Today on the blog, author Robert Winter provides a fascinating and informative guest post about the Icelandic sagas that inspired his epic fantasy Falconsaga.
The Icelandic Sagas
The title to Falconsaga was inspired by my interest in the sagas. The sagas about Iceland were mainly written down in Iceland, beginning in the thirteenth century. In prose form, they tell of the settlement of Iceland by Norwegians in the 870s, of various families and their feuds, of the conversion of the country to Christianity in the year 1000, and so on. Many of the oldest sagas were apparently oral histories passed down from generation to generation, until historians like Snorri Sturluson decided the stories needed to be preserved.
There are many Icelandic sagas. I admit I have only dipped my toe in these waters, but the one I find really interesting is called Egils Saga. Egill Skallagrímsson lived a long life in Borgarnes, not far north of Reykjavik. There you can find monuments and mementos to Egill, and even a museum that tells a highly abbreviated version of the saga.
As the story goes, Egill’s grandfather Kvelduf had definite werewolf-like tendencies. The picture to the right is how the museum depicts him. Kvelduf’s son was Skallagrím, and he settled a farm in what is now Borgarnes.
Skallagrím also apparently inherited some if his father’s lycanthropic tendencies, because he was known to get especially mean and ornery as night fell. In fact, when his son Egill was twelve, Skallagrím murdered Egill’s playmate when they were outside after dark. A short while late, Egill (who was twelve, remember) killed Skallagrím’s steward in revenge. That wasn’t even Egill’s first murder; when he was seven, he killed an older boy because he was losing a game. What a bad sport!
Egils Saga goes on to tell of Egill’s brooding tendencies, his poetry, his feud with the king of Norway and his queen, who was also a witch. The most interesting aspect of Egils Saga, to me, is that it is a mixture of well-documented historical personages (Skallagrím is buried in Borgarnes, the boundaries of Egill’s farm are known, and so forth), and legends of werewolves, witches, and runic magic. How can you not love a country that educates its children using the sagas, as Iceland does? And how could I resist dropping my characters into Borgarnes to visit Skallagrím’s marker?
I hope you will read Falconsaga and see what other legends from the Icelandic sagas I have dropped in.
In modern-day Iceland, a place of glaciers, volcanoes, and legends, the Norns have foretold a sorcerous invasion that could destroy everything.
Magnús, an elf of the huldufólk, is driven by the murder of his human lover a century ago to save those humans he can, and to figure out what is behind recent troll attacks on tourists. But the Norns have spoken. He must protect Altair, a young human from Boston, who is bringing a dangerous magical force to Iceland. If Magnús fails to keep Altair safe, the country will fall to a sorcerer called the Black Priest. Yet if Altair lives, Magnús will meet his doom.For his part, Altair is a graduate student bullied to visit Iceland by mentors who seem to have their own agenda. He knows nothing of elves, sorcerers or prophecies. Suddenly, the handsome, mysterious Magnús is guiding Altair around Reykjavik and into danger. A witch, a berserker, and more elves are along for the quest across Iceland’s forbidding landscape. And why does everyone keeps calling Altair “the Falcon”?
An elf and a human with a shared destiny. Will they solve the mystery linking their fates before it is too late for all Iceland?
Excerpt
“Ah, the traitor pays a visit,” a voice sneered from behind Magnús, drawing him to an abrupt stop.
“Killed any more of our native creatures? Are you here to find victims to persecute in your humans-first campaign?”
Magnús’s jaw tightened as he turned to face the speaker. “Lars Berkisson. You must be desperate if you’re grubbing for supporters here.”
Lars gave Magnús a tight smile, his steel-gray eyes narrowing. “I came to offer comfort to Vörður, and to tend to his affairs while he rots in the cell where you put him. Tell me, Magnús. How many more of your own people will you try to destroy in your self-hatred?”
“Vörður put himself in that cell when he stole a human baby and tried to pass himself off as the infant. He ignored the edict laid down by Queen Hildur, risked violating the First Covenant, and in any event, the act was despicable. Changelings have been forbidden for decades.”
Lars laughed. “Of course, you and Bryndís are too modern to gather servants in the old ways. But we who honor the ancient customs have long known that if we must tolerate non-magical humans on our shores, then they are best taken as babes. Those raised from infancy make for superior attendants and retainers. The queen has been led astray by your misplaced devotion to mortals, but I have confidence she’ll return to tradition.”
Magnús clenched his jaw, determined to keep his temper. “A tradition of bigotry and false piety, pretending the gods want us to use humans as pets or chattel.”
“Well, isn’t that what Sigurjón was to you? A pet?”
The twist to Lars’s upper lip enraged Magnús. Although Lars had been back from his exile for nearly a fifth of a century, Magnús’s every encounter with him brought them close to battle. With a tremendous effort of will, Magnús refrained from pulling the dagger tucked in his belt.
“Sigurjón was as much a child of the gods as you once were, Lars,” he said through gritted teeth. “The path you follow leads to Hel’s sunless lands, though you lie to your followers and promise them Valhöll.”
Lars shook his head in a way that infuriated Magnús. “Álfheimur is the true home of our people. Those who hear my words long only for a return to the days before men invaded our shores. Before they killed our trees, stole our magic, and built their abominable cities.”
“The gods led mortals here to Iceland, Cousin. Your brand of fanaticism sets those who believe you against the will of the Æsir. And I, for one, look forward to a reckoning.”
With that, Magnús strode away. He didn’t trust himself to spend one more minute in the presence of the vile creature who had murdered his beloved Sigurjón.
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About the Author
Robert Winter is a recovering lawyer who likes writing about love and adventure much more than drafting a legal brief. Once upon a time, he went to Georgetown University law school. Upon graduation, he moved to New York to work in a large law firm, but later returned to Washington, DC. The legal work was entertaining and Robert spent a lot of time in bankruptcy court, usually representing either groups of creditor or the debtors themselves. But legal work didn’t satisfy the urge Robert felt to tell stories.
When he turned 50, Robert left behind the (allegedly) glamorous world of international law firms and bankruptcy court to pursue his real passion. Now he lives in Montreal with his husband, studying French between trips to exotic locations.
When Robert isn’t writing, he loves to cook Indian food. The aromas of the spice blends excite and challenge him. Although he’s never been to India, the food seems comforting and home-like. Add a trip to the Golden Triangle to the bucket list!
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