword?"
Hatchet-Face Svien had lived in nearby Aalmo. Svale often bragged that Alstahaug's cowards were braver than Aalmo's heroes.
His bluff had been called. He owned the only sword in Alstahaug. He had it of his grandfather, whose father had taken it a-reaving in the old days. He had always considered it only a keepsake.
"I have an iron sword."
Ainjar pretended surprise. "Yes? Good. I'll wait here."
Svale was scared but his neighbors had overheard. He got the rusty sword, a blanket, and a bag of food. He could do nothing but shake and stammer Frigga's name when his wife asked where he was going.
A mile into Dark Wood they found a fairy ring. Seven worn, rune-carved stones stood round its edges. Svale thought he saw shadows darting amongst the trees in the twilight.
"I've brought the man," Ainjar said.
Seven old huldre stepped into the circle from behind the standing stones. They were the wise of the Hidden People.
The oldest said, "So. Bold Svale Skar himself.
Ainjar had no family save a one-eyed dog name Freki. He made his living hunting in Dark Wood. When he needed something that the forest could not provide he brought furs to town.
Grownups did not trust Ainjar because of the dark places he walked, but their children loved him. He always had time to describe a huldre wedding or trolls brawling by throwing boulders from wall to wall of canyons deep in the mountains. They thought his tales were tall but he told them well.
Svale Skar awaited Ainjar's coming from Dark Wood with deepening dread.
When a lamb or chicken disappeared everyone knew the huldre had been up to mischief and thought little more of it. It was the way of the land and the forest dwellers. But this had been an evil year all round. Right here in Tröndelag, at Stikklestad, there had been a great battle. The King himself had fallen. Before his death he had built bridges and strongholds, had bested giants and trolls, and had driven the wickedest things deep into the mountains or the icy northern wastes. Now he was gone. The new conqueror king, far, far away, had no time to shield his remote new subjects.
The old evils had begun to return.
Sons and daughters and wives had begun to disappear.
Svale's little girl, Frigga, was among the missing.
"Ainjar," he said when the old man finally came down from the mountain, "you wander Dark Wood. You have converse with the huldre -folk. Have you heard anything of my little Frigga?"
The old man's dog regarded him with bared teeth.
No one liked Svale Skar. He was a troublemaker. He always drank too much, then started something.
"Svale, you talk too loud, you brag too much, and you're cruel to your wife and children. The huldre wise would say you deserve your suffering. So you surprise me now, showing this spark of goodness. For the first time in your life, I think, you want to ask something not for your own sake. I'll ponder that while I deliver my furs to Fat Jens."
Ainjar returned from the furrier's with a smaller pack and lighter step. "Svale, I can give you no good news. This evil plagues the Hidden Folk, too. The huldre wise say the Oskorei has returned."
"The Oskorei? The Terrible Host?"
It was an army of evil spirits. The fallen King had banished it northward, to the realms of always cold. Old tales told of the oskoreien raging through the night, astride fire-breathing black stallions whose hooves struck lightning off the sides of mountains, hunting souls unlucky enough not to be safely home by dark. Their hunting horns could still be heard mourning on winter's bitterest northern winds.
"The Wild Hunt!" Svale stammered, frightened. "What can we do?"
Ainjar stared up the dusty path, tugged his ragged gray beard. "I wonder, are there any brave men left? Men like Hatchet-Face Svien, who plundered the Hifjell troll? Somebody who could lay hands on an iron sword?"
Hatchet-Face Svien had lived in nearby Aalmo. Svale often bragged that Alstahaug's cowards were braver than Aalmo's heroes.
His bluff had been called. He owned the only sword in Alstahaug. He had it of his grandfather, whose father had taken it a-reaving in the old days. He had always considered it only a keepsake.
"I have an iron sword."
Ainjar pretended surprise. "Yes? Good. I'll wait here."
Svale was scared but his neighbors had overheard. He got the rusty sword, a blanket, and a bag of food. He could do nothing but shake and stammer Frigga's name when his wife asked where he was going.
A mile into Dark Wood they found a fairy ring. Seven worn, rune-carved stones stood round its edges. Svale thought he saw shadows darting amongst the trees in the twilight.
"I've brought the man," Ainjar said.
Seven old huldre stepped into the circle from behind the standing stones. They were the wise of the Hidden People.
The oldest said, "So. Bold Svale Skar himself.
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