Jarnvidr

by Fynn F Gunnarson

  ‘Oh... ’ said Loki, his face slowly starting to brighten, like the dawning of a brand new, hope-filled day, ‘... you mean... ’

  Angrboda regarded Loki with an expression of serene self-satisfaction.

  ‘If,’ she began calmly, ‘I can transform him during tonight’s full moon – the ancient texts decree that it has to take place during a full moon – he will escape his prison... with his help, we shall retrieve the list... set events in motion... and then... nothing... no-one – not even the mighty Odin himself – will be able to stand in our way!’

  ‘I knew I’d fallen in love with the right woman,’ purred Loki lovingly, now stroking Angrboda’s hair with more enthusiasm. ‘You... can... perform this transformation... can’t you?’

  Angrboda looked hurt.

  ‘Yes... of course!’ she pouted. ‘I shall transform him into man-form... I’ve even thought of a name!’

  ‘Oh, yes... and what would that be?’ enquired Loki, raising a mildly-interested eye-brow.

  Angrboda paused, though purely for dramatic effect.

  ‘Hródvitnir!’ she announced, proudly.

  ‘Hmm... ’ replied Loki, apparently unimpressed, ‘... I’d have thought something... more noble... more powerful… more inspiring... something along the lines of... oh, I don’t know... say... Loki... ’

  Here, the Trickster God noticed the disappointment on his lover’s face, so immediately took a different line, ‘... although... he always was your favourite... no, you can name him... mother’s privilege.’

  This seemed to placate Angrboda; she smiled and sighed contentedly.

  ’Anyway,’ resumed Loki, eager to change the subject, ‘speaking of that accursed list and its ridiculous team of guardians... I wonder how your beloved spirits are faring... it does seem awfully quiet in there... ’

  *

  Sharp Axe faced the three men who stood before him, in silence. Whilst each was very familiar to him – Fearless (now referred to as Wolf Slayer, by some) and his two cronies, Hedin and Hamdir – there was something about each man which was also unfamiliar: the determined, almost hungry expressions on their pale faces; the dark, sunken, staring green eyes; the green lips; the fact that they weren’t huddled together at the back of the group, complaining to one another about everything and everyone else.

  Sharp Axe sensed that the three men in front of him were about to launch an attack; that attack, he was sure, was going to be directed at him and at him alone.

  Slowly, carefully, not wishing to make any sudden movement which might accelerate the inevitable assault against him, Sharp Axe brought his right hand upwards and onto the hilt of the sword at his side; he rested his left hand on the axe at his other side. Rather than launch a pre-emptive strike of his own, however, he decided to try some dialogue first, in the hope that it might avoid any bloodshed.

  ‘Fearless?’ ventured Sharp Axe, cautiously, ‘Fearless... do you know who I am?’

  Fearless concentrated his gaze, apparently with some difficulty, onto his brother’s face.

  ‘Oh... yes... ’ he replied eventually, in something approaching a forced whisper and with the slightest hint of a grin, ‘... you... are an offering... ’

  ‘What – ?’ replied Sharp Axe, taken aback, not having reckoned on that particular line of response from his brother.

  ‘An offering,’ repeated Fearless, with the beginnings of a joyful smile, ‘to the Spirits of the Iron Wood.’

  ‘An... offering... ?’ repeated Sharp Axe, labouring the point, trying to buy himself some more time.

  ‘A sacrifice, then!’ snapped Fearless in a sterner, shriller voice: a voice which Sharp Axe did not quite recognise but which, at the same time, he thought he had heard used by someone else and not so long ago.

  ‘But... why?’ enquired Sharp Axe, not altogether unreasonably.

  Fearless looked to be losing patience.

  ‘Because the spirits must be served!’ responded Fearless, in the shrill voice once again. ‘And... ’ he went on, ‘because you’re a jumped-up, self-important, control-freak, who always gets a lucky break and who needs taking down a peg or two!’

  Now that sounds more like Fearless, thought Sharp Axe to himself but, in order to prolong the dialogue, he merely replied, in a calm, measured tone:

  ‘Right... I… see.’

  ‘D’you hear that?’ said Fearless, mockingly, turning firstly to Hedin on his right, then to Hamdir on his left. ‘“I... see!”... Did... you... hear... that? That’s what I’m talking about!’

  Fearless’s eyes were now bulging wildly, as he turned once more to face his least favourite relative. Sharp Axe’s grip on both sword and axe tightened instinctively, ready to draw both weapons in anticipation of what he expected would be the imminent attack.

  At first, no-one moved but then, after what seemed like a long time to Sharp Axe, Fearless and his two companions began to edge forward slowly, mechanically, towards their intended quarry who, still not wanting to move proceedings along any more quickly than necessary, drew out his sword and unhooked his axe in a rather slow, deliberate manner. On seeing this, Fearless addressed his brother.

  ‘We,’ whispered Fearless, indicating Hedin and Hamdir at his sides with his hands, ‘are unarmed. Should I add “cowardice” to your already impressive list of attributes?’

  If Fearless had been looking for a way to start a fight, he had chosen his words perfectly. Sharp Axe, on absorbing the insult, raised then flung both sword and axe to the ground, took a brief step forward and leapt, snarling, though the air towards his brother.

  The impact, as Sharp Axe met his target, sent Fearless sprawling backwards and the two of them thrashed around on the frozen ground, finally engaged, after so many years of suppressing their mutual loathing and resentment, in hand-to-hand combat.

  Ignoring the brawling siblings, Hedin and Hamdir made simultaneous lunges for the sword and axe Sharp Axe had discarded, but Fynn and Aldaron were too quick for them; those most loyal to their leader stooped to retrieve his weapons, Aldaron picking up the sword and Fynn the axe. Each then adopted a defensive stance in front of the rest of the men, showing their blades threateningly to Fearless’s henchmen, caring little that they were unarmed, content that the weapons they were brandishing were discouraging the possessed ones from advancing any further.

  Hedin and Hamdir looked at each other, apparently weighing up what their next move should be; opting for health and safety, they stood their ground.

  In the background, Sharp Axe and his sibling opponent writhed around on the frozen forest floor, intent on trying to beat each other senseless; except Sharp Axe’s opponent was not Fearless, the cowardly, weak-willed, self-preservationist: this was an unnaturally-strong, powerful, determined fighter. Admittedly, this unnaturally strong, powerful, determined fighter was currently trapped in Fearless’s body, but that provided Sharp Axe with no consolation whatsoever, when he was receiving punishing, gruelling punches to his head and body from his adversary’s fists of stone.

  After the initial, indecisive period of the struggle, where neither combatant had been able to overpower the other, Fearless’s newly-found strength and resolve were eventually able to gain him the advantage and, gradually, grunting loudly with the effort, he manoeuvred himself into a kneeling position on top of his brother, from which he was able to trap Sharp Axe’s upper arms with his shins, then placed his fingers around the neck of his weakened rival and applied thumbs to wind-pipe.

  Sharp Axe might have been forgiven for wondering why none of the men came to his aid when, for once, he desperately needed their assistance. Had Fynn, Aldaron, Randver, Alfgeir, Ulric or Jormunrek been able to prevent the life from being choked out of their leader, or even been aware that he really could have used their help to stay alive, they would have done their best to oblige. At that moment, however, the men were rather preoccupied with a plight of their own. Hedin and Hamdir had recently taken a new decision on their next move and it was to disregard the fact tha
t they, themselves, were unarmed, whereas Fynn and Aldaron were equipped with lovingly-sharpened steel weapons. They leapt at the weapon carriers, knocking them to the ground, then went about the task of disarming them – and, doubtless, they would have succeeded, had the rest of the men not taken this as their cue to support their comrades and join in the fight. The ensuing mêlée was violent, bloody, very noisy and, consequently, prevented any help from reaching Sharp Axe, whilst his brother slowly strangled the life out of him.

  *

  ‘You know,’ said Angrboda with a wicked grin, as she raised herself slowly from the ground and looked down at Loki, ‘I do believe things are going rather well with the spirits.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ sighed Loki, feeling somewhat less relaxed about how events were progressing than Angrboda. ‘The sooner I get that list in my hand, the better for all of us.’

  *

  Sharp Axe had all but given up struggling. He had no strength left to fight and, in any case, Fearless’s highly-effective throttling technique had starved his body of air for so long that he could no longer think rationally, so devising a way to escape was now all but out of the question. He looked up at his brother, irritated no end that Fearless’s face had to be the last thing he would see before death took him, regretting bitterly that he was about to die with no sword in his hand and annoyed beyond belief that the two rather large and inconsiderately-sharp stones pressing into the small of his back were making the last few moments of his life unnecessarily uncomfortable.

  Sharp Axe allowed his eyes to close, now resigned to the inevitable. A series of vivid images immediately flashed through his mind at such high speed, he was able to register them only with difficulty. At first, these images were memories from his childhood. He was playing with Fearless. He was sitting on his grandfather’s knee, listening to old Knut’s stories of a bygone age. He was wrestling with Fearless and, as usual, gaining the upper hand (Not this time, though, he heard a voice say from somewhere in the back of his head; Fearless has the upper hand, now). He was watching his father at weapons practice, hurling axes at a makeshift wooden target. He and Fearless were fighting, each armed with a wooden sword; Fearless’s sword snapped in two after a particularly powerful strike by Sharp Axe; Fearless was upset and threatened to steal his brother’s sword as a replacement; Sharp Axe saw himself secretly burying the weapon in the garden, for safekeeping (Oh… that’s what happened to my favourite wooden sword! I’d forgotten all about that,’ said the voice again). Then, Sharp Axe could feel the mood of the memories change: they became darker, more uncomfortable, disturbing. He saw his grandfather trapped beneath the tree which claimed his life. He heard the pounding on the door of his house when, left there alone with Fearless aged ten, an angry stranger had tried to force his way into their home (If only it had turned out to be a stranger instead of my father, back from his campaigns! came the voice, once more). The mood changed again and Sharp Axe now saw memories from a much more recent period of his life. He was fleeing from Utgard’s furious Frost Giants. He was falling from the sheer face of Freyr’s Shield. He was surrounded by extremely hostile, well-armed dwarves in a dark cave. He was on a boat, somewhere far out on the Norwegian Sea, being attacked by Kraken. He was running through a cold, forsaken forest, trying to escape a powerful, evil force, the name of which he could not now remember. It occurred to Sharp Axe, fleetingly, that these were mostly memories of those times in his life when he was convinced he was about to die (They were just rehearsals for today, nothing more, said the voice). A thick, dark mist gradually descended on the final image but, through the mist emerged a figure; although Sharp Axe was aware that this was not a true memory of an event from his life, the figure was in some way familiar to him. He found himself looking into the pale-blue eyes of a young woman – an unconventionally-attractive young woman, possibly an elf maiden – who did not speak, but whom he knew to be asking him – pleading with him, in fact – not to go, but to stay with her. Where she was asking him not to go and where she wanted him to stay, Sharp Axe could not tell, but he felt as though he wanted to submit to her request, however hard it might prove (Not possible, said the voice; imagine saying your goodbyes quickly; it’s time to leave).

  Sharp Axe relented to a sudden, irresistible urge to open his eyes one final time. Above him, through blurring vision, he saw Fearless continuing, mercilessly, to apply the relentless pressure to his throat. It was not meant to be this way, Sharp Axe heard the voice say; he had never, for one moment, expected his life to end at the hands of his brother, but he knew his time had now arrived. Despite his inability to focus, Sharp Axe could still sense the hatred, rage, determination and imminent victory in Fearless’s wild, blazing eyes; he could still make out the beads of sweat streaming down Fearless’s face; he could see the smoke rising from Fearless’s back.

  Smoke?

  It’s the blurred vision, Sharp Axe told himself. This is what it’s like to die. This must be how Granddad died: hallucinating, as life’s final breath was being squeezed out of him.

  No... countered Sharp Axe, in his dying thoughts... even taking into account the blurred vision, that really does look like smoke... perhaps the odd flame as well, here and there, around the shoulder area… and, if I’m not terribly mistaken, Fearless’s grip appears to be relaxing somewhat.

  There was, indeed, smoke and flame. Fearless’s grip was also beginning to relax, as he became aware of a sensation in the region of his upper back, which felt remarkably similar to being on fire. Panic-stricken, as the realisation of what was happening to him eventually hit home, Fearless suddenly released his brother’s throat, threw himself sideways, away from his helpless victim and rolled himself around on the frozen ground, thrashing for all he was worth, desperately trying to extinguish the painful flames.

  Sharp Axe took in a drawn-out, rattling breath, which burned his throat and chest; then, he started to cough uncontrollably. He coughed until his eyes streamed with tears and he thought he was never going to be able to breathe properly again but, after a while, he was able to draw some long, welcome, reviving breaths, wipe his eyes and focus his gradually-returning vision on his brother, who was still close by, writhing frantically on the forest floor.

  Fearless’s entire upper body was engulfed in strange, pale-green flames; as he flailed around on the ground, desperately trying to put out those flames, he emitted an unnatural, hissing-sound. Sharp Axe then became aware of another commotion, over to his right-hand side. He turned cautiously to see that Hedin and Hamdir were, just like Fearless, engulfed in pale green flames and that they, too, were vainly trying to extinguish them in a near-identical fashion, making the same unnerving hissing noises in the process.

  At that moment, Fynn arrived at Sharp Axe’s side and helped his leader rise, unsteadily and gingerly, up into a kneeling position. Almost simultaneously, from somewhere overhead, there was the sound of rustling branches, followed by a cry of warning and, finally, a rapidly-descending figure which landed on its feet, though gracelessly and far from painlessly, with a loud thud a few paces from Sharp Axe and Fynn.

  Hodbrodd had re-appeared.

  Sharp Axe looked from Hodbrodd to the human torches, scattered on the ground around them and back to Hodbrodd.

  ‘That was you,’ he said in a low, uneven, croaky voice – evidence of his recent near-death-by-strangulation experience.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Hodbrodd in a pained whisper, as he limped from one foot to the other – evidence of his recent, ill-advised jumping-out-of-a-tree experience.

  With some difficulty and discomfort, Hodbrodd managed to stand up. ‘I was hiding from those... those… things.’ Hodbrodd waved an arm around unnecessarily, to indicate Fearless, Hedin and Hamdir, in case Sharp Axe or Fynn suspected something else might have frightened Hodbrodd into taking up temporary residence in one of Jarnvidr’s trees. ‘The fire is driving the evil spirits out of their bodies, now,’ continued Hodbrodd, sounding quite knowledgeable. ‘Ah... the flames are turn
ing orange – the spirits must have left... better put the fires out, or they’ll burn pretty badly.’

  ‘Right... ’ croaked Sharp Axe, rubbing his throat, ‘... no rush, though… and… thanks, Hodbrodd… you just saved my life.’

  *

  Angrboda had suddenly adopted a look of vexed discontentment. Loki immediately picked up on it.

  ‘What?’ he enquired, urgently. ‘What? What’s happened?’

  ‘The spirits... they’ve... fled,’ she groaned slowly. ‘They have been burned out of the ones they once possessed.’

  ‘Do I take it, then,’ began Loki wearily, ‘that they are no longer able to ensure our gallant warriors remain in Jarnvidr?’

  The Great Hagia did not answer Loki’s question at first; she was preoccupied, looking up at the sky.

  ‘They will be in no fit state to think about escaping from Jarnvidr… until it is… too late... ’ she said slowly and absently, having clearly lost interest in the conversation, ‘... and, in any case… it is time... I must begin… the preparations will take all day... ’

  ‘But the list, my dear... ’ persisted Loki, managing to keep his temper, albeit only through a considerable effort on his part, ‘... you haven’t forgotten its importance, have you?’

  ‘Of course I haven’t!’ retorted Angrboda, wounded by Loki’s apparent lack of faith. ‘Do you not think I want this as much as you do? Have you forgotten that we are from the same root? Do we not share the same loathing of the Aesir and Vanir? Do not worry... Hródvitnir will help us to get the list.’

  Loki looked at his lover. ‘Hrod... who?’

  Angrboda fixed Loki with a cold stare. ‘Our... son,’ she said icily, ‘Hródvitnir.’

  ‘Oh… ’ replied Loki, unenthusiastically, ‘… him.’