Nord

By Roxie Voorhees

NORD, a Yule horror novella, presents two distinct narratives set underneath The Wild Hunt. Both steeped in Norse mythology, you follow the ghostly procession as it travels from the northernmost point to the southern coast of Norway. In Geiranger, Astrid—on the cusp of womanhood, grapples with matters of the heart in her tiny village. Meanwhile, in Tunsberg, two brothers clash in a Balder and Loki retelling after the demise of the king.

Complete with glossary and translations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book Slayer Press
• Release date: Dec 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223835271

Book preview

"Hunter of the algid snows of Asgard

May I find a pure heart blot

Winter’s Night winds stay downward

Steady my bow hand and silence my string.

Give me an honest, clean shot and a

Quick end to the animals suffering

Hunter through the Worlds

Send me safe and whole back to home

and hearth

To feed those that will starve

Straight and true may my arrows fly"

Henrik kicked snow-crusted dirt into the small fire. Taking two fingers, he swirled them around in the hot ash. Blackened like the night’s sky, he ran the tips down the middle of his face. In two evenly spaced divisions, he duplicated the coal smear. Sulfur contaminated the ash’s woodsy smell. One final tribute—a gentle kiss to his fist—and he glared at the swollen moon’s invasion. It was time.

Downwind, a herd of reindeer nibbled on damp grass, unaware of the prayer floating on an autumn breeze, whispering its wishes to ears unseen. They moved around in a gentle clockwise motion, slow and gradual. A pregnant cow made her way to the center on shaky legs; the fetus stretching one hoof against her distended belly. Laying on her side, the herd moved faster, a dusting of snow plashing onto their dark hooves. After a few moments, a long, black head covered in the film of afterbirth commenced its slow ascent from the birth canal—a calf.

Henrik traveled toward the rising sun, sure-footed, careful to avoid sticks and brush. His longbow—six feet in length, carved from a perfect ash tree—beat against his hip with each step, tapping a steady rhythm, then he smelled them. An animal tang soaked into the chill—the wild—and covered any remnants of woodsmoke. Stopping, Henrik drew his bow.

Tiny blips of ice matted the young calf’s coat, but his attentive mother lapped them with a strong tongue. Cleaning up finished, she stood, alarming the newborn. She took several steps away and laid back down, encouraging him to follow—a reindeer’s first steps. The herd continued its movement at a steady pace, a trench of hoofprints deepening. Skeletal trees danced to a song played on the branches in a frosty symphony, a lullaby for the new bull as he fell a dozen times before his muscles withstood his weight.

The hunter found the clearing in the woods, creeping in the tree line to observe the herd’s odd behavior; he had never seen them act like this before. The reindeer of the outer rim began to lighten their pace, coming to a laborious walk. Bow still drawn, Henrik slid an arrow from a quiver on his opposite shoulder and nocked it. He exhaled a puff of fog so thick he couldn’t see his target for a few blinks. Forest devoid of fowl, stream frozen over, Henrik still as stone, the silence was painful.

A rabbit, white and fast, shot from behind a frost pelleted bush and into the forest. The sound echoed in the meadow, a crack like a whip, and all the reindeer stopped.

Fingers and toes went numb, the pressure of the string taught and rigid, but dulled. A mucusy tickle bothered the back of his throat and he bit his inner cheek to avoid coughing. The coppery tinge mingled with the salty sweat on his upper lip. Large, lacy flakes twirled in a crisp ozone scent to loiter on his face. And with a breath, Henrik released the string.

Like a strike of lightning, the herd ran; they ran fast, they ran north, they ran until they were invisible to the eye. Before him a shallow furrow encircled two reindeer. The first, a bull a few years old, dragging his back legs, the arrow having shot through his spine, but the second, she laid in a slush of crimson pooling behind her, frozen in shock. Henrik slung the bow back over his shoulder and made his way to his kill—this deer would last his family the rest of the year. When he reached the first reindeer, he pulled a knife from a worn leather boot and slit its throat, the pool of blood met that of the other, creating a carmine lake.

Wiping the blade on his opposite arm, he sloshed through the snow on his way to the cow, field dressing best done when the kill was still warm. His cheeks and nose chapped; he blew hot huffs of breath into hands burning with the cold. There, the metal tang dragged him to the memory of his first kill, the taught skin with tough hair—his knife was almost too dull, but he managed, and the warm splash of offal sprayed his face. Reaching down to lift a leg, Henrik jumped back as if something had bitten him. There in the protective cover of its mother was a newborn calf.

After twisting the intestines, Henrik tied the front and back legs together creating straps to carry the emptied reindeer on his back. Grunting and groaning, he managed to haul the huge carcass up his back when he remembered the calf, finding it shivering nearby, Sksksksk, go find your herd. He kicked snow at it, the meat’s weight nearly tipping him backward. The young bull stood in the middle of the grooves made by its herd, only a few steps from where he was born, and stared.

Carrying the carcass back, Henrik climbed over fallen dead trees surrounded by mounds of damp pine needles, the air thick with an earthy rotting wood smell. While lifting his leg over a trunk, he misjudged the length of his legs and skid to a stop, scratching his face against the tree’s bark. Leaning to an upright position, he saw dark boles stand like guards, shadows transposing into more sinister shapes. The chatter of small animals in the underbrush mocked him, a grown man scared of the dark.

The sky was kissed with the blue glow of approaching dawn, the moon laid to rest and stars turned off for the night. There was a final howl from the distant wolves—they would find and eat the baby calf. Henrik regretted that choice, but his heart wasn’t cold and unforgiving like the winter coming. A single clinquant tear fell from the corner of an eye, blurring his vision just long enough for a root to catch his foot and cause him to stumble forward, drop the carcass, and fall face first into its open abdomen.

The sharp intake of breath was choked by