An Introduction to the Saga of Skath

  A Discretionary Jaunt through the Nine Realms of The Great Ash Yggdrasil

  – Or ‘Who’s who’ and ‘Where’s where’

  Of all the manuscripts chronicling the fate of the magicfolk once ruling the North, the Saga of Skath is the most comprehensive by far. Unlike other accounts, it is neither a collection of short tales nor epic poems, and it was most certainly not scratched onto any sort of animal skin centuries ago.

  Instead, this more detailed account of the magicfolk’s fate is a modern creation, shaped by generations upon generations of both oral and written tradition. These accounts have changed over time—sometimes deliberately, sometimes by sheer accident—resulting in countless variations of the same tales. Yet none has gone as far as the Saga of Skath, which at last tells the full story—and not merely the glorified exploits of a select few ruling deities.

  As poetic as the fate of various kinds of magicfolk may be—glorified or not—cramming their diverse perspectives and tangled family histories into a single poem would have made for rather tedious reading. A far more suitable format for such a monstrosity is the saga—a form traditionally used to recount the stories of the deities' subjects rather than themselves.

  Even so, the saga is not without its own challenges. Like the tales of the deities’ worshippers, The Saga of Skath introduces a parade of extraordinary characters with tongue-twisting names—each descended from even more remarkable figures with names somehow even harder to pronounce. And many of them aren’t even human. The story spans a long period of time and unfolds across numerous locations, each with equally unpronounceable names, leaving the reader occasionally yearning for an encyclopedia to keep track of it all.

  In the past, when faced with the challenge of weaving such long and complex tales, it was not uncommon to call upon the gods for assistance. However, none of the remaining gods have, unfortunately, proven available—presumably preoccupied with more pressing matters than recounting the lives and deaths of their long-departed divine colleagues.

  The Saga of Skath is, therefore, told in a manner more accessible to the modern reader. Its style mirrors that of a contemporary story or even a TV series, while long-winded side details—likely to excite only mythology scholars and genealogists—have been conveniently omitted.

  As some laymen have pointed out, however, a basic understanding of the old North might prove useful when navigating this rather monumental tome. Therefore, a brief jaunt through its primary geography and history seems like a reasonable place to begin.*

  While there are many approaches to presenting this information, a concise and traditional origin story feels the most fitting. That said, as is often the case with origin stories, some concepts may prove challenging for the modern reader to visualise or fully grasp. To address this, certain ideas have been simplified,—and there is no mention of the Cow.

  The story goes something like this:

  In the beginning, there was only void. Deep in its outermost reaches lay a chill so profound that, over time, it solidified into a frosty substance. This substance expanded, spreading outward into an ever-growing ice plain, yet it never quite filled the void. Instead, its relentless growth drove the void further and further outward, until it had nowhere to retreat. At last, the trapped and compacted void ignited into flame, melting the closest ice into a vast, glistening pool of water.

  On one side of this pool, the flame expanded into a fiery volcanic island, while on the other, the ice fed on the water and grew into an impenetrable wall of frost. The blazing island came to be known as Muspelheim, while the frozen mass was named Nibelheim.

  As fire and ice clashed over the watery void between them, their struggle grew ever more intense, each force feeding off the other. Eventually, their battle culminated in a tremendous explosion of steam. When the searing mist finally began to settle, a single, delicate green leaf emerged from the mist-laden waters.

  Nourished by the waters, the leaf grew into an immense Ash, its growth so vast that its trunk and branches formed long, majestic mountain ranges, stretching into peninsulas. Its crown became rolling hills with deep valleys, while its leaves blossomed into dark forests and colourful jungles. Beneath all of this, its roots dug deep, creating a labyrinth of tunnels and hidden caves.

  The Ash became known as Yggdrasil.

  Deep within the heartwood of Yggdrasil, there lived a v?lva, the first of her kind, named Valgerda. Long before any creature decided that taking more land than necessary for one’s survival or ordering around a bunch of strangers was a reasonable ambition, Valgerda foresaw that the Old North would one day be divided into Nine Realms. This division, she predicted, would lead to centuries of war and chaos. Her prophecy also foretold that the rulers of these realms would fall in a single, cataclysmic conflict—the Battle of Ragnar?k.

  However, prophecies are rarely the most dependable of guides, and Valgerda's was no exception. Its ambiguity left so much room for interpretation that one might argue it held little value at all. While most agreed that the prophecy was indeed true, there was much disagreement among later scholars and the inhabitants of the Ash itself as to what the Nine Realms actually were.

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  There was a general consensus about the first three Realms to come into existence: Muspelheim, to the South of Yggdrasil; Nibelheim, to the North; and Vanaheim, the warmer part of the waters surrounding the Ash to its South. However, when it came to the remaining six realms belonging to Yggdrasil, the details became a bit murky, and debate raged as to their identities and nature.

  The topography of the Ash was roughly divided into three distinct parts: its crown, its trunk, and its roots. The crown, primarily composed of forests, lakes, and fertile agricultural land, was split between three realms: Elfheim, Asgard, and Midgard.

  The trunk was split into two halves: the West (or ‘upper’) and the East (‘lower’). The West was characterised by rugged hills and snow-capped mountains, named Jotunheim. In contrast, the East was defined by sulphuric hills and swampy terrain, and was called Myrkheim. As for the roots, they were not divided at all. Instead, they sprawled in a vast, intricate network of tunnels and caves beneath the entire Ash. This labyrinthine system was known as Underheim.

  The Underheim, however, was deemed uninhabitable even by the darkest creatures of Jotunheim and Myrkheim. Most beings did not dare enter its depths, and even fewer had any desire to claim dominion over it. Only the trapped bodies of the dead, whose souls had either strayed or been stolen, roamed the realm, along with death hungry scavengers and life-weaving necromancers.

  As such, many scholars and inhabitants of the Ash debated that Underheim could not possibly be the ninth Realm foretold in the prophecy. Instead, they assigned this role to a formidable mountain range that stretched along the entire border between Nibelheim and Jotunheim. This domain would become one of the greatest kingdoms on Yggdrasil: Thrymheim.

  Now, the tale of how Thrymheim rose to become a Kingdom, or how the Nine Realms—whichever they were—became inhabited in the first place, will not be explored here. To do so would almost inevitably lead to a mention of the Cow. What is far more important, however, is what occurred once the realms were populated and by what.

  For although the creatures of the Realms may have shared a common origin at first, time, as it often does, drove them apart. As the realms' inhabitants evolved separately, they became as varied in appearance and temperament as the landscapes and climates that surrounded them.

  As their differences deepened—both in looks and in spirit—so did the conflicts between them. It did not take long before they began fighting over everything, tangible and intangible—from food and land to enslavement and magical power. Some territories were ruled by armies of mortal rulers, who adopted intimidating or grandiose titles; others were governed by powerful magicfolk, who required no title at all to command fear or loyalty. There were also those controlled by lesser magical creatures—impulsive, temperamental, and inefficient—mostly some variation or another of giants. Regardless of their nature, however, the rulers all shared the same delightful quality: a complete lack of scruples when it came to sending their subjects and slaves to war.

  After centuries of unrest and chaos, two rival Houses of magical beings—the Vanirs and the Asgardians—managed to impose order on the Nine Realms. (Well, a semblance of it, anyway, since complete harmony was never an option among the more monstrous species.) This golden age of peace (or hardly any cannibalism) brought with it lush farmlands, teeming seas, and the construction of grand palaces and fortresses never before seen. Arts and literature flourished,—even among the bloodthirsty, who discovered that poetry was almost as effective a means of expressing vulnerability as cleaving enemies from head to toe.

  The Vanirs and Asgardians excelled in many areas, but above all, they excelled in the development of their magic. Their abilities grew to such unprecedented heights that they were soon revered as Gods by the lesser creatures—a title far more powerful than any power-hungry mortal could ever dream of.

  The largest number of worshippers lived in Midgard, the most densely populated of all the realms. Its inhabitants, lacking the strength, stature, and magic possessed by the denizens of the other eight realms, instead devoted their energies to reproducing with a diligence unmatched by the more powerful species. The creatures of the other realms, however, with magic of their own, did not acknowledge the authority of the Gods. Many, nonetheless, chose to maintain good relations with them—though purely for their own benefit.

  Not everyone, however, was content with this newfound peace and order. In Muspelheim, an ancient fire monster, the sole inhabitant of the volcanic island, had been imprisoned behind a powerful magical barrier after refusing to accept the new order of the Northern Cosmos. Meanwhile, on the continent of Yggdrasil, former kings and troublemakers from Jotunheim, who likewise rejected the authority of the Vanir and Asgardians, were banished to the freezing depths of Nibelheim, where they found no land to cultivate and no fire to warm them.

  To counter the animosity spilling forth from both sides and prevent a return to the old ways, the two godly houses made a series of promises to their subjects and allies. The most important of these was the vow to always honour their oaths. Yet, this is where their similarities ended. The Vanirs, much like other lesser magical creatures, were rather uninspired in their offerings—and mostly pledged wealth and safe travels in return for labour and sacrificial offerings. The Asgardians, however, made a far more intriguing, even unsettling, promise. Their greed, while not quite as bottomless as that of the Vanir King, leaned more towards military might. So in exchange for their support in their subjects’ mortal battles—whether on the battlefield or in the marrital trenches—the Asgardians promised life after death.

  For a long time, the two Houses of Gods ruled in a delicate balance, shaped by contempt and fear, each respecting the other’s territory to maintain the peace.

  But one day, from the mists of Muspelheim, a mysterious witch emerged. Cloaked in various forms and under many names, she journeyed to every corner of the Old North, sowing seeds of doubt and suspicion about everything the Gods had taught. Her insidious whispers, laced with greed, jealousy, and hatred, spread as effortlessly as a plague among the malnourished and downtrodden, infecting all who heard them. Before long, even the two Houses themselves were infected, plunging into war slightly misrepresented as the conflict of the Oceanic House of the two: The War of the Vanirs.

  Battles erupted once again across every realm in and around the great Yggdrasil. From amateur fortune tellers to powerful v?lvas, many believed Ragnar?k was upon them. Yet, to almost everyone’s relief, the Vanirs and the Asgardians suddenly called off their feud. They came to the conclusion that their true enemy was not each other, but the witch. United in their purpose—and long before witch persecutions became the fashion—they scoured every corner of Yggdrasil, ruthlessly hunting down her followers until, at last, they found her. Like those who would come after her, she was easily convicted, then burned at the stake.

  It is here, and a little further in time, that our Saga begins—of the gods' meandering path to Ragnar?k, and a strange little girl called Skath.

  * In case any scholars have stumbled upon this introduction, it’s important to clarify that the information presented here may differ from other sources regarding the origins of the Old North and its magicfolk. The version recounted in the Saga of Skath borrows liberally from various accounts, selecting the best versions where they differ, adjusting others, or conveniently omitting some entirely—whether to avoid contradictions between sources, maintain a semblance of coherence and logic, or, frankly, for the sake of narrative appeal.