Greater Than Gild

A Tale of the Wild Hunt

This month’s short story is a tale based on Anglo-Saxon mythology, specifically the well-known “Wild Hunt.” Many popular fantasy stories conflate it with faeries of Irish mythology, when in fact it is more closely related to the Germanic god Odin or Woden. Stories of the Hunt found their way into the British Isles thanks to the Angles and Saxons and remain staples in the folklore of English-speaking folk communities.

I felt this story would be perfect to tell as the dark days of winter creep in, the winds grow stronger at night, and the old year is slowly chased out by frigid spirits…

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Aethelmar departed the fireside to gaze upon the fringes of the forest. Wind rustled the branches. Leaves blanketed the ground, crunching under Saxon’s shoes. The trees were blue-black under the sky, which bore stars like treasures cast into a depthless sea. Between the trunk, dim shapes moved beyond the firelight.

“Come on back, boy,” called Grimhelm. “There’s naught but wolves. You’re safe beside your kin.”

“There’s something out there.” Aethelmar turned back towards the camp. “I heard it in the wind; I saw it in the trees. I won’t go far.”

Osgard Half-Ward gnawed a heel of brown bread. “Wraiths mayhap, all the better you keep by us.”

“I won’t go far.” Aethelmar folded his arms over his chest. “Even if there is some beast out there, I shan’t hesitate to bring it down; this sword has bled men before.”

The elder men stared back at him, faces half-shadowed.

“But can it bleed the dead?” asked Grimhelm. “You’ll only become lost, boy.”

“You call me ‘boy’ but I’m a few winters away from manhood,” Aethelmar repelled. “Can I not make simple scout-work in the weald? What if it’s a wolf and we idle by, getting drunk and lazy whilst it plots to pounce upon us? You’d thank me if I drove it off ere it crept in with the shadows.”

Grimhelm tossed a frayed strip of leather from his shoe into the fire. “Very well, but keep the firelight in the grasp of your eye.”

Paega the priest rose and came over to the youngling. He stood before Aethelmar and made the sign of the Cross.

“Drink.” Paega held a small wineskin. Aethelmar obliged with a single sip, letting the sour-sweet fluid linger in his mouth before swallowing.

Paega raised both hands. “May His light bring you back to ours. Amen.”

“Amen, Father,” Aethelmar echoed, head bowed.

He turned and entered the woods, left hand upon his sheathe-slept sword—his war-cross. The fire’s warmth fell away; wind breached his mail, tunic, and trousers. Soil, withering leaves, and bark produced autumn’s perfume in the cold, nighted air. Aethelmar blinked as his vision rippled. He crept over roots and through brush, one hand groping the tree trunks.

The stars’ cool light soothed Aethelmar’s eyes and revealed more of the weald in slivers. He wandered deeper, entranced by the forest, forgetting his original scout-work until he reached a clearing, where branches wove in a wild cathedral-like roof, stars peering in the gaps between. Nine large, moss-covered cairns stood within the ring of trees. Leaves heaped around their bases. A rope hung over a branch at the edge of the clearing to Aethelmar’s right. He shivered at the cairns, his breath turning to mist.

A new light wove its way into the sky. A great, green-blue sheet of dancing light rippled across the endless black field. The stars winked through the shimmering caul. Aethelmar beheld it with a slack jaw; he witnessed such lights before, but this one came with surprises as strands leapt from its central mass and flew between the stars; shadowed figures and beasts flickered in the waves; fragmented words and noises brushed Aethelmar’s ears.

He stepped further into the clearing as a glow pulsed about the trees, eliciting another shiver from him. Shafts of the great, weaving light descended through the branches, pooling upon the forest floor and trickling off the cairns’ stones.

A rustle within the woods brought his gaze upon a figure, greyed by the sky’s silver night-torches, standing before him. “Name yourself,” he demanded, moving his hand over his sword.

“I am Ealdgyd daughter of Hereward,” she calmly answered.

“You are a Geat?” Aethelmar asked, recognizing her tongue.

“I am.”

Aethelmar stayed his hand, moving closer. “Who are your people?”

Ealdgyd stepped forward. The strange, wondrous light revealed her beauty to Aethelmar. Fair-skinned and soft, a few strands of hair escaped her light braids. Her dress hung travel-worn and stained dark upon her. She beheld him with eyes like stars burning blue.

“I’m of the Weather-Geats,” she said.

“Are you alone? And are you…” Aethelmar reached out a hand towards her. “Among the living?”

“I am alone, and I am living. There is nothing you need fear from me.”

“What is your business out here? There are naught but tombs in these woods.”

Ealdgyd lowered her gaze. “Seeking refuge. My people were attacked three days ago and I wandered here. Of what tribe are you from?”

Aethelmar’s gaze wandered down towards the maiden’s slim, soft waist; his eyes trained on a sheathed bodkin her fingers fluttered towards. “Not of the plunderers who attacked your folk. That I can assure you,” he answered. “My sword and blood are sworn to my chieftain Wigmund, and above him to the Empire of William III of Normandy, and above that to Lord Jesus Christ.”

“Have you any food or drink? Most Christians do, I hear.”

Aethelmar furrowed his brow, but offered her charity nonetheless: “My camp and kin are not far. Let us away from here.”

Ealdgyd came beside Aethelmar as he turned to lead her. They froze when the light pulsed again; braided patterns and wisps danced from the sky. Their heads swam and eyes ached catching sight of it.

“Come!” Aethelmar seized Ealdgyd’s hand, pulling her to depart the clearing. They halted as shades emerged from the cairns, crawling between stone and ground. Their mannish forms, wrought from mist, grew clearer in the light. Two stood at each cairn, facing the Saxon and Geat.

“God’s blood!” swore Aethelmar. “The dead have risen!” He reached for his sword, glancing about the clearing as the mist continued to swirl.

Ealdgyd covered her mouth. “Elder fathers and mothers! The aelfs are come!”

She stepped towards a cairn, but Aethelmar seized her shoulder, drawing her back to his side.

He furrowed his brow. “Are you mad? The pagan dead would surely lay a curse on you.”

Ealdgyd shook her head. “There are no curses these folk would inflict. Your priests might decree as much, but I say it is not so.”

Aethelmar scowled. She could not be, he thought, motes of dread filled his heart as he drove his fingers closer to his sword.

The aelfs stepped forth, their wispy feet brushing the ground. The mist composing them thickened and paled, and they materialized into snow-white men and women in fine graith. Their ice-white eyes fell upon the interlopers.

Ealdgyd knelt and tugged at Aethelmar. “Kneel, Aethelmar! Kneel for the tribesmen of old!”

Aethelmar furrowed his brow. “Kneel? What is this? Were these folk not heathens in life? If I knew their names and deeds, I would honor our meeting, but I will not give fealty.”

“They were heathen,” answered Ealdgyd, “as I am heathen. And Wotan is our eldest father.”

“Wotan,” echoed the aelfs together. Their voices came like icy gusts of wind blowing through empty moors. “Wotan,” they said again, droning into a chant. The aelfs walked sunwise about Aethelmar and Ealdgyd, while the Geat still pulled at the Saxon’s hand. He remained stoic, however, inching one hand closer to his sword.

The dead circled and chanted Wotan nine times. Once they finished, one pair broke the circle at its northernmost point; the rest followed them to the rope. The leading man-aelf took the rope, handing the slack to the men behind him, and they pulled. Alongside their men, the she-aelfs continued to chant Wotan with each pull. The other end rose, weighed down by a corpse dangling upon the rope. Black-blue skin clung to its bones. A matted grey beard laced with leaves and twigs spilled from its chin. It stared with a single milky eye, its other socket was vacant.

Ealdgyd rose and trembled beside Aethelmar. “The All-father, Wotan, rises!” she breathed.

The aelfs brought the corpse’s head a foot from the branch, holding onto the rope with unwavering endurance. Croaks of ravens issued from the trees, and wings flapped through the air. Two such birds lighted upon the corpse’s shoulders. Its jaw dropped, issuing a hideous gasp.

“By the Father!” cried Aethelmar. His head swam in currents of chilled blood spewed by his heart churning in his chest.

A creaking voice drawled out the corpse’s mouth: “I am the elder Father, Aethelmar son of Sigeweard.”

Shudders racked the Saxon’s bones. “What is this deviltry?”

“No deviltry, good Aethelmar.” Ealdgyd rose and turned him towards her, gripping his shoulders. “It is Wotan. It must be a special night for him, no less.”

“My hunt is this night,” said the hanged-god, Wotan. “Will you join it as hunter or hunted?”

“Have we been trapped?” asked Aethelmar, unable to gaze at Wotan.

“You both came here because wyrd willed it,” answered Wotan. “What you choose next may craft your deaths.”

“You mean to kill us?” Aethelmar ground his teeth.

“I give you a chance to ride with the elders of this land upon a great and deadly hunt through the weald to seek a terrible beast. Or to die like swine under their spears.”

Ealdgyd clenched Aethelmar’s sleeves. “We must do this! It is an honorable chance to ride with the All-father; few have ever escaped his hunt.”

Aethelmar seized Ealdgyd’s wrists. “I will not kneel to devils.”

Wind stirred, carrying a distant baying of hounds.

“Time grows short,” said Wotan. “The Hunt will be upon this weald. What is your choice?”

Aethelmar beheld Wotan swinging from his branch, then the aelfs with their bone-pallor, and his eyes locked with Ealdgyd’s. She’s heathen, he told himself, and so are these creatures in our company.

“Aethelmar?” Ealdgyd’s voice cracked in her throat. Her hands trembled as she clutched his sleeves.

Aethelmar removed Ealdgyd’s hands from himself and faced Wotan and his pale company. He drew his sword and gripped the blade, pommel held skyward.

“I will join your hunt,” he decreed. “However, expect no fealty from my heart or soul.”

“I expect none from you,” said Wotan, “but some remembrance would be in order for you; ken to whom your fathers spilt blood to and died for when they were harried by wolves and all manner of monsters. Those were days when honor came chiefly from the blood of war or the hunt, the days when brave men ran towards death.”

“And I will come by his side,” said Ealdgyd, stepping forth.

“To join as hunter and cup-bearer you will need gifts from the cairns,” said Wotan.

A man-aelf and she-aelf departed the line. They approached the Saxon and Geat, beckoning them to follow. The four came to a cairn nestled in the clearing. The aelfs brushed away leaves and moss, removed the rocks and dug away earth, and revealed bones within. Graith, goods, and jewelry adorned and surrounded the entombed pair.

Aethelmar recoiled as he gazed upon the remains. “Desecration!” he breathed. “Do we not chance mighty punishment from this crime?”

“Settle,” bade Ealdgyd. “It is an inheritance permitted by these folk themselves; they will only be angered if you do not accept their gifts.”

The man removed an iron helm from a skull and bestowed it to Aethelmar. A mask with eye-slits covered the face. The woman lifted a silvern cup, runic etchings around its lip; a dark liquid with a red sheen filled it. She gave it to Ealdgyd. The two youngers accepted the elders’ gifts. The ghostly pair ducked into the cairn and vanished. In a blink, the stones, moss, and earth returned to their places undisturbed.

“Come forth,” bade Wotan.

Aethelmar and Ealdgyd obeyed and approached the clearing’s edge. The wind rustled the branches. Wotan’s corpse swayed; his ravens croaked and stretched their wings.

“Now…” drawled Wotan and the aelfs released the rope. He fell, the ravens dug their claws into his shoulders, and hoofbeats sounded behind him. A pale horse, with bones showing through its coat, galloped beneath Wotan as he mounted its back. Wotan yanked the rope, still around the branch, snapping the limb at the trunk. He caught it, and it became a spear with a terrible bronze tip.

“It is time,” said Wotan, his voice strengthening. “The hour comes when I will lead nine hunters upon nine steeds, accompanied by nine cupbearers and nine hounds, to find the great boar. Tonight the young join us. Should they live, many tongues will sing of this night.”

A wind woven with shrill whinnying blasted from the south. Trees and leaves rustled as nine horse-shaped forms of mist and shadow galloped from the weald and approached the aelfs and the living. There stood one beside every hunter and cupbearer; a phantom steed approached Aethelmar and Ealdgyd, beholding its riders with moon-like eyes before baring its side.

Aethelmar reached out to the creature, but suddenly withdrew as his fingers graced its spectral hide.

“Flesh!” he breathed. “It’s as though it were indeed flesh, but oh is it cold.”

Aethelmar mounted the horse. Needles of cold piercing the flesh of his legs as they touched the steed’s flanks. They wove in icy threads towards his bones. He brought Ealdgyd behind him. She wrapped one arm around his waist, and held fast the cup in the other. Aethelmar donned his new helm.

Wotan raised his spear and opened his mouth, issuing a cry like a hunting horn. From the weald came more noises—bays of hounds and earth torn by many claws. The horses stamped and snorted as a pack of nine hounds entered the clearing. All light vanished at their black hides, making them appear as dog-shaped holes in the world containing naught but red, glowing eyes and pale teeth. They gathered beside the horses, barking madly.

Wotan opened his mouth once more, releasing his horn-bellow, and his horse reared, turning towards the weald. The other horses shrieked in response. Aethelmar’s heart drummed in his chest, and his blood warmed his limbs. He bore his sword as the aelf-men drew their own. Wotan pointed his spear toward the darkness between the trees, his horse breaking into a gallop. The band of hunters followed in an arrow formation.

“He who slays the boar will receive a reward greater than gild!” cried Wotan, no more in a drawling cadence; his clear, booming voice stirred Aethelmar’s stoic soul. Greater than gild, the words echoed in Aethelmar’s skull; his eyes and ears seeking signs of such a beast; his mind conjuring fragments of a tale to be told if he slew the quarry.

The horses never slowed, weaving between trees and leaping over roots and stones like a river with knowledge of its own path. Silver shafts of star-beams spiraled in blue-green filaments pierced the canopy, bringing lighted pools upon the earth. Ealdgyd tightened herself against Aethelmar, her heartbeat matching his. The hunt warmed the Saxon more than the fire; his sword-grip warmed him; the Geat’s embrace warmed him; the company of his most ancient fathers with their king heading their charge warmed him.

A grunt pricked his ears amid the chase. On his right a massive dark form charged through the trees—a bear-sized pig, with massive tusks and eyes like small, bright coals.

“The game is mine!” cried Aethelmar. He turned his steed towards the boar. The hounds yipped with the monster’s scent in their noses. Behind Aethelmar, the aelfs followed, driving their horses hard.

“Can you claim it yourself?” asked Wotan, riding alongside Aethelmar. “These hunters have run this course for ages. Lo! they gain on you now!”

Indeed, two horses snorted off to Aethelmar’s right. He leaned forward and drove his heels into the horse’s sides.

Wotan’s voice rose above the hunters’ cries, their hounds’ bays, and their horses’ grunts: “Will you inherit their fury drawn out of the weald? Or will you resign yourself to behold them repeat this ride again and again?”

Aethelmar ground his teeth and slapped his horse on either shoulder. His horse screamed and his hound howled, hastening. The great boar’s haunches rippled in the moonlight, and earth torn by its hooves sprayed Aethelmar. The horse veered left, coming beside the beast. Aethelmar cut into its massive flank, into hide, flesh, and bone. The boar gave an ear-raking squeal and swung its tusks at its hunter. Aethelmar jerked away, but one tusk struck his thigh. The horse staggered, throwing Aethelmar and Ealdgyd off. The hound whimpered, scampering away. Aethelmar crashed onto an oak’s roots. Ealdgyd landed beside him, her cup tilting over to let flow its contents. She brought it upright before a final sip escaped.

Flipping onto his back, Aethelmar’s head swam and his thigh burned; his ribs ached with each breath. His helm remained in place over his eyes; his gaze locked with the boar’s baleful glare as it spun around, grinding the earth underfoot. Its face remained in shadow, but its yellow eyes pierced the black. Mist trailed from its nostrils as it pawed the ground. Aethelmar gripped his sword and moved to stand, but his injured leg shook and screamed with pain. Blood soaked his trousers, the wound opened in a gash of flesh and fabric.

The boar grunted and charged. Aethelmar raised his sword, hand shaking; he sought a spot in the neck behind the beast’s skull, but could not steel his grip.

“Ealdgyd, move!” Aethelmar rolled to his left. Ealdgyd leapt away and the beast collided with the tree. Bark shattered and wood cracked; the tree bent as the boar recoiled. With raking squeals, the boar slunk away from its hunters, shaking its massive head. It retreated into the darkness, but its grunts remained near.

On his back, Aethelmar once again moved his legs beneath him, but pain overwhelmed his efforts. He cried out and smote the ground with his free fist. A gentle hand removed his helm and held his head; Ealdgyd stared into his eyes.

“Drink,” she bade, raising the cup to his lips. The liquid smelled like mead. It tasted far greater and sweeter than any mead Aethelmar drank before, but another taste wove through the pleasant notes: a bitter sting like blood ran down his throat. He grunted as his wound flared, the burning giving way to itching, and at last to warm throbbing. His flesh surged back together, but scars marked the wound. Ealdgyd replaced Aethelmar’s helm upon his head, departing as he stood.

The boar circled the trees, squealing and snorting as it shook its head. Wotan and the aelfs halted in the southern section, and watched from their steeds. The hounds glowered at their feet.

“Will this be your final stroke forever?” inquired Wotan. “Or the last one upon this beast?”

Aethelmar held his sword and shouted at the boar. It snorted and flicked its eyes at him. He shouted again, drawing closer. The boar came between two trees and faced Aethelmar. It charged, unleashing a squeal from deep in its gut. Aethelmar retreated a few steps, its tusks following him. He flew from the boar’s course and landed on its heart-side as it passed. He guided his sword point behind the shoulder, sinking it through hide, scraping past ribs, and squelching into the heart. The boar belched a grunt as its forelimbs faltered, collapsing dead onto the ground and tearing the sword out of its slayer’s hand.

Ealdgyd emerged from the trees, eyes wide as she stepped around the beast to Aethelmar. He retrieved his blade and wiped it on a handful of dead leaves.

Wotan approached the pair upon his horse. “You have slain the boar of the Hunt. As promised, you both will have a reward greater than gild. The treasures gifted to you from the tomb may remain in your hands ‘til you yourselves lie beneath stones and your descendants retrieve them. Remember this night well, Aethelmar, for in your life, have you ever been part of your God’s plans or miracles? It is the lay of this night’s Hunt that can bring you honor and glory.”

“Nay,” answered Aethelmar, “but is the world itself not one of His miracles? By His will, were you not given right to live as chieftain above men for a time?”

Wotan’s eye locked upon Aethelmar’s, and the young warrior found himself unable to look away, as though a chill grip held his chin. “But,” drawled the hanged god, “did He ride with you this night?”

Aethelmar locked his teeth. His fingers tightened around his sword’s hilt.

“Ere I and the aelf-host depart, let me ask this of you—at the end of your life, would you rather sleep forever in Heaven, all your deeds and glories washed among the light of God? Or would you rather dwell in the Hall of the Slain, wherefrom those who still seek it may use your songs as guiding torches across the dim Earth? Of course, you have not glory to be sung of yet. Those with the loudest songs are most welcome in my hall.”

“Answer him,” Ealdgyd whispered.

Aethelmar’s tongue lay still, but his mind stirred. Has my faith brought me any glory thus far?

“Think upon that, Aethelmar.” Wotan and the aelfs, sat upon their steeds and accompanied by their hounds, retreated into the woods. The tapestry of blue-green sky-lights vanished. The moon-spears thinned in night’s sheath. Darkness shrouded Aethelmar and Ealdgyd. They stood alone once more among the cairns.

“Let us away.” Aethelmar seized Ealdgyd’s wrist and pulled her into the forest. “I can see the firelight from here.”

Deep past the trees, from where Aethelmar first entered the clearing, slivers of orange light danced in the black. He advanced, but staggered as Ealdgyd forced him to a halt.

“Which will you go towards?” she asked.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Your God’s Heaven or Wotan’s Hall?”

Aethelmar gave a mirthless laugh. “Why…” He paused as the answer sequestered itself in his throat.

“Would you rather be a thrall that toils under the promise of shared glory?” Ealdgyd tore herself away from Aethelmar. “Will you not seize glory and wealth with your own might and enter Wotan’s honored hall as a hero?”

“Christ did promise things greater than earthly wealth,” Aethelmar retorted.

“Are His promises the spoils you want? If you cannot answer me, I will find some other means to live, and it will not be under your Empire’s soul-yoke.”

Aethelmar felt the helm upon his head. Though old and hidden beneath stone and moss for years unknown to him, it sat sturdily upon his head. Its structure remained strong, unweathered and unbending. A relic from the pagan age, but keeping its purpose of protection.

The leaves Ealdgyd stood upon rustled; she departed wordless from Aethelmar, moving away from him and the way to the fire. The Saxon gave one glance over his shoulder, eying the distant flames. He removed the helm and placed it under his arm, bringing it close to the heart-side of his chest.

Aethelmar drank in the smell of the weald—its mossy trees, their crippling leaves, the still soil beneath them—and he followed Ealdgyd into its ancient darkness.

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“Greater Than Gild” © Ethan Sabatella 2023 – Current Year, All Rights Reserved. Reprinting or replication of this work in its entirety in any form (written, audiovisual, etc.) without express permission of the author is prohibited. Excerpts may be used for review or promotional purposes with credit and acknowledgement of the author. This piece cannot be used for training of Artificial Intelligence programs.