The Three Trials

The Three Trials
By Craig Horne

High above the burg of Brond on a hill surrounded by forest, a babe of elfin kind was born on a wintry Swedish night. Her parents named her Stiarna, a word that meant 'star' in the mortal tongue, and as she grew older the light of her beauty shone brighter than the most dazzling of supernovas.

Her love of mischief was frowned upon by her parents, who were lofty nobles of Alfheim, and she would often flee her bower in seek of fun in the outer fringes of the wood. Often a man of Brond would catch sight of her flitting between the evergreen trees and feel compelled to follow her. Somehow they could never quite gain on her before she disappeared into the shadows leaving them hopelessly lost and cursing her. Occasionally she was also seen dancing spiritedly in the meadows and those who stopped to watch for what seemed like a moment found that in fact several hours had passed when they averted their gaze.

She was now approaching her fifteenth winter and her father, the elf earl, decided that it was about time his daughter faced up to her noble responsibilities. He was also loth to see her straying outside the borders of Alfheim during Yule-tide when the Wild Hunt were known to rampage through Midgard.

Thus he decided his daughter should wed and sent out a messenger to spread the word. To the hilltop stronghold, the Fornborg, they came: suitors from all over Alfheim. Silver-haired mages in many-hued robes rode alongside flaxen-haired warriors in dragon-scale byrnies. With charm and wit they endeavoured to woo her. With gifts they attempted to entice her. Alas, even a dashing elf lord who rode into the courtyard on a unicorn could not win the heart of Stiarna, for her heart belonged to another, a mortal.

His name was Eirik and he was the son of the chieftain of Brond. His father, Adalbrand, was a strong leader who was loved by his people. Sadly discontent was growing in the burg. In his hall Adalbrand lay in a fevered state and few believed he would make it through the winter. Eirik, like Stiarna, was approaching his fifteenth winter and in the absence of his father was forced to guide his people in the aftermath of another failed harvest. He had not yet had a chance to prove himself and few believed he had the capabilities to guide them through these difficult times.

Although he had tried to keep it a secret, many in the burg knew of his love for the mysterious elf maiden who wandered their borders. It was rumoured that he planned to join her in the sylvan realm of the elves and never return. His rugged good looks and eloquent manner had saved him from many a scrape in the past. Where they had failed his mastery of the sword had succeeded. These attributes would not save him now. He would have to act fast to win the faith of his kindred or risk being usurped.

In the Fornborg, Stiarna's father paced the floor of the great hall angrily with his hands clasped behind his back. When he found that his daughter had rejected the advances of every suitor who had assembled in his ancestral home he had reacted with fury and when he found out why ' with disgust. He had marched her up the spiral staircase that led to her bower and locked her inside. He had then cast a spell that sealed the shutters of her window, leaving her bereft of light.

The hour grew late and with the anger he had felt earlier now on the wane, the elf earl decided to climb the steps to his daughter's bower with a proposition. Unlocking the oaken door to reveal her clawing at her shutters he said: "Daughter of mine, the day after tomorrow marks the beginning of Yule-tide. Over the twelve nights of this festival, men of Midgard will be invited to enter the forest and win your hand in marriage upon the successful completion of three trials.
"I do not wish just any man, replied Stiarna, "'tis only Eirik of Brond I want for my husband.
"Then Eirik of Brond you shall have as your husband, if your love is requited and he can prove himself worthy, said her father.
"If there is no champion of the three trials within the twelve nights, what then? asked Stiarna.
"Then you shall wed a suitor of my choosing, replied her father, "one of elfin kind.
"So be it father, replied Stiarna, hoping with all her heart that the call would be answered by Eirik.

Once more the messenger was sent out, this time into the world of men, to spread the word. Such was the acclaim of the elfin beauty that men returned from raiding in Ireland and trading in Russia to answer the challenge. The burg of Brond played host to all those seeking fame and glory in the woods on its borders. Great was the revelry in the burg every night despite the fact that all those who ventured into the forest failed to return.

Grim was the mood on the last night of Yule when few men remained. Eirik had not answered the call due to his father's worsening health and because he had felt small in the company of such seasoned warriors and rich noblemen. Nevertheless the people of Brond remained determined to celebrate this, what was one of the most important dates in the Norse year. A freshly sacrificed boar on a wooden table was brought out into the cold winter night. It was an offering to Freyr, King of the elves and the kindred would also swear oaths for the coming year upon it.

As others made their resolutions, Eirik stood despondently watching the boar's blood trickling off the table and dappling the snow-covered ground below. Yet suddenly some new hope stirred inside him. He knew the faerie realm. In the hall of his father he had heard much of its goings-on through the skalds. Others would care less for these tales and more for those of legendary battles and honoured chieftains, but not Eirik. Perhaps he could succeed where others had failed because of this knowledge.

With hands laid on the consecrated boar the others looked at Eirik questioningly. It was his turn to make a solemn oath and what he swore to do gladdened the hearts of all those who were present. "Kindred, tonight I ride into the woods on my father's horse and ere this night is over the elf woman, whom those before me have tried to win, will stand where I am now. 'Tis neither for fame nor glory but for love, and the future of Brond. As an elf she has a kinship with Freyr and could renew our barren land. If it comes to pass that my father does not make it through winter then in her you will have an illustrious queen and in me, I hope, a great king. If the quest does take my life, as I believe it has the others, there may still be hope for you in times to come. My sacrifice may appease the gods and bring good fortune your way.

With his people cheering him, Eirik sped off towards his father's hall to tell him of his plans. He knelt by the bed of the ailing chieftain, held his hand and spoke softly into his ear. Barely able to speak, his father pointed to a sword that lay sheathed in the corner. Grasping the scabbard with one hand and the hilt of the sword with the other, Eirik unsheathed the blade in one swift movement and held it aloft. Long had he wished to see the sword that was an heirloom to his family and now that day had come. In its absence from service the servants had lovingly maintained it. Eirik caught his reflection in the blade and cursed as he cut his fingers after running them gently over its edge. He slid it back into the scabbard and then attached it to the baldric that stretched across his body. He saluted his father then made his way towards the door but turned back when the chieftain called out in a hoarse and strained voice. "My son, he said, "Go not into the woods ere first consulting the runes.
Eirik nodded, smiled and then left.

Clad in helm and hauberk, Eirik mounted his father's horse and rode northwards. He sought the hollow oak tree on the forest's edge in which Finnvard the venerable rune master was said to live. Across snow-covered moors and icy mountain trails he went. Snowflakes stung his skin and clung to his golden hair. Soon he was in the shadow of the woods and welcomed the cover he received. In the distance an old man sat stoking a fire among the gnarled roots of a great tree. Upon closer inspection he found that it was the man whose counsel he sought and pleased were the two men to see each other. Eirik told Finnvard of his mission. When he had finished the old man disappeared through a door into the trunk of the tree, then reappeared clutching a leather pouch. Inside were pieces of bark with a rune engraved on each piece.
"Ask your question young Eirik, said Finnvard, "and the runes will answer.
"Will victory be mine tonight? replied Eirik.
With this the old man scattered the runes in the snow and then picked three at random with which to answer the youth. Examining the runes in the palm of his right hand he stroked his long white beard with the other in a pondering manner. He then said: "I see victory, but also death. It is unclear who will die but what is certain is that you must tread carefully tonight lest it be you.

"All is not what it seems in these woods. Those that have gone before you have relied on bravery, brawn or the assumption that the gods are on their side. Fools. This contest is above all a battle of wits and the gods are fickle. With knowledge and ingenuity you will prevail.

From his pocket Finnvard then produced an amulet which he hung around Eirik's neck. It was a small circle of iron, crossed at the bottom, which hung from a silver chain. "This is a troll cross, said the old man, "and will protect you against serious harm from both trolls and elves. With this he bade Eirik farewell.

Eirik now ventured deep into the forest on a reluctant horse that seemed to grow more anxious with every step it took. A bone-chilling wind swept through the creaking trees with an eerie howl and the youth pulled his cloak around to cover his exposed arms and face. He gripped the hilt of his father's sword in trepidation, straining his senses to detect any approaching danger. Peering through the mist that now enveloped him he could see, in a distant clearing, what appeared to be a small hut with a candle burning in the window. Slowly becoming disorientated and with no real idea of where he had to face his challenge he decided to stop by for advice. As he neared the homestead however his father's horse again became distressed. Nostrils flared, eyes bulged, muscles grew taut and hooves were driven into the cold ground in defiance. Eirik dismounted and struggled vigorously to secure the spooked animal but without luck. He could only watch hopelessly as the horse disappeared into the darkness.

The door of the hut creaked open to reveal a short, raven-haired old woman crouched over an open hearth. She tended a bubbling concoction in a pot that hung from a spit. She turned her head to observe her visitor and bade him to enter. Her haggard face was one that betrayed a beauty that once was. The years had been unkind. "Greetings young master of Brond, she said in a fey voice, identifying him by the red boar insignia on his scabbard. "Come warm yourself by my fire and heat your belly with my wholesome brew, she continued. A sweeter smelling concoction he had never experienced but sensing some mischief was afoot he resisted the old woman's offer. In the hall of his father he had heard tales of fairy brews and their dangers. Although the householder had the form of an old crone her eyes were like cloudy blue pools, without pupil or white. She could be a witch or something stranger, using fairy glamour to disguise its true form.

"Tell me old woman, said Eirik, "do you know of the elf maiden who dwells on these borders?
"I can show you the path that will lead to her, she replied. "It is not a path that is wise to tread, however. Death or delirium is all that awaits those who try.
"Nevertheless it is a path that I must tread if I am to restore dignity to my people and enable my father to die in the knowledge that the prosperity our kindred once enjoyed will return again, replied Eirik.
"I am also bound to this quest by love, he added. "I will not rest until I know whether or not this feeling is requited by the one whom I seek. She has lingered in my thoughts and haunted my dreams for long enough. I must know if she remembers the day that we kissed with the same affection that I do.

So it ensued that the old woman lit a lantern and led Eirik out into the cold night. Soon they were standing on a pathway encircled by twisted and tangled trees that seemed to stretch far on into nothingness. The canopy was so dense that it was virtually impenetrable to light and what little space there was between the trunks was filled with prickly thickets. The harsh cawing of a raven perched on a branch above their heads broke the eerie silence. To Eirik this seemed liked an omen of imminent doom.
"Behold, announced the old woman, "the path that will lead you to the one whom you seek.
"Here you will face three trials: an enemy that cannot be seen, an enemy that cannot be slain, and finally an enemy that cannot be subdued, she continued.
"I can tell you no more and dare not linger here any longer, she said, before passing the lantern to Eirík and darting off into the darkness with a nimbleness seldom seen in one so old.

Eirik drew his father's sword and proceeded cautiously along the path. He pondered the vague words the old woman had spoken but his thoughts were soon disturbed by the sight of a great stone club that came hurtling through the air towards him. It missed him by a hair's breadth and landed with a loud thud in the dirt. Stretching the lantern out in front of him he peered into the distance, searching for his assailant. He could see nothing but out of the corner of his eye observed the stone club rising out of the dirt and then levitating in the air.

How he wished he had worn his shield over his back instead of hanging it from the horse's saddle now, as he was tormented by the crude weapon. Yet the unseen force wielding it seemed unable to inflict a direct blow on him. With each thrust the weapon either missed or lightly grazed him. Eirik deduced that his amulet was protecting him against an attack by a foe of either elf or troll kind. The primitive weapon and the height from which it was being wielded from led Eirik to believe that he must be fighting a troll. The key now was to find a way to combat the beast's glamour: to make it visible.

As he parried the club with his sword he noticed the blade glimmering with a ray of moonlight which penetrated the canopy behind him. Thinking fast he lured the troll into the light and then grabbed a handful of earth from the ground. This he then threw in what he perceived to be the direction of the beast. He rejoiced as the dirt landed on the troll's face, revealing its loathsome form and providing Eirik's sword with a target. Towering over Eirik, with dirt in its eyes the beast snarled in anger. Seizing the opportunity Eirik reversed his grip on the sword and hurled it is if it were a javelin towards its head. The blade entered the troll's mouth and penetrated the back of its skull. It fell to the ground and collapsed in a pool of black blood.

Eirik retrieved his sword and wiped the blade on his trousers. He took a moment to compose himself and then continued along the path. He had emerged from the first trial victorious and relatively unscathed. From this he drew some encouragement though the idea of his next challenge filled him with dread. How would he tackle an enemy that could not be slain? He was about to find out.

A sudden gust of wind swept through the canopy above and then descended downwards towards the foot of the path, which now lay about a mile a behind Eirik. The ground then began to reverberate beneath what sounded like the hooves of galloping horses. As Eirik listened closer he also perceived the clamour of baying hounds and the raised voices of their masters. The strident sound of a hunting horn pierced the air and sent a chill down Eirik's spine. No earthly huntsmen would traverse the woods at this late hour, which left him with only one conclusion. These were no earthly huntsmen. With the lantern held aloft, Eirik peered into the murk once more. The cacophony of men shouting, dogs barking and horses neighing had now reached an almost deafening level. It was all around him and yet nowhere to be seen. Suddenly Eirik found himself in the path of a monstrous cavalcade that came charging out of the gloom towards him. In terror he leapt into the thorny undergrowth and scrambled through it to reach the cover of a tree. Scratched and bloodied from the struggle he peered out from behind the trunk.

A shadowy figure on an eight-legged horse led the spectral hunt. Following him on foot and on horseback were the souls of slain Vikings. The spirits of those who lay buried in the mounds appeared as their bodies would now: battle-scarred and decomposing. Those who were cremated following death were skeletal in form with charred bodies and flames rising from their eye sockets. The hounds and horses were as black as pitch with crazed, crimson eyes.
Unable to endure this macabre spectacle any longer Eirik closed his eyes and just listened. He believed the riders must have seen him and if not the dogs would surely smell him. Nevertheless the hunt proceeded along the path seemingly oblivious to his presence and in a matter of moments all was still again.

Eirik tried to steady his pounding heart but its beating only increased with what he saw as he reached out for his lantern. His eyes were met with the icy glare of a spectre that stood motionless on the path grasping a double-headed battleaxe. Clearly his presence hadn't gone unnoticed. Eirik froze with fear and was unable to move as the spectre approached the tree behind which he was hiding. With one mighty blow of his axe the spectre hew the tree and laughed as it crashed down upon the path. He then reached over the stump, grabbed Eirik by his shoulders and hurled him to on to the felled tree. "Welcome to your funeral pyre, he bellowed as the tree burst into flames with some supernatural magic at work. Eirik lay injured from the fall but had to move quickly to avoid the flames that now surrounded him. He rolled off the tree, wincing with pain as he did, then slowly got to his feet.

His assailant was the spirit of a swarthy man with one eye missing as a result of a gash that stretched from his hairline to his jaw. Much of his lips had rotted away exposing his broken and yellowed teeth. Eirik had never seen a fouler form.

He swung his axe at Eirik's neck but Eirik ducked and drove his sword into the spectre's abdomen only to see it pass through air. Eirik soon realised that indeed his foe could not be slain. A growing sense of helplessness consumed him as blow upon blow rained down upon him. He evaded most of them with his youthful agility but occasionally the axe would smite his body, breaking the links in his chain mail and leaving him gashed and bloody.

The contrast between the two opponents' weapons was remarkable. While Eirik's sword shimmered like a crystal mirror, the spectre's axe seemed deliberately blackened. Eirik wondered if this held any significance. Remembering how he had caught his own reflection in the sword he pondered what would happen if the spectre were to see his. Could the spectre's axe be darkened to prevent this from happening?

Eirik dodged another swing of the axe and watched as it flew towards a tree and embedded itself in the trunk. As the spectre struggled to free it, Eirik raised his sword to catch what little light there was, holding the blade flat side forward. The spectre now came tearing towards him wielding his axe in the air. With outstretched arms Eirik gripped the hilt of his sword tightly and with faith, even as the spectre's axe came whistling through the air to knock it from his hands. Before this blow fell, however, the spectre caught his reflection in the gleaming blade. Seeing his hideous form for the first time he shrieked with horror, dropping his axe to the ground and fled howling into the trees.

With sheer relief Eirik fell to his knees and kissed his father's sword. He then drove the tip of the blade into the earth and rested his weary head on the pommel. Pain slowly returned to his bruised and battered body and with strained movements he tore strips from his cloak to bind his bleeding wounds. He retrieved the lantern from the thorny undergrowth and then staggered on into the night.
His thoughts soon turned to the third and final trial he would face: an enemy that cannot be subdued. Again, however, he had little time to imagine what these words could mean ere his enemy was revealed to him.

A crooked figure came shuffling out of the shadows. It was the old woman. "Greetings Eirik of Brond, she said sinisterly. "You are the first to reach this stage of the contest, she continued, "it's such a pity you shall also be the last.

Raising her spindly arms from beneath her black cloak she reached into the air and, with fingertips glowing like embers, drew eldritch runes into the gloom. Each symbol flickered like a candle flame before disappearing and Eirik became so entranced by them that he was oblivious to the magic they were working around him. Sinuous roots sprouted from the earth and curled round his ankles before pulling him to the ground. As he fell his sword flew from his hand and now stood quivering in the ground just beyond his reach. The lantern had also landed some distance from him and the light had gone out on impact.

The roots around his ankles now acted as fetters as another root slithered towards his neck. Eirik tried to grab hold of it but was stopped by two more roots that burst forth from the earth and snared him by his wrists. Just as the root was about to strike at Eirik's neck, however, it stopped and crept back. His amulet was protecting him from such an attack.

Seeing that she could not strangle Eirik with the roots the witch instead caused them to pull at him from different directions in the hope that he would be torn asunder. Eirik cried out in pain as the roots tightened their grip on his limbs and began to stretch his aching body. With this new agony however came a seething anger and Eirik began to fight back determinedly. Focussing his attention on the root that held his sword arm he grasped it with his hand then pulled at it with all his strength. With one mighty wrench he tore it from the ground and although his other wrist remained bound, with his free hands he was able to tie a crude loop into the severed root. With this improvised rope he knew he had but one chance to snare his sword or be torn apart. Luck was on his side as with one fateful throw of the root he had entangled the glaive and with another mighty wrench it came flying through the air and into his hands.

With great ferocity he hacked at the gnarled roots that bound him and soon he was freed from their vice-like grip. The witch drew back into the shadows to be out of his sight and there she crouched like a cat waiting to pounce. The cuts that covered Eirik's body had doubled in size as a result of his ordeal and he winced in pain as he lurched forth. Nevertheless with the three trials seemingly completed and dawn on the approach the need to press on had never been greater. Eirik fumbled through the darkness, straining to accustom his eyes to the pitch black. In the near distance a shaft of moonlight illuminated the forest floor and he quickened his pace upon perceiving this. Just as he was about to enter the light, however, a triangular rune appeared in the gloom and with horror he felt the ground beneath his feet give way.

A vacuum pulled him downwards and would have consumed him if it weren't for his quick reflexes that caused him to grab the edge of the pit on his descent. The witch loomed over him and took great mirth in his predicament. Cackling like a goose she proceeded to carve more runes into the darkness which caused several rasping snakes to appear on the pit floor. Eirik struggled to find a foothold in the pit wall and eventually his foot came to rest in a crevice. This eased the pressure off his aching arms that now seemed too weak to pull himself out from the pit. This was clear to the witch, who now danced gleefully in the fading moonlight expecting him to fall to his certain death at any moment.

Eirik watched this sick display with contempt but also with interest. For in one contorted movement the witch's hair had swept back to reveal long and pointed ears ' a characteristic of the elves. Her strange eyes and childlike agility had originally led him to doubt that she was an old woman. Now her slender ears led him to question whether she was even a mortal. In one final attempt that sent pain surging through his body Eirik clambered out of the pit and darted towards the witch. Then in one swift motion, with an act of pure faith he spun her round, closed his eyes and kissed her shrivelled lips.

When he reopened his eyes he was momentarily blinded by the first light of dawn and by the radiance of the beautiful elf maiden that now stood before him. She was fair of skin and hair, finely attired in a veridian gossamer gown that accentuated her willowy figure. The same cloudy blue eyes that met Eirik's in the hut now gazed upon him once more. A tear ran down her cheek and in a silvery voice she spoke. "I thank you Eirik of Brond. I thank you for rising to the formidable challenge set by my father, for flourishing where others have faltered and for freeing me from the wicked enchantment that caused me to harm you. My name is Stiarna and with my elfin heart I will love you more than any mortal woman ever could. If my love be true then I bid you to take me into your world, where I have always felt happiest, and live out your days with me.
"Your sweet words soothe my pain and gladden me greatly, replied Eirik. "I have loved you from the moment I set eyes on you and to find that this love is requited is something I have long dreamt of. Raising his fingers to his mouth he whistled on his horse and moments later the majestic steed came galloping down the path towards them. "Ride with me now, to the burg of Brond, to the hall of my father, exclaimed Eirik.

To the burg they did ride and warm was the welcome they received. Eirik greeted his people and asked how his father was faring. The answer grieved him and with Stiarna by his side he rushed to the hall where his father lay on the brink of death. Around the chieftain's bed they gathered; Eirik woke his father from slumber while Stiarna uttered an elfin prayer and his adoring kinsfolk looked on in worry. Adalbrand stirred and his parched lips broke into a broad smile as he saw his son and the elf maiden standing over his bed. He clutched Eirik's amulet, pulled him closer and muttered into his ear.

"My son, your act of courage has filled me with pride, returned hope to our people and proved that you are more than worthy to inherit this land. Your heroism will be exulted by the skalds for years to come. Eirik felt his father's grip tightening around his amulet as he took his last breath and died there, in his mighty hall.

Gradually the prosperity that the people of Brond once had returned. They enjoyed bountiful harvests, rivers teeming with fish and increased trade. Rumours soon spread of Eirik and Stiarna's intention to wed and to their surprise the elf earl dispatched his trusty messenger to inform the couple that they had his blessing. Following their marriage Eirik did indeed become a great king and in Stiarna his people had an illustrious queen. Here ends their story.

Glossary

Alfheim: literally 'elf home' and one of the nine worlds of Norse mythology.
baldric: leather sword strap, usually worn diagonally across the body.
bower: a woman's private chamber in a medieval castle; a boudoir.
burg: a fortified or walled town in early or medieval Europe.
byrnie: a long, usually sleeveless tunic made of chain mail.
eldritch: strange or unearthly; eerie.
ere: before.
fetter: a chain or shackle for the ankles or feet.
fey: strange or unearthly; eerie.
flaxen: (of hair) pale yellow.
Freyr: Norse god of sun and rain, king of the elves and patron of bountiful harvests.
glaive: a sword, especially a broadsword.
glamour: magic used by those including fairies, trolls and elves to disguise their true form.
hauberk: a long tunic made of chain mail.
helm: a helmet.
kindred: related, allied, similar.
loth: unwilling or reluctant; disinclined.
mage: a magician or sorcerer.
many-hued: multi-coloured.
Midgard: literally 'middle world', land of men and one of the nine worlds of Norse mythology.
Odin: Chief god of the Norse pantheon.
pommel: knob of sword hilt.
rune: 1. letter of earliest Germanic alphabet.
2. similar character of mysterious or magic significance.
skald: a Viking poet.
supernova: star that suddenly increases very greatly in brightness.
swarthy: dark-complexioned; dark in colour.
sylvan: 1. of the woods.
2. having woods
3. rural
viridian: a bluish-green pigment.
Wild Hunt: spectral cavalcade of European mythology. Odin leads the hunt in the Norse variant.
willowy: resembling a willow tree, especially:
1. Flexible; pliant.
2. Tall, slender and graceful.