The Head of Mimir

by Richard Lee Byers - (ebook by Undead)

  His heightened senses notwithstanding, Heimdall had been so focused on the last ice giant that it was only now he registered the shouting, thudding, and shaking as frost giants came charging forward. They were too late to prevent the destruction of the ice giants but not too late to avenge them.

  Thirty-One

  At that moment, Heimdall had no doubt the frost giants would accomplish their bloody purpose, but he resolved to make them pay a cost. Breathing heavily, he dropped the Gjallarhorn to dangle from its strap and pulled his two-handed sword from its scabbard.

  Before the frost giants in the lead quite reached him, though, Valkyries swept over him to assail them. Some hurtled and wheeled well over the blue-skinned creatures’ heads loosing bowshots. Others swooped lower to thrust with lances or chop with axes and swords. Uschi was one of the latter although her blade no longer burned. Apparently she’d used up all the fire magic striking at Heimdall’s icy bonds.

  The onslaught of the Valkyries checked the frost giants’ charge. Next, bellowed battle cries and the drumming of countless running feet sounded at Heimdall’s back. He glanced around, and other Asgardian warriors were racing toward the Jotuns. Seeing the ice giants fall, Frigga must have ordered an all-out attack on that portion of the enemy army where king Skrymir stood casting spells and giving orders.

  Heimdall grinned and took a deep breath. When the first running Asgardian warriors came up even with him, he ran alongside them and hurled himself at the vanguard of the frost giants.

  For some time after that, he had no idea which side was winning. He had no time to spy with his heightened vision when he was hacking and dodging, dealing death or evading it every second, and even if he had, he couldn’t have assessed the progress of the battle as a whole with a forest of blue legs towering on every side. But the circle of fire had killed or weakened many a Jotun, the destruction of the ice giants had surely demoralized others, and while the Asgardians might be small in comparison to their enemies, there were far more of them and on average they were the more skillful fighters. He hoped all that would tilt the balance in their favor.

  “You!” A huge voice roared.

  Heimdall turned. His face twisted with rage, Skrymir was striding toward him. The king of the frost giants had set aside his staff of ice in favor of a single-edged sword like a cleaver. The blade dripped with the blood of the Asgardians it had already butchered.

  Heimdall glanced around seeking help, but at that moment every comrade within reach was busy with some other foe. He thought of running and losing himself in the chaos of the battle, but his blood was up, and so he stepped forward with the two-handed sword at the ready. He realized just how reckless he was being when his adversary grinned at his folly and abruptly there were half a dozen Skrymirs surrounding and stalking toward him.

  Heimdall knew he’d just been looking straight at the one real Skrymir and believed that should allow him to distinguish his actual foe from the phantoms. He wasted a precious moment trying, before realizing there was something about the magic that kept that commonsense measure from working.

  He then peered with Mimir’s sight, looking for the lack of detail that had enabled him to pick out Skrymir’s illusions before. This time, however, the frost giant king hadn’t created dozens of phantoms all around the city of Asgard. The effect was far more circumscribed and thus perfect enough to bewilder even Heimdall’s eyes. He stared and squinted and still could find no flaws in any of the enormous figures closing in around him.

  “Ready to die?” The leering Skrymirs asked.

  Perhaps it was the sound of frost giant’s voice that made Heimdall decide that if his eyes couldn’t save him, he should try listening. He used his enhanced hearing, and the thousand noises of the battle swept over him. Arrows whizzed in flight. Warriors on both sides cried taunts and insults at the enemy or exhortations to their comrades. Asgardians and Jotuns screamed as weapons pierced them, and the wounded lay groaning and whimpering. The feathery wings of Valkyrie horses rustled high overhead.

  In the moment or two remaining to him, Heimdall sifted through the cacophony in search of sounds that might save him and at last found the flaw in the illusion Skrymir had created. All the phantoms had voices, they’d all spoken in unison, but only the real Jotun ruler had feet that audibly brushed the earth as he stepped.

  Heimdall turned his back on the actual Skrymir and advanced on one of the phantasms. Because the real frost giant king and the illusions were moving as one, each mirroring the actions of the others, he could tell when the true attack swept down at his back.

  He leaped out from under it, whirled again, and rushed the real Skrymir. His charge took him through two of the illusory sword blades seemingly embedded in the ground. He felt something too slight to be called resistance as he plunged through, like cobwebs breaking across his face.

  He cut deep into the frost giant’s leg just above the ankle. He yanked the sword free, blood gushed from the wound, and the phantoms winked out of existence. At once he circled behind the Jotun king’s foot and slashed again. Skrymir, Skrymir ran forward to escape the punishment and stumbled and nearly fell when the foot of the wounded leg came down awkwardly. Heimdall laughed and started to give chase, and a mass of hissing serpents with darkly glittering scales, dozens coiling and crawling over one another, appeared on the ground between him and the giant. He halted just shy of their striking fangs. A woman laughed.

  As Heimdall backed up a step, he spied Amora. The sorceress finished making her way behind several embattled giants to take up a position a few paces beyond Skrymir. She evidently expected that, limping or not, the Jotun king would hold Heimdall back until she brought the Vanir down with a spell.

  Heimdall feared she was right. She kept chanting, and one tangle of snakes after another appeared on the piece of earth where he and Skrymir were fighting. The Asgardian didn’t dare step within reach of the serpents, and that constrained his movements more and more. Meanwhile, the frost giant set his feet wherever he liked knowing the resulting snakebites wouldn’t pierce his thick leather shoes.

  Skrymir’s enormous sword whirled down. Heimdall dodged, ran, and – exerting the full measure of his Asgardian strength – jumped over the tangle of serpents immediately in front of him. He then dashed on toward the space between the frost giant’s feet and the sorceress on the other side. If he disposed of her first, maybe he could deal with the Jotun after.

  Amora’s green eyes widened in alarm. Unfortunately, though, reacting quickly to Heimdall’s charge, Skrymir took a step backward and slashed repeatedly, the horizontal cuts flashing scythe-fashion back and forth low to the ground. Heimdall had to retreat lest the cleaver-like blade split him in two.

  As Skrymir began to pursue him, Heimdall caught a glimpse of Sif rushing in on Amora’s flank. For an instant, he hoped the witch didn’t notice, but then she pivoted, made a sinuous mystical gesture, and spoke a word of power.

  The sword in Sif’s hand twisted into a serpent longer than a man was tall. She tried to cast the snake away but was an instant too slow. The serpent lashed its coils around her, tangling her limbs and dumping her on the ground. Teeth gritted, she caught hold of the snake below the wedge-shaped head. Meanwhile, Amora raised her hands and started reciting another spell, one likely to slay Sif before she could fight her way free of the reptile’s embrace.

  “Stop!” Heimdall shouted. “I’m laying down my sword!” Stooping, he did so.

  Grinning, Skrymir left off attacking, but Heimdall had little doubt as to the frost giant king’s true intentions. He’d pause for a moment to let his foe believe surrender would save his life, then laugh and hack him to pieces.

  Ever cautious, Amora gave Heimdall one quick glance but then returned her attention to Sif and the spell casting intended to destroy her.

  But that was all right. It meant Amora wasn’t looking when Heimdall grabbed a fist-sized chunk of ice – a piec
e of one of the ice giants the Gjallarhorn had crumbled – straightened up, and threw it at her.

  The sight of Mimir sharpened his aim, and Asgardian might carried the missile across the intervening distance. The ball of ice smashed Amora in the temple, interrupting her magic and sending her reeling.

  Startled, Skrymir gaped at Heimdall for a moment, then, still hampered by the wounded leg, reflexively turned to see what harm, if any, the throw had inflicted on his ally. Heimdall snatched up the two-handed sword and charged.

  Skrymir hobbled back around before the Asgardian quite closed the distance, but not in time to protect himself. Heimdall swung the great sword and carved a gash in the leg that had been unwounded hitherto.

  The frost giant bellowed, and the cleaver-like blade swept down. Heimdall dodged behind Skrymir’s foot and cut again.

  As he did, so he glimpsed Sif and Amora. Blood streaming down her profile, the sorceress raised her arms to begin another spell. Sif scrambled free of the dead snake’s still-writhing coils, sprang to her feet, and grabbed hold of the enchantress’s right arm. She twisted the limb, and Amora screamed as it popped out of the socket.

  Meanwhile, limping worse now that both legs were bleeding, Skrymir slashed down at his foe. Heimdall sidestepped and counterattacked with a stroke that gashed two of the Jotun’s fingers to the bone. The frost giant stiffened in shock, and the Asgardian slashed again at the creature’s leg. Blood spurted from a severed artery.

  Skrymir fought on for a few more moments before recognizing how serious that last leg wound actually was. When he did realize, he sought to stumble away from the fight. Heimdall rushed after him, cut the other leg, and the Jotun finally fell.

  Skrymir rolled onto his side, brought his leg up, clutched with both hands to stanch the spurts of blood, and bellowed for help. Other frost giants started forward to succor him, but hesitated when Heimdall raced into position to poise his sword at their monarch’s throat.

  “Your side has lost,” Heimdall panted. “You can either tell your warriors to surrender and some healer can attend to your leg, or you can order them to come at me and we’ll see how much more harm I can do you in the moments before they reach me.”

  Skrymir snarled an obscenity.

  “It’s up to you,” Heimdall said. “If watching me die is worth bleeding out shortly thereafter, say the word.”

  Skrymir repeated the obscenity. Then, however, he called to his warriors, “Stop fighting and get me some help!”

  As the word traveled across the battlefield, most of the giants quickly laid down their weapons, often also raising their hands on dropping to their knees. Judging that the fight truly had gone out of Skrymir as well, Heimdall risked another look in his sister’s direction.

  Sif had Amora prone on the ground and was kneeling atop her. She yanked off the sorceress’s headdress and jammed it into her mouth. “Spit that out, and I really will kill you.”

  Heimdall smiled to see his sister taking the precaution. She was making certain that, with her voice silenced, Amora was incapable of the recitation most of her magic required.

  Sif shoved the cowed, bloodied prisoner toward Heimdall. Leaving the Jotun healer to his work, he walked to meet them. “We did it,” he said.

  Sif grinned. “Mostly, I did it. But I suppose you helped a little.”

  Thirty-Two

  At the end of the afternoon, Queen Frigga came out of the city onto the battlefield to accept Skrymir’s formal surrender. A company of her warriors and a gaggle of advisors attended her. Heimdall supposed that, for the moment, he still qualified as both. Striding along beside him, Sif rested her hand on her sword hilt as though expecting frost giant treachery.

  Heimdall was watching for signs of trouble as well, but he didn’t expect them, nor did he see any. The Jotuns towering before him looked sullen but cowed.

  That was certainly true of their king. His bandages bloody, hobbling with the aid of his staff of ice, Skrymir kneeled clumsily before the Asgardian monarch. “I yield my person and my army,” he rumbled.

  “I accept your surrender,” Frigga said, “but I’ll be more assured of your peaceful intentions when you shrink down to Asgardian size. Two of my warriors assure me you can.”

  Skrymir grimaced at what, Heimdall suspected, his subjects were likely to see as a profound humiliation. “Must I?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Frigga said. “Look at it this way. You’re going to stay in Asgard until Jotunheim sends a hefty ransom. Enough to pay for all the trouble you’ve caused. Would you rather spend the time with a roof over your head or chained up outdoors like an animal?”

  Skrymir closed his eyes and muttered under his breath. At the end of the incantation, he did indeed shrink and shrink to Heimdall’s height while his fellow Jotuns looked on. Some blue faces reflected shame, others disgust, and the Asgardian suspected that none of the onlookers would be eager to follow their ruler to war again anytime soon.

  “There,” Skrymir growled, “it’s done. And what of my warriors? Will you make slaves of them all?”

  “No,” Frigga said, “Asgardians don’t keep slaves.” Besides, Heimdall thought, a horde of resentful frost giant thralls would pose a danger to Realm Eternal forever after. “They can have tonight to tend the wounded, but come sunrise, I want them marching back to Jotunheim.”

  There was a little more back-and-forth after that. Then guards escorted Skrymir into the city, and, watched by other Asgardian warriors, the demoralized giants set about making camp for the night.

  “And that,” said Frigga, satisfaction in her voice, “is that.” She turned to Heimdall and Sif. “Except for the matter of rewarding the two of you. What would you like?”

  Sif smiled. “Amora’s head on a platter?”

  The queen laughed. “You don’t have to ask for that. When Odin wakes, her punishment will be severe. What else?”

  “Golden Mane and Bloodspiller,” Heimdall said. “The winged steeds we, uh, borrowed from Uschi’s company. They served us valiantly, and we’ve grown fond of them.”

  “Yes,” said Sif, “that, please.”

  “No one but a Valkyrie has ever possessed a Valkyrie horse before,” Frigga said, “but I’ll see to it. What else?”

  “Truly, Majesty,” said Sif, “that reward coupled with the restoration of our honor is more than enough. We fought for Asgard, not for personal advancement. But, that said, like any of your warriors, we hope to improve our fortunes.”

  “And so you shall,” Frigga said. “From this day forward, Lady Sif, you are a thane of the realm with your own company of warriors to command.”

  Sif beamed. “Thank you, Majesty!”

  Frigga turned to Heimdall. “You too are a thane, and you should stay on at court as an advisor to the crown.”

  Heimdall blinked in surprise and some consternation. “Thank you, Majesty, but that office would elevate me far beyond my capabilities. I look at the counselors surrounding the throne, and I see wise old sages. I’m just a callow young swordsman. What could I contribute?”

  “As I recall,” Frigga said, “you were the one who insisted on entering the vault of the Odinsleep and the one who thought to slip into Jotunheim and deprive the frost giants of Mimir’s head. You’re also the one who proposed engulfing the Jotuns in fire and who realized he could wield the Gjallarhorn to slay the ice giants.”

  Inwardly, he recognized she had a point. He did occasionally hit on a notion that had occurred to no one else even if those notions didn’t always work out as expected, and in addition, he now possessed the gifts of Mimir. Still, he didn’t want to be a royal counselor and spend his days in a council chamber pondering weighty matters of state. Someday, perhaps, but not yet.

  For now, he realized, he’d had more than enough of bearing the responsibility for the fate of Asgard. He wanted to live the life of a simple warrior again and perhaps explore mo
re of the Nine Worlds. What he’d seen so far had nearly killed him repeatedly, but, by all accounts, there were wonders waiting as well.

  He strained to think of some way to make a tactful refusal, but Frigga spared him the necessity. “Never mind,” she said. “I can see from your expression that you truly don’t want the office. Go command a company like your sister, then, but rest assured, the All-Father and I will remember both of you. You never know when we’ll require warriors of your caliber for some special errand.”

  Heimdall felt a stirring of anticipation at the prospect that such special errands would likely to take him to the far corners of the realms. With his new gifts, and his sister by his side, the future held a great deal of excitement.

  Epilogue

  The sun was sinking westward by the time Volstagg finished his tale. Shadows were lengthening, and the competitors, tutors, officials, and spectators of the tourney had finished their business and gone their separate ways, leaving only the chalk dueling circles on the grass. The food vendors were pouring water on the coals in their grilles, putting away unused flour, spices, and the like, and generally closing up their stands, a loss he sought to bear with equanimity. He’d turned to them for refreshment twice more while relating the story and savored their offerings each time, but he took comfort in knowing a bountiful and equally tasty meal awaited him and Bjarke at home.

  “And,” he finished, looking down at the copper-haired boy seated beside him on the bench, “that’s pretty much the end. Frigga meant what she said. Over time, she and the All-Father gave Heimdall and Sif new responsibilities and new gifts to go with them, until they grew into a true god and goddess of Asgard. When the king eventually had a wizard – the same gloomy fellow who stood with Heimdall and Frigga atop the citadel, as it happens – create the rainbow bridge to facilitate travel among the Nine Worlds, he figured someone had better stand watch over the thing, and Heimdall the All-Seer was the perfect choice. So, he’s been the sentinel ever since.” He stood up. “Now let’s head for home.”