Jarnvidr

by Fynn F Gunnarson

  The Story so far…

  After a stranger arrives in the Realm of the Light Elves with a plea for help from the King of Norway, Harald Fairhair, temporary Álfheimr residents Erik “Sharp Axe” Haraldson (no relation) and his best friend, Fynn the Fortunate, set off to Midgard to receive instructions from the king. They are joined, belatedly, by Sharp Axe’s prospective brother-in-law, Aldaron the Light Elf and are surprised to discover that the men who had accompanied Sharp Axe on his quest to find Mjøllnir, the (once-lost) hammer of Thor, have all received similar requests from Harald Fairhair’ messengers.

  The king explains that he needs the men’s help because his throne is under threat and, if he were to be deposed, it would have disastrous consequences for their homeland. To safeguard his position, he must prove he is a member of the god Freyr’s House of Yngling and, hence, his divine right to rule Norway, by presenting his credentials in the form of a family tree to those who would usurp him.

  The family tree of the House of Yngling, however, is no ordinary family tree.

  Firstly, it takes the form of a list of kings past, present and future, written by the hand of Freyr himself (alias Yngve), proving that their lineage can be traced directly back to him.

  Secondly, the list resides with Hel, Goddess of Death, in her palace, located in the distant and foreboding land of Helheimr, several danger-strewn days’ walk away from the relative safety, sanity and normality of Midgard. In order to have any chance of surviving the journey that no mortal has ever been known to make, Sharp Axe and his men must place themselves in the care of the Fire Giant, Surtr, one of the most inscrutable, powerful and feared beings in the Nine Worlds, who has been around for longer than any god of Asgard or Vanaheimr.

  Thirdly, an otherworldly magic surrounds the list, protecting it from harm and, as nominated leader of the mortals making the expedition, Sharp Axe must somehow convince Hel that he is worthy to remove it from its place of residence.

  To Sharp Axe’s surprise, Hel soon agrees that he may take the list out of Helheimr and the men return with it to Midgard, where their curiosity about its contents gets the better of them. They remove it from its bejewelled wooden casket, only to find that it is written in an unfamiliar language, thus making it impossible for them to be sure of the identity of anyone listed.

  Has King Harald Fairhair been telling the truth about his lineage?

  Does he even know whether his own name is listed amongst those with a divine right to the throne of Norway?

  If his name is not on the list, will Sharp Axe and his men be in danger when Fairhair finds out because, for once in their lives, they know too much?

  Eventually, putting doubts, suspicions and fears to one side, the men agree to travel to the appointed meeting-place, to hand the list over to the king.

  That place is Jarnvidr.

  The Iron Wood

  Book Two

  Jarnvidr

  Chapter Eleven

  Mithrén

  ‘And that,’ announced Sharp Axe to the men as he rode, as always, at the front of the group and pointed ahead into the distance towards an immense-looking forest, full of snow-covered trees, ‘should be Jarnvidr.’

  The fact that there was snow to be found this close to the beginning of summer, on the tops of trees or elsewhere, did not go unnoticed by the men. It was Aldaron, however, who was the first to voice his concerns.

  ‘It looks cold… ’ he observed.

  [Mutterings of agreement from most of the men.]

  Sharp Axe could not deny it. ‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it?’ he replied casually, though well aware of the direction which the conversation was about to take.

  ‘… for this time of year… ’ persisted Aldaron.

  [More mutterings of agreement from most of the men.]

  ‘Well, yes... ’ conceded Sharp Axe, warily, ‘... although the ground is a little higher up here... ’

  ‘… it’s a – ’ began Aldaron.

  ‘If he,’ jumped in Fearless, drawing his sword and, for some reason, addressing Sharp Axe, ‘says it’s a “bad sign” one more time, I’ll – !’

  ‘Fearless,’ said Sharp Axe, without removing his gaze from Jarnvidr’s snow-laden trees, ‘put your sword away. Aldaron, don’t worry. We’ll be out of here and riding back home before you know it.’

  ‘It’s just,’ ploughed on Aldaron regardless, at which juncture Sharp Axe closed his eyes in anticipation of an opinion he did not want to hear, ‘well, we have a list we can’t read, which Hel said could be removed from Helheimr only by someone who was worthy – ’

  ‘Ha! Are you saying I’m unworthy, Aldaron?’ joshed Sharp Axe light-heartedly, desperately trying to deflect Aldaron from his intended line of argument.

  ‘No,’ replied Aldaron humourlessly, ‘but everything up to now has been so... so easy, hasn’t it?’

  [Puzzled mutterings from most of the men.]

  ‘Well think about it… ’ continued Aldaron, ‘… we’re sent by a king none of us has ever heard of – ’

  [Shouted protests from the men, such as ‘Known him for years!’, ‘Best king Norway’s ever had!’ and ‘Long live King... er... ’]

  Aldaron turned to face the men with one raised, very mistrustful eyebrow.

  [Silence.]

  ‘Anyway,’ resumed Aldaron, undaunted, ‘we’re sent to Helheimr (which mortals probably never visit and certainly never leave alive), accompanied by a Fire Giant (who, contrary to the traditional perception of his race, is courteous to us and turns out to be a first-rate tour guide), past an enormous, savage hound, covered in blood (who, conveniently, just happens to be tied up, so he can’t eat us!), meet with Hel (who, despite her reputation, turns out to be a charming hostess) and pick up this mysterious list (which is supposed to be heavily-protected by otherworldly magic), all without any of us sustaining so much as a scratch!’

  ‘Actually,’ pointed out Randver cheerfully, ‘I think you’ll find that Fearless has some rather unpleasant burns.’

  [Enthusiastic mutterings of agreement and approval, bordering on celebration, from the men.]

  ‘Well, all right,’ conceded Aldaron, ‘but, apart from that, what has it cost us?’

  [Silence.]

  ‘So... ?’ prompted Aldaron, spurred on by what he considered to be his flawless presentation of a water-tight argument, backed up with faultless logic, for which he now expected to receive the overwhelming support of the men.

  ‘So... ’ answered Fearless excitedly, ‘… let’s get inside this Iron Wood place and collect our reward!’

  [Great Hurrah from most of the men, accompanied by head-shaking from Aldaron and a quiet, grumbled comment which sounded something like, ‘How in Asgard did these idiots ever find the Hammer of Thor?’]

  *

  Somewhere to the south-east of Jarnvidr, still some hours’ ride away, an elf maiden frantically scanned the horizon, in a desperate and, as she soon realised, vain attempt to find a group of a dozen or so riders.

  Everything she had dreamt and had been told by the Elven Elders suggested to Mithrén that Sharp Axe, Aldaron and the rest of the men had been led by the Fire Giant Surtr to Helheimr and that they were now headed for an enchanted forest, known as Jarnvidr, the Iron Wood. In truth, Mithrén conceded, it was likely that they had already arrived there, which meant that it might now be impossible for her to find them before it was too late.

  Mithrén’s troubled dreams and her consultation with the Elven Elders had provided her with three pieces of information: the men’s movements, the fact that they were in grave danger and who was behind it all. What neither her dreams nor the elders could tell her, however, was why. Consequently, nothing she had learned, so far, seemed to make any sense to her.

  She had tried, many times, to s
end warnings to Aldaron by the power of thought but, if he had received them, he had not responded. She did not know for sure why this was: perhaps the distance was too great and Aldaron had never received the messages (neither of the siblings had wandered far outside of Álfheimr before, so the range of their ‘telepathic connection’ had never previously been put to the test); perhaps Aldaron was ignoring her because he resented her pushing him into making a journey he had not wished to make; perhaps he was under Sharp Axe’s orders not to communicate with Mithrén, so as to preserve the secrecy of the mission; perhaps the very darkest of all the forces in the Nine Worlds were working against them. Whatever the reason, the situation had reached the point where Mithrén believed she had no choice but to take drastic action, in order both to understand the true nature of the danger which faced Aldaron and Sharp Axe and to find a solution – if, indeed, one could be found.

  That drastic action, Mithrén told herself, could wait no longer.

  *

  ‘Have you heard,’ Sharp Axe asked Aldaron quietly, as the men rode up to the outskirts of the frozen forest with increasing anticipation and, in some cases, a certain degree of apprehension, ‘anything from Mithrén at all?’

  ‘No... ’ replied Aldaron, moodily, still wounded from his failed attempt to bring the men round to accepting his conspiracy theory, ‘... actually... now you come to mention it, no I haven’t.’

  There then followed a period of uneasy silence between the two, as each considered the possible reason, or reasons, for Mithrén’s silence.

  Whilst Sharp Axe was pleased, in one way, that no-one outside of the group knew of Harald Fairhair’s request for help (as was the king’s wish), he could not help but feel slightly put out at the same time that Mithrén had not tried a little harder to find out something from her brother about their wellbeing.

  ‘That is strange, isn’t it?’ said Sharp Axe and Aldaron simultaneously, as they rode between the first snow-covered trees of the Iron Wood.

  ‘Yes, it is!’ they both replied in unison.

  *

  Mithrén knew that what she was about to do could prove to be dangerous, even fatal. From what the elders had told her, in what she had found to be a chillingly matter-of-fact way, the Old Elven Magic spell she would soon be attempting might easily go wrong in her inexperienced hands and, if it did, there was a small but real chance that it would kill her. She had known for a long time that her parents had died whilst experimenting with an Old Elven spell and they (her mother, in particular) had been far more experienced practitioners of the ancient magical arts than she was. They had miscalculated the required proportions of ingredients or, perhaps, misread or even misunderstood the centuries-old writings they were studying: the truth would now, of course, never be known.

  Mithrén had pleaded with the elders to advise her on how she might save Aldaron (she had, by this point, accepted that they had no interest in the fate of Sharp Axe) and their response was that, if she were to be able to save Aldaron, she would first have to establish the true meaning of all the signs; the only way that this could be accomplished, they insisted rather ominously, was by means of potentially-deadly Old Elven Magic.

  Mithrén again pleaded with the elders, this time for their permission to access the book which contained the spell she needed. Being well aware of how all previous requests to be allowed to perform Old Elven Magic had been dismissed out of hand by the elders (her own requests and those of elves she knew, over the years), she had little hope that the elders would grant her the permission she sought. After a brief consultation, however (surprisingly brief, as Mithrén recalled), to her astonishment, she was escorted by one of the Council of Elders to where the ancient books were kept: a strong-room, protected by a heavy door and several robust locks. Once inside, the elder had found the relevant book, carefully turned its delicate pages and pointed out the spell she required. Mithrén was then allowed to write notes about the spell onto a scroll of parchment; writing out the spell itself word for word was not permitted in case, to use the words of the elder, “it fell into the wrong hands”, presumably belonging to someone outside of Álfheimr.

  Mithrén had not found the note-taking at all easy: it was very difficult for her to read the ancient language of the Light Elves and she had had to ask her escort for assistance, both to understand the ingredients and to interpret the instructions. He (now she thought about it) had been unexpectedly co-operative and helpful, even finding some of the less-common ingredients for her in the elders’ stores; the rest, he told her, she would be able to find on her journey. Why had he been so accommodating? Why had the elders allowed her access to the ancient writings so readily? Did they truly care about Aldaron? Did they think Mithrén would not be able to perform the spell, so it did not matter whether they allowed her access or not? Or was there something more sinister in their motives? Did they think Mithrén would go the way of her parents? Was she really such a thorn in the elders’ sides? Did they hope to get rid of her by giving her free rein to perform Old Elven Magic knowing that, in all probability, the outcome would be her death?

  These were sobering thoughts, but Mithrén now tried to put them out of her mind, so she could concentrate on the task in hand: time was passing and, with it, her chances of being able to offer any help to Sharp Axe and Aldaron were diminishing.

  With trembling hands, the elf maiden anxiously gathered together the ingredients she had been given from the elders’ stores and those she had collected en route to her present location: they comprised a variety of plant leaves and roots, several earth minerals, very finely-powdered copper metal and several dead, dried spruce bark beetles. She carefully weighed the ingredients, as stipulated in the ancient spell’s instructions, using the small balance which had very considerately been given to her by the elder who had escorted her to the strong-room, writing down the values as she did so on the same piece of parchment on which she had written her notes about the spell. She then weighed everything a second time, cross-checking the figures as she did so and, finally, weighed everything a third time, to convince herself beyond all reasonable doubt that she had not made what might prove to be a very costly mistake with the ingredients’ specified proportions. As happy as she would ever be with the measurements, Mithrén then dropped the leaves, roots, minerals, copper powder and beetles into a polished-stone mortar and ground everything together, painstakingly, using a heavy stone pestle – implements which had, again, been willingly handed to her by the more-than-helpful elder.

  Once satisfied with the consistency of the preparation, she placed the small bowl on the ground in front of where she was sitting cross-legged and took several deep, calming breaths. The contents of the bowl looked quite disgusting, which was most unfortunate, given that the magic she was about to perform called for her to swallow everything the bowl contained.

  Thinking it unwise to dwell too long on the ordeal which faced her, Mithrén closed her eyes and brought to mind the words she needed to recite, for the magic to work effectively. Here, again, she had received assistance from the elder: he had explained to her how to pronounce the necessary incantation, according to the ancient writings. Fortunately for Mithrén, the incantation was quite short; unfortunately for Mithrén, the incantation had to be recited in the same obsolete Elven tongue as the one in which the spell was written. Mithrén had encountered the language some years previously, during her studies as an Elven healer but, having learned what was necessary to allow her to consult and understand ancient Elven remedies as a student, she had happily and immediately forgotten all about it (although, having reflected on the matter over the past few hours, she now fervently wished she had studied the language until she had attained some level of fluency). The elder had made her practise the incantation over and over again (insisting that it needed to be delivered perfectly from memory) until she had the pronunciation right and could remember it without being prompted.

  Reciting a spell from memory in an unfamiliar ancient-Elven tongue, howev
er, would be much easier for Mithrén than the ordeal which would subsequently face her; of that, she had no doubt. Again, taking several deep breaths and almost without thinking, Mithrén began to say the words which, to her relief, came back to her with mercifully little difficulty.

  One she had completed the spoken part of the magic, Mithrén gradually started to feel uncomfortably light-headed. Several thoughts ran through her head in quick succession: Is this a sign that the spell is working? I am I supposed to feel like this? Have I made a mistake in the incantation? Am I going to die? She hesitated before proceeding, to allow herself a moment to assess her chances of survival. She continued to wait. When the sensation of light-headedness had stabilised, she decided that, on balance, she was probably not going to die there and then; it was probably the spell at work, preparing her for what was to come.

  Mithrén took another look at the stone bowl’s contents: what now inhabited the vessel had changed appearance from a dark-green colour to grey-brown; it also seemed to be moving around of its own accord, which made it even less appetising than when she had first prepared it. Mithrén quietly chastised herself for not reciting the spell more quickly.

  Feeling her stomach turn a couple of rapid somersaults, as if making one final appeal to her to find another way to help Sharp Axe and Aldaron, Mithrén swallowed hard and looked away, tight-lipped, into the distance wondering, even now, if there might be some other, previously-overlooked course of action she could take.

  No, she told herself, emphatically, after a few moments of further reflection; this is the only way. I trust the elders: despite our differences in the past, despite the way they treated Sharp Axe, despite their apparent lack of interest in the day-to-day lives of ordinary Light Elves and the world outside of Álfheimr, I trust that they care enough about Aldaron to have brought me this far, against all expectations. I trust them… with my life.

  Mithrén took several more, increasingly-urgent deep breaths and clasped her hands together, in a vain attempt to stop them from trembling. Then, she carefully picked up the bowl, raised it to her open mouth, tilted it, closed her eyes and felt the unpleasantly cold, lumpy, viscous liquid creep slowly over her tongue.