Asgard

by Fynn F Gunnarson

  The Story so far…

  Sharp Axe and his men successfully accomplish the task set for them by Harald Fairhair, King of Norway, to retrieve a document listing all kings of the House of Yngve, past, present and future, from the Goddess of Death in her Helheimr palace. They then travel directly to frozen Jarnvidr, the Iron Wood, to present it to Harald Fairhair in person and, in some cases, to claim their reward.

  After receiving some guidance from the Elven elders concerning the disturbing dreams she has been having, Mithrén risks her life, using Old Elven Magic, to interpret them. In the course of doing so, it is revealed to her exactly what Sharp Axe and his men have become involved in and, consequently, that they are in grave danger. Having tried unsuccessfully to alert her brother, Aldaron, through the power of thought, Mithrén must travel to the Iron Wood, but will she be able to warn him before it is too late?

  Meanwhile, in Jarnvidr, King Harald Fairhair reveals himself to be Loki, the Trickster God and introduces his fearsome, larger-than-life life partner, Angrboda, the great Hagia of the Iron Wood, to Sharp Axe and the men. Rather than hand over the list that Loki is so eager to possess, they manage to escape with it into the depths of the wood but, far from being safe there, they are attacked by some of Jarnvidr’s hideous, savage and insubstantial residents: the Jarnvidjur, the Varns and the Spirits of the Iron Wood.

  Mithrén arrives in Jarnvidr after the men’s first terrifying encounter, helps to heal the wounded and tries to inform Sharp Axe and Aldaron of her discovery. Sharp Axe is reluctantly forced to abandon her but, before doing so, manages to persuade Mithrén to leave the Iron Wood with the list for safekeeping.

  Fearless turns from coward into hero, then into the more familiar role of villain, as he is first given an accidental overdose of a courage potion, before becoming possessed by an evil spirit and turning on his brother. Hodbrodd emerges as the men’s and, in particular, Sharp Axe’s unlikely saviour on more than one occasion. Have the Nine Worlds gone mad?

  In a final throw of the dice, Angrboda succeeds in transforming her son, the giant wolf Fenrir, into man-form, thus enabling him to slip his enchanted bonds and escape from the remote underground prison in which the Aesir placed him long ago. Hródvitnir, as Angrboda names her new creation, is summoned to Jarnvidr and sent to take the list from Sharp Axe and his men.

  Fully aware that the actions of Loki and Angrboda are threatening the very existence of the gods of Asgard and Vanaheimr, Odin despatches Thor (God of Thunder), Týr (God of War) and Freyr (god of almost everything else) to the Iron Wood, to thwart Loki’s plans and to imprison once again the man-wolf formerly known as Fenrir who, with Sharp Axe’s assistance, is immobilised and bound.

  A search party sets out to track down Loki, but the Trickster God confronts Sharp Axe in the wood and sets about forcing him to reveal the whereabouts of the list. To Sharp Axe’s horror, Mithrén arrives on the scene and allows Loki to take the list from her. Loki then shapeshifts into a hooded crow moments before Thor’s dramatic appearance in his stone chariot, just too late to prevent Loki the crow from escaping into the night, gripping the list firmly in its claws.

  Except…

  Thanks to Mithrén, what Loki actually took with him was not the list he so desired, but an ancient Elven remedy to cure an ingrowing toenail.

  For the time being at least, Loki’s master plan has hit a major snag. Will he give up?

  Not Loki.

  Book Three

  Asgard

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Grimstad

  Bathed in the warm glow of early-evening sunshine, a group of Viking warriors and an elf maiden rode their horses at a leisurely pace and in a general south-easterly direction, along a rough, winding track. A subdued silence had long since settled upon the riders, each lost in his or her own recollections of recent traumatic and, in some cases, extremely painful events.

  Having come to a decision to lead his band of men back to Grimstad, Sharp Axe rode at the front of the group. Beside him, on his left, rode Fynn the Fortunate: trusted friend, confidant, companion in battle and, not least, the luckiest man Sharp Axe had ever met. On his right rode Mithrén, the elf maiden he intended to marry one day.

  Sharp Axe had reached his decision to return to Grimstad after a certain amount of soul-searching and for four reasons. Firstly, he felt that after everything his men had been through with him over the past few weeks, he owed it to them to accompany them home. Secondly, he had not seen his family in Grimstad since his departure from there more than two years previously, shortly after the hammer of Thor had been recovered. Thirdly, he felt it was high time he introduced Mithrén to his mother and, if it were absolutely unavoidable, to his father.

  The over-riding reason behind Sharp Axe’s decision, however was, unlike all the other reasons, a purely selfish one. It was so selfish, in fact, that it was tearing Sharp Axe’s conscience, painfully and very effectively, into feelings of guilt and shame. Despite this, he just could not help himself: he simply had to be there when it happened; nothing could prevent him from missing it!

  For a brief moment, Sharp Axe put to one side his guilt and shame, as he imagined the scene. He afforded himself a private grin, which turned into a laugh – which had to disguise quickly with a cough, to avoid receiving unwelcome questions from his companions. Finally, impatience getting the better of him, he gently dug his heels into his horse’s sides and picked up the pace, eager to reach Grimstad.

  Without a moment’s hesitation between them, the others duly followed Sharp Axe’s lead and the group broke, as one, into a gallop.

  *

  Somewhere, en route to a lower world, a hooded crow carried in its claws a roll of parchment. As it flapped its way through the air, which was becoming a little warmer with each passing minute, the bird could not help but feel rather pleased with itself. It was on the verge of a great triumph – a victory which, not very long ago, had seemed impossible, after so many cruel and unforeseen setbacks: the reluctance of the group of dim-witted humans, charged with retrieving the scroll of parchment from Helheimr, to hand it over to the improper authority; the many failures of the normally-dependable Angrboda to seek out those same humans and take the parchment from them on what had been, for her, home territory; the appearance of an interfering elf maiden who, at some point, had taken charge of the parchment; finally, the untimely and most unwelcome appearances of Thor, God of Thunder and his ham-fisted, half-witted half-brother, Týr, God of War.

  Still, none of the setbacks, however serious they might have seemed at the time, had prevented him, the hooded crow – Loki, as he had been then – from taking what he craved. Soon, he would be with his adoptive father, the Fire Giant who had raised him as his own, to discuss the details of the next phase of the great plan – the plan which, at its conclusion, would bring down the gods of Asgard and their allies, the Vanir, once and for all and change the Nine Worlds forever.

  *

  Grimstad was in sight. After many days’ ride, the village was finally spotted in the distance by the eagle-eyed Aldaron. Not that Aldaron recognised the place, of course – he had never been to Grimstad – but the fact that he had announced there was a village up ahead, given its position relative to the direction in which the group was headed, the surrounding terrain and the number of days which they had spent riding towards it, the conclusion was inescapable: the men were almost home. To be more accurate, of course, only Sharp Axe and Fearless were almost home, as the rest of the men came from villages not far from Grimstad, and Mithrén and Aldaron lived in Álfheimr, but that mattered little; the next port of call was in sight – at least, in Aldaron’s sight.

  Sharp Axe had no illusions of a triumphant homecoming. He had had illusions of a triumphant homecoming before; he had dreamed of one
, throughout his quest to find Mjøllnir. Any slight chance of those illusions becoming a reality had been completely and heartlessly shattered by Sharp Axe’s brother, Fearless, who had conspired to reach Grimstad ahead of him, with the intention of finding Mjøllnir and taking all the credit, plus any glory which might be on offer, for himself. That particular conspiracy had back-fired spectacularly on Fearless and the memory of riding past his treacherous brother as he was stuck in a tree, completely helpless, on the way to Álfheimr still cheered Sharp Axe up no end, whenever his spirits needed a bit of a lift.

  On this occasion, Sharp Axe had nothing about which to feel triumphant: certainly nothing he felt like sharing with his family, or the other inhabitants of Grimstad. Admittedly, the group had helped to prevent the evil trickster, Loki, from acquiring a list, the significance of which had only recently been explained to Sharp Axe. The truth, though, was that if Sharp Axe and his men had not been duped into running Loki’s errand to collect the list from Helheimr, Loki would never have had the opportunity to get his hands on it in the first place.

  No: triumphant homecomings were very far from Sharp Axe’s thoughts at that moment. They were best left to real heroes, in his opinion: heroes who had managed to do some good; heroes who had actually achieved something; heroes who were successful; heroes who could be counted amongst life’s true winners. If the locals asked Sharp Axe what he had been up to since his departure to find the hammer for Thor, he would be hard-pressed to think of one solid achievement to report, but he comforted himself with the thought that, with the possible exception of his mother, no-one in the vicinity of Grimstad was ever likely to raise the subject with him.

  *

  On the outskirts of Grimstad, Sharp Axe bade a fond farewell to the majority of his men: to Randver

  Woodenleg; to Alfgeir Stargazer; to Ulric the Unwilling; to Jormunrek the Exaggerator; to Hedin Dogbiter; to Hamdir the Halfling and, most fondly of all, to Hodbrodd the Odd. It was, Sharp Axe told himself, in all likelihood, the very last time he would ever see any of them. He could not help but feel a huge sense of relief.

  Sharp Axe thanked each of them for his contribution to the group’s latest quest and watched them depart, as they went their separate ways. Then he, Fearless, Fynn, Mithrén and Aldaron continued their journey towards the village of Grimstad and the Wolf Wrestler family home.

  Gunnhildr, Sharp Axe’s mother, could barely contain her joy at seeing her two sons. She remembered Fynn from his previous visits, before and after the quest to find Mjøllnir and welcomed him, as she did Mithrén and Aldaron, like long-lost family members. Knowing his mother as he did, this did not surprise Sharp Axe in the least.

  ‘Tell me what you’ve been up to,’ Gunnhildr said to Sharp Axe, with the kind of wide-eyed eagerness which is to be found only in a mother addressing her son, after a lengthy spell apart.

  ‘Oh… you know… nothing special… ’ shrugged Sharp Axe, modestly, ‘… just saving a few of the Nine Worlds… that sort of thing.’

  Gunnhildr smiled and gave her son an indulgent look before she crushed him again in a powerful bear-hug, which might very well have succeeded in squeezing most of the life out of the average Frost Giant.

  Next, Gunnhildr turned to Fearless, her other son; a son towards whom she had never been able to feel quite as affectionate as she had his brother – but a son, nonetheless. She hugged him closely; Fearless tolerated it for almost a full two seconds, before struggling to free himself.

  After Fearless, Fynn and Aldaron received the Gunnhildr treatment, which was somewhat gentler and rather less of an ordeal in the case of honoured male guests than for immediate family members.

  Finally, Gunnhildr turned to Mithrén. The two women looked at each other for a moment – a long, awkward moment – and, just as Sharp Axe was becoming concerned that his mother’s famous hospitality might not run to prospective daughters-in-law, Gunnhildr sniffed back a tear, stretched out her arms to the unsuspecting Mithrén and dragged the delicate elf maiden right off her feet, into the air and into a powerful, emotional embrace which, despite its good intentions, all but suffocated her. Had Sharp Axe not eventually intervened, his intended might well have breathed her last in his mother’s arms, right before his eyes.

  Sharp Axe’s father, Harald Wolf Wrestler, was sitting in his favourite chair, in a corner of the house, when Sharp Axe, Fearless and the guests arrived. He did not bother to leave it in order to greet them; he merely acknowledged their presence with an indifferent grunt and a curt nod.

  Gunnhildr, clearly embarrassed by her husband’s lack of manners and hospitality, gave him the sort of look which left him in no doubt whatsoever that he would be in deep trouble, once the guests had eventually vacated the premises.

  Sharp Axe merely smiled to himself; it was good to be home... for a short while, anyway.

  For reasons best known to himself, Fearless chose this particular moment to confront his father with what would, for the latter, turn out to be an earth-shattering revelation. Fearless strode up to the chair in which Harald was sitting and cleared his throat.

  This is it! thought Sharp Axe excitedly and transferred his full and undivided attention to the impending confrontation.

  ‘Father,’ began Fearless, with uncharacteristic formality, ‘I have something to tell you.’

  To describe Harald’s reaction as anything even approaching ‘interested’ would have been a wild and totally unjustified exaggeration.

  ‘I… er… ’ continued Fearless, shuffling on the spot nervously, somewhat thrown by his father’s silence, ‘… I… have a new… name.’

  Here we go, thought Sharp Axe and edged a little closer to his father and brother, to optimise his view and enhance his enjoyment of the proceedings.

  Harald kept his silence and continued to stare at his less-favoured son, sternly.

  ‘Yes… ’ went on Fearless, though more to himself than to anyone else, ‘… following some rather heroic exploits on my part… ’

  Whilst under the influence of a spell and totally unaware of your actions, thought Sharp Axe.

  ‘… I am now… known… as… ’

  Harald slowly, almost imperceptibly, raised an eyebrow, as the tension generated by the expectant silence in the rest of the house became unbearable.

  ‘… as… ’ persisted Fearless.

  Harald’s other eyebrow joined its neighbour.

  ‘“Wolf Slayer”.’

  The two words seemed cut through Harald like a well-honed battle-axe. Both his eyebrows plummeted into a frown.

  No-one dared breathe.

  The silence was almost intolerable.

  Sharp Axe, Gunnhildr, Fynn and Mithrén all knew the story of how Harald, as a young boy, had been forced by his brothers to engage in unarmed combat with a wolf but, having failed to kill it, had been awarded the name ‘Wolf Wrestler’, rather than the name he had really wanted: ‘Wolf Slayer’. Aldaron was not acquainted with the story but knew when to keep quiet, all the same.

  At this point, one of Fearless’s legs began to tremble; he hoped no-one would notice.

  Everyone noticed.

  Sweat began to break out on Fearless’s brow.

  Sharp Axe was enjoying himself no end.

  ‘Well,’ announced Gunnhildr, in motherly fashion and in an attempt to break the indescribably-tense atmosphere in the room, ‘that’s very nice, dear… that will be a lovely Viking name… Erik Wolf Slayer – ’

  ‘Fearless Wolf Slayer!’ corrected Fearless, turning round and giving his mother a disapproving look.

  ‘Er… yes, sorry… ’ said Gunnhildr, apologetically, ‘… Fearless Wolf Slayer… isn’t that nice, Harald?’ she prompted, staring encouragingly at her husband.

  Harald did not answer. His complexion was darkening. There was no actual sign of movement in his face, but its colour continued to change to a darker shade of unhealthy rather rapidly.

  Fearless’s nerve seemed to be failing him. He took a hesitant half-step backw
ards, away from his silently-fuming father.

  Sharp Axe would not have missed this scene for any one of the Nine Worlds.

  ‘So,’ went on Fearless, continuing his tentative retreat with another backward half-step, ‘I… just thought… you should… er… know about it… the new name, I mean.’

  The Wolf Wrestler’s piercing gaze never left Fearless’s eyes, as he watched his son draw back slowly; still, Harald said nothing.

  ‘SO!’ announced Gunnhildr again, in another, louder, similarly badly-disguised and equally-unsuccessful attempt to reduce the tension in the house. ‘Let’s… all… eat!’

  Dinner for seven was far from being prepared, as the five new arrivals had made their appearance unannounced. The words were barely out of Gunnhildr’s mouth before Mithrén, Aldaron and Fynn all made a lunge in their hostess’s direction offering her, as they did so, their full and unconditional assistance, where cooking, preparing and, if necessary, killing something to eat for dinner was concerned; anything would have been preferable to staying for a moment longer within earshot of Fearless’s toe-curlingly embarrassing, one-way conversation with his father.

  *

  Dinner at the Wolf Wrestlers’ house that day consisted mainly of roast wild boar, which Fynn had caught during what had been, in his view at least, an all-too-brief foray into the woods. Fynn had been the quickest to respond to Gunnhildr’s suggestion that fresh meat might be just what her meal needed and he was out of the front door faster than a lightning strike; so fast, in fact, that Aldaron, who would dearly have loved to escape the house for an hour or two with Fynn, stood rooted to the spot, amazed at Fynn’s turn of speed, just long enough for Gunnhildr to place a large knife into his hand and ask him to make a start chopping the assortment of vegetables currently residing in her kitchen. In the interests of safety, Mithrén relieved Aldaron of the knife before he hurt himself and suggested that he select the vegetables for her to prepare, instead.

  Within two minutes of entering the wood, Fynn had spotted, crept up on and bagged a wild boar with a well-aimed arrow. He then wandered aimlessly around the wood, the boar draped across his shoulders, putting off the moment when he would have to return to the house for as long as he dared. Embarrassed though he felt, he still wanted to return soon enough to give Gunnhildr a sporting chance of cooking the boar for dinner that same evening, rather than for breakfast the following day.