Early in the month of Aerra Geola came great wonder to the settlement of Gefnhame. For out of the winter murk and mists (the snows being uncommonly late this year) came striding figures of legend: the giant, Humfrith, with him his son, also Humfrith, his two great cattle-dogs and a huge bull-aurochs, led quite as a lamb between them. True to their word, the Eotan had brought their monath-scot to Thegn Osgar’s hall.
Standing a respectful distance from the steading, Humfrith called out his guest greeting in a great booming voice. Thegn Osgar-Lytelman sent forth his gesiths to usher them within the compound where there were gathered all the folk of Gefnhame – some to greet their guests, some in anticipation of labour, others simply to gawp. Courtesies observed, Humfrith cleared a slaughter area, had a rush platform put down, and bade the folk of Gefnhame bring forth cauldrons, buckets, pitchers and whatever else might hold the beast’s blood for making puddings and thickening gruel. First whispering tenderly in the ear of the mighty beast, in one deft move the giant drew his knife across its throat. Hot blood gushed forth and was caught by the villagers in their crocks. Humfrith held the bull until it was quite dead and the blood welled no more. He and his son then began most carefully and skilfully to flense the hide from the beast and the flesh from the bone until there was a pile of raw beef and offal steaming upon the rush mat and the bones stacked upon the hide. The Humfriths then neatly bundled up all the bones inside the skin, tying the top with thongs that it might be easily carried.
Thegn Osgar then invited the giants into his hall for food and ale which was graciously accepted. No bench was suitable for them – especially the son who o’er-topped his father by a good yard – but they settled happily upon the dais on which the thegn’s seat was raised. Their dogs sat quietly in the yard guarding the skin sack of bones – needlessly, since none wished to approach the grisly and no doubt eldritch bundle. Theofs and ceorls prepared the meats according to the directions of the reeve and his wife – some cooked for immediate consumption, others prepared for the store. All worked willingly and happily, foreseeing full bellies in the days to come and a winter free of want.
Meanwhile Humfrith, the Thegn and his chosen band sat in hall drinking and taking counsel. Humfrith spoke haltingly at first, as if unused to speaking to so many folk at once. His son said never a word. It seemed that in the retreat from the Pukel horde much of their domestic equipment had been abandoned. In particular the giants were keen to trade or have use of large receptacles that they might milk their cows and make cheese and butter. It was Nothgyth that recalled the many such that were lying unused in the Nicor den on the far side of the mere.
So it was that the Thegn gathered his companions for an expedition across the marsh. With them came Humfrith, for it was thought that they would need his strength if they were to return with the huge cauldron that hung there as well as the smaller pans and kettles. For their guide, Osgar pressed into service once more Herefrith of the Malanmere as his guide, who immediately repaid the thegn’s faith in his marsh-cunning by pointing out that Aerra Geola is an ill time to cross a Geatish marsh.
In truth this might not have been so much the case had the winter been a little harder, for when the true frosts come the mere can freeze solid. As it was there was ice aplenty but mostly too weak to bear the weight of a man, let alone a giant, this meant feet constantly numbed by freezing water and sometimes a plunge into an icy sinkhole for the hapless or unwary – of whom, it seemed there were many amongst them. There was little shelter to be found from the savage winds sweeping in from the icy north-east – and when they were not blowing, the landscape was blanketed in impenetrable icy fogs and ghostly mists peopled by sinister bobbing lights and ghostly wailing. Lack of trees meant that all must be burdened by bundles of firewood and the nights were long and dark and the days short for marching.
Ill-luck dogged the party from the start – at least that is how Herefrith saw it – others muttered darkly about the competence of their guide, though in truth he had never made great claims for himself and was unfamiliar with the Gefnmere. The almost constant look of surprised befuddlement upon his face did little to engender confidence. At one point they were forced to return to the steading when the water-wyrded Tohrwulf plunged full-length into a sink-hole and they were forced to use up time and too much firewood to dry and warm away from death, before returning once more to their task.
At night they huddled together against the cold and spent the long hours of dark flyting – telling each other tales of their own exploits or those of their ancestors or even childish tales told them by their mothers on such hard winter’s nights as this (into which they were always warned not to venture). There was a collective groan as Wistan told once more his tale of Eotan, Hyrnetan and the Bee-Queen – though perhaps there was a glint of real interest from Humfrith who had not before heard it – even once. At length, after much prompting, Humfrith was prevailed upon to tell his own harrowing tale of how he came to be in Gefndene. Thus it was they first came to hear of the giant hight Gromscatha – Terrible Rage – and his ill deeds.
At length they found the Nicor den, collected the great cauldron and many other pots and pans and returned to Gefnhame, still retaining a full accounting of fingers and toes. They were much aided in this by Nothgyth, who it seems has the power to transform herself into a heron – though there appear to be limits to this power and Osgar was required to ensure spare clothing for her when she transformed back into her natural form. Once more she found herself chivvying (not nagging – oh, no) Osgar over the importance of arriving by an important day. For it was near Modraniht (Mother’s Night) and aside from the opening celebrations for Geola there was an important announcement to be made. In the event the party returned, cold and bedraggled but bearing their prize of the mighty cauldron in goodly – if not generous – time for Modraniht.
Now Modraniht is not a riotous affair like Blot – there is, after all much feasting to come over Geola – but it is to give quiet thanks to the Mother for the year past and pray to her for peace and plenty in the coming year. Nothgyth took the lead in the celebrations as the Mother; Alwyn, the Maid; and Mildreth, the Crone. Sharp-eyed onlookers might have spotted a slight frown on Nothgyth’s brow as she read the rune-carved bones scattered upon the floor, but she spoke forthrightly enough when she foretold another prosperous year for the valley. Then Thegn-Osgar stepped forward, took her hand and proclaimed their betrothal and their intention to be married in Eostramonath. All around cheered and shouted their good wishes. To the Gefnhamers it was mete that the Mother should be united with the Thegn, and though there might be some qualms around the witch’s beautiful young apprentice as the Maid, and Mad Mildreth as Crone, all agreed that Nothgyth had the ear of the Goddess and had stepped into her role as protectress of the vale with aplomb. For the newcomers, they were simply pleased to see two old comrades achieve a happy outcome together.
Against this joyous backdrop, Geola began with great happiness. All agreed that Geolas under the witch had been sad affairs compared to this and indeed there were few indeed who could remember any occasion to match it – even Mad Mildreth averred that it rivalled those of her childhood when the valley was rich and populous. The hall was bedecked with holly branches that held an unusually rich crop of berries. There was plenty of beef to eat – so much so that there was many the pig from Aelfstane’s herd that lived on happily to snuffle the forest floor another year. The Humfrith’s guested with them and brought in a Yule log so large that folk thought it likely that it would burn well past 12th Night into the Aefter Geolla. Ale and wine flowed free – the more so since Humfrith possessed a wondrous horn that could double the volume of any drink poured into within. All was joyous until the 6th day of Geolla.
Not everyone felt the tremor nor heard the shout, brought on the wind from the West – though Wistan did, and some of those with younger, sharper senses. For many it was only when Humfrith froze, the mead horn halfway to his lips, colour draining from his face, that they knew ought was amiss. Young Humfrith gave a low moan and cast his mantle over his face. “Gromscatha. He has found us”, said Humfrith. “My lord”, he said to Thegn Osgar, “I am truly sorry to have brought our troubles upon you and yours.” However, Osgar-Lytelman simply drew down his giant-wrought axe from the its resting place behind his high seat and called for his companions. There stood forth Wistan Wulfinga, Svipdap and Saefrith his sworn gesiths, Sweyn the Sweon, tattoed Tallorc, Herewulf with his bow, Tohrwulf the West-Geat and the Herefrith the marsh-wise.
Lytelman called for horses – the weather, though inclement still had not brought heavy snow-fall to the vale. While they were being prepared the Thegn took council with Humfrith and Nothgyth. Nothgyth was sure that the wardings on the valley would be of a concern to Gromscatha, they might not prevent him entering the valley but should certainly hurt him if he did. She warned against leaving the protection of her wards. Humfrith expressed once more his regret that he had brought this trouble in his wake and also that he could not come with the Thegn for Gromscatha knew his true-name and was a creature of power. Were he, for instance, to have him turn upon his new friends, he feared he could not resist. He pressed upon Lytelman the great drinking-horn that had once been Gromscatha’s saying, “Terrible-Rage is his name and his nature. It is also his weakness. Perhaps he can be goaded into fighting on your terms. The sight of his precious horn in a your hands will enrage him – to his disadvantage or yours I cannot say for sure, but take it with you and use it if you see fit.”
So Thegn Osgar-Lytelman set forth with his eight companions into a Geola day that was already dying. It was a hard ride – especially for those such as Herefrith who were not great riders. Winter had still not set in with its accustomed ferocity but an icy wind blew from the west and with it, amidst flurries of snow and sleet, could be heard snatches of angry curses and threats, that all, now could detect. Periodically the earth would tremor. As the light faded to nothing Lytelman lit his eldritch Saetur-blessed torch that would burn throughout the dark hours. They travelled at first along the river valley where the footing was soundest but at length Osgar turned the column southwards up the path that led to Tondberhtstead, to seek news and rest. There they found Tondberht’s son Beornfrith and the young Thunor-priest Leofdag.
Beornfrith’s hold was at the western-most point of the valley of Gefndene where it meet the forest and the wild-lands. There on the border of his lands, Beornfrith had seen the giant. It was terrible to behold, twice the height of a tall man and as broad as three or four, of brutal mien, carrying a huge club that seemed to be a branch torn from a vast oak and crudely fashioned to his hand. He was pacing the area just beyond the boundary of the Valley, marked by the posts Nothgyth had carved and given them at Blot. The great Ettin was ranting and raving, sometimes muttering, sometimes yelling in a voice that induced terror in beasts and all but the most stalwart of men. Sometimes he would stamp his feet – the tremors caused trees to fall and had done great damage to his steading. Most of Beornfrith’s livestock had run off in terror.
Beornfrith had spent some time watching the would-be intruder on his lands. For all the giant’s evident rage it was clearly reluctant to cross the threshold of the valley. It had made a few attempts to do so but seemed to shy away each time as if burnt or scalded. He had once seen him try to grip a boundary post as if to pull it from the ground but its hand came away blackened and smoking, and its attempts to sweep it away with his club were strangely ineffective. Much of his raging was incoherent or in an unknown tongue, but occasionally could be understood. “Thieving neatherds” seemed a recurrent theme – as well as vengeance upon those that sheltered them.
Beornfrith had brought his people to his father’s hall for safety but he would return with the Thegn and stand with him to rid his lands of this scourge. Leofdag also indicated his willingness to join the party. So there were ten companions who set out with the Thegn in the predawn to confront the angry giant. Heeding Beornfrith’s counsel they determined to leave the horses at Tondbeorhtstead and proceed on foot. Thus they arrived at the forested edge of Beornfrith’s land in the late morning and there it was, just as he had described.
The giant was in one of his mumbling phases, leaning on his huge club and muttering. Around him was a wreckage of broken and fallen trees. Some looked to have actually been uprooted. The Thegn and his gesiths approach openly and take up their stance some twenty or thirty paces from the boundary marker. The giant looks up and bellows his challenge to those sheltering those he terms “thieves”. Lytelman responds by announcing that they are his guests and none shall gainsay Thegn Osgar in this be he never so large and ugly. Osgar then brandishes the great drinking horn and takes a sup from it. Gromscatha bellows his rage but still does not set foot within the Lady’s domain. It is Beornfrith who takes the initiative and with his great war-bow flights an arrow into the giant’s chest. So vast is Gromscatha that though this arrow goes in near to its fletchings it seems naught but a gadfly’s bite to him. Nevertheless, it redoubles his rage. He seems to simply conjure a huge rock into his hand and propels it at Beornfrith with great force but little accuracy. His second rock, though smashes into Herewulf who has joined Beornfrith in peppering the giant with arrows. A third rock also goes awry and bellowing his rage and frustration the giant charges the Geats, stepping across the threshold into Gefndene.
Immediately his raging is mixed with howls of pain as his flesh begins to blister and singe, yet on he comes, swinging his huge cudgel. Herewulf, staggering from the rock-blow and weaponless, iss first in his path and can do no more that throw himself aside as the Ettin tramples over him, rushing towards the hastily convening shield-burg that Lytelman has sought to gather around him. It is brushed aside in an instant by the Giant, Lytelman’s shield riven and dashed from his grip. However, he is now surrounded by a sea of foes and some keen blows are struck upon him. Valiant Leofdag casts a glamour upon himself and leapt upon the giant’s back, clinging there and seering Gromscatha with Thunor’s bale-fire and compounding his pain.
The Giant, clearly suffering from the combined agonies inflicted upon him, turns once more to escape the Valley and the burning ire of Gefion and Thunor. The Geats give chase and while his mighty legs keep him clear of his pursuit he cannot outrun the thrown francas of Svipdag nor the arrows of Beornfrith which he has never ceased from shooting – despite the risk to his own comrades. Howling his desperation and defiance the giant pitches forward, agonisingly close to the boundary marker. The vengeful Geats surrounded him and drive axe and spear into his undefended back until at length he lies still, his dead flesh turning before their eyes into stone.