Asgard

by Fynn F Gunnarson

  What a family, thought Fynn to himself, as the boar began to weigh so heavily on his shoulders that he felt, in the interests of his neck’s wellbeing, he should probably delay its delivery no longer. It’s no wonder Sharp Axe moved to Álfheimr! was Fynn’s last thought as he arrived back on the Wolf Wrestlers’ doorstep with his offering for dinner.

  *

  As the sun began seriously to consider setting, Fynn, the two Light Elves, Sharp Axe, Fearless and Gunnhildr sat around the Wolf Wrestler table, eating what might, under different circumstances, have been a most enjoyable meal.

  ‘Compliments to the chef!’ hiccupped Mithrén rather tipsily, raising her third goblet of finest Wolf Wrestler mead to Gunnhildr.

  ‘Compliments to the hunter!’ said Sharp Axe, with a wry grin, raising his goblet to Fynn. ‘Must be losing your touch, though Fynn… doesn’t usually take you anywhere near that long to find dinner!’

  Fynn shifted rather uncomfortably in his seat, forced a polite laugh, cleared his throat pensively and looked down at his dinner which, for once, he had no real appetite to eat.

  Harald had not moved out of his chair since Fearless had dropped the bombshell of his new name, soon after the group had arrived. In fact, Harald had not uttered a word – nor sound of any kind – since that moment. Gunnhildr, realising Harald was not to be persuaded to do otherwise, brought his dinner to the chair, for him to eat it where he was sitting. Years of experience had taught her nothing if not to allow Harald’s silent rages to pass of their own accord and in their own time. The downside to employing this technique was that Harald’s silent rages sometimes took several weeks to pass of their own accord.

  From his chair, Harald had a very good view of the table where his sons and guests were seated. Because of this, Fearless had deliberately positioned himself at the table with his back to his father. This did not, however, deter Harald from continuing to stare at the back of Fearless’s head, nor did it prevent Fearless from sensing his father’s eyes boring into his skull.

  Sharp Axe was shamelessly relishing his brother’s obvious and extreme discomfort.

  ‘Well, Wolf Slayer,’ he muttered out of the side of his mouth conspiratorially, just too quietly for their father to hear, ‘I thought Dad took the news terribly well!’

  Fearless, seated directly opposite Sharp Axe, gave his brother a murderous look.

  ‘At least,’ ploughed on Sharp Axe, a long way from appearing concerned about the look he was receiving, ‘far, far better than I’d expected!’

  Dinner continued with Sharp Axe and Fynn relaying selected extracts from their recent exploits to Gunnhildr, who tried to maintain a far more interested look than she felt the stories deserved, mainly because she feared any lack of interest on her part may result in the conversation working its way back to the subject of Fearless’s new name. She punctuated Sharp Axe’s and Fynn’s anecdotes with the occasional “ooh,” “aah,” and “really!”

  When, eventually, there came a sudden, mighty pounding at the front door, it was greeted by those sitting around the table with a mixture of surprise and relief: no other visitor was expected, since none had been invited, but whoever it was might provide a welcome diversion, both to the tense atmosphere which was still very much in evidence in the house and to the lull in the conversation which had recently occurred, when Sharp Axe and Fynn both ran out of stories to tell.

  The Wolf Wrestler household was about to discover that to call its latest visitor a diversion – welcome or otherwise – would have been an understatement of the most monumental proportions.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Unexpected Guest

  Just prior to the very loud knock on the door, which had caused all those sitting around the Wolf Wrestler family table to jump almost out of their seats, there had been a prolonged rumble of thunder, which had grown louder and louder until, at the peak of its volume, it had suddenly stopped.

  Sharp Axe, of all people, might have been expected to know what it meant. His thoughts, however, had been far from the gods – whether of the thunder variety or otherwise – and, in any case, he had had no reason to suspect that one might be about to pay him, his family and their dinner guests an unannounced visit.

  As the sound of the recent, very loud knock reverberated through the household, and the diners had recovered from the shock of the suddenness, loudness and proximity of the noise, they all looked at one another, confused and somewhat shaken. Gunnhildr, the first to recover her composure and somewhat put out by the violent treatment her door had just received, left the table abruptly, marched purposefully over to the still-vibrating door and opened it wide. Although she had seen the visitor on his previous visit to Grimstad, she had not taken much notice of him on that occasion, since he had pretty much confined his activities that afternoon to sitting with her husband at the front of the house, systematically and almost single-handedly polishing off their entire supply of homebrew. She therefore did not recognise the figure before her, whom she immediately adjudged to be the largest man she had ever seen – taller, in fact, than the door itself (and then some), even wider than the door frame, dressed in full battle gear, including a quite splendid winged helmet and carrying, in his wide leather belt, a short-handled, stone-headed hammer.

  ‘Yes?’ enquired a puzzled Gunnhildr who, despite being unusually tall, found herself leaning through the door frame and craning her neck, in an attempt to look the visitor in the eye. ‘Can I help you?’

  The God of Thunder, unaccustomed to dealing with humans and, consequently, not terribly au fait with the etiquette required of someone calling in at one of their abodes, ignored the lady of the house, ducked and squeezed his massive bulk, rather awkwardly, through the inconsiderately-small space provided by the gap in the wall and brushed past her.

  Appalled by this demonstration of bad manners, Gunnhildr’s jaw dropped and, just for the briefest moment, she was speechless and powerless to prevent the stranger from entering her home – only for a moment, though.

  ‘Excuse me!’ bellowed Gunnhildr, the second she had recovered her wits and, with a movement swift enough to make a mockery of her size, she lunged towards the visitor, reached up, grabbed one of his ears and pulled his head back and downwards, so that it was at roughly on a level with her own. The same lack of experience in dealing with the residents of Midgard, which left him sadly lacking in the manners department, had also left the Thunder God totally unprepared for being dealt with by one of them in this way. For the time being, he could do nothing but stare back into the blazing eyes of the enraged woman who held his ear in an agonisingly-powerful grip.

  ‘No-one,’ shouted Gunnhildr into Thor’s mystified face, ‘enters my house un-in-vi-ted!’ and, to emphasise the point, she synchronised a painful tug on her victim’s ear with each syllable of the last word she delivered.

  Back at the dinner table, all Helheimr had suddenly broken loose: the diners had all leapt to their feet, sending chairs crashing to the floor; warning shouts were ringing out; arms were being flailed around in cautionary fashion; Sharp Axe’s voice was slightly louder than the rest and it was his voice which Gunnhildr heard.

  ‘Mother!’ shouted Sharp Axe. ‘That’s Thor!’

  ‘I… don’t… care… ’ responded Gunnhildr, addressing the stranger through gritted teeth and with more synchronised ear-tugging, ‘… if he’s the God of Thunder!’

  ‘Well, funnily enough, Mother – ’

  ‘He’s not coming into my house until I… in… vite… him… in!’ and, with that, Gunnhildr pulled the ear to which Thor was barely still attached towards the open door and out through it. Thor’s new standing-position, bent uncomfortably at an awkward angle, meant that, conveniently in some ways, it was a little easier for him to exit the house than it had been for him to enter it. Sadly, the irony of the situation managed to pass Thor by completely.

  Sharp Axe raced out of the house, in pursuit of his mother. Fynn was not far behind him. They arrived outside to see
Gunnhildr who had, by then released Thor’s ear, looking up at the dumbfounded deity and giving him a lecture.

  ‘Now… we’ll try again!’ she was saying and, apparently, Thor was listening. ‘I’ll go back inside and close the door… you’ll knock… I’ll answer it and ask you who you are… you’ll tell me… then, if I decide I want you in my house, I’ll invite you in… at which point, you will be free to enter… got that, big boy?’

  Thor nodded dumbly and watched Gunnhildr walk away from him, extend her broad, muscular arms to embrace the pale-faced, open-mouthed Sharp Axe and Fynn, usher them back into the house and close the door behind her.

  Not for the first time that day, there was a tense silence in the Wolf Wrestler family home.

  A moment later, there was another knock on the door. Unlike the previous knock, though, this one was delivered in a far lighter, bordering-on-polite, fashion.

  Gunnhildr strode back over to the door and opened it again.

  ‘Yes!’ she hissed upwards at the knock-deliverer, then forced a smile and a more pleasant tone of voice. ‘May I help you?’

  Thor cleared his throat, awkwardly and shuffled on the spot, for a moment.

  ‘Is Sharp Axe at home?’ he asked unnecessarily, sounding as though he were about to ask Gunnhildr if her son might be allowed to come out to play.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ replied Gunnhildr, matter-of-factly. ‘Whom may I say is calling?’

  ‘Thor… ’ said Thor, sheepishly, ‘… member of the Aesir... resident of Asgard... God of… Thunder.’

  ‘Erik,’ announced Gunnhildr primly, turning around to face her guests, ‘there’s someone here to see you, called… ’ Gunnhildr turned back to the visitor, ‘… what did you just say your name was?’

  ‘Thor… ’ sighed Thor, ‘… God of Thunder.’

  Gunnhildr staggered slightly and reached out for the wall, in the hope it might support her in her present condition – which was a woman on the point of fainting. Unfortunately, Gunnhildr’s outstretched hand failed to connect with anything solid, passing right through the open door frame and she keeled over like a felled pine.

  Thor neatly dodged his collapsing hostess, ducked deftly and entered the house once more, stepping indifferently over Gunnhildr’s prone, unconscious body as he did so.

  Mithrén ran over to Gunnhildr then, with some effort, managed to turn her onto her back, carefully lifted her head off the ground and supported it in one hand; with the other hand, she gently stroked the unconscious woman’s cheek, checked her breathing and listened for a heartbeat.

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ sighed Mithrén, relieved. ‘She’s just out cold.’

  No one heard. All other eyes in the house were on Thor, including those of Harald, who had less-than-fond memories of meeting the Thunder God: after a promising start to proceedings, Harald had ended up being despatched, through the air, into a painfully-sturdy tree. He now looked around the room, considering whether or not he should remove himself from it, in the interests of self-preservation. He need not have worried, though; Thor no longer had any interest whatsoever in Harald.

  ‘Your presence is requested,’ Thor informed Sharp Axe curtly, as he fought to put behind himself the humiliation of being man-handled by the lady of the house, albeit an uncommonly-formidable lady.

  Sharp Axe stared at Thor with a puzzled frown, unable to think why his own presence might be desired or required by anyone who would be in a position to use the God of Thunder as a messenger. As he pondered this conundrum, a sudden and terrifying thought occurred to Sharp Axe; it left him cold and numb.

  ‘Are you… Thor,’ he replied, eyes narrowing suspiciously into a frown, ‘or… Loki?’

  ‘Thor,’ said Thor without hesitation, though with the slightest puzzled frown of his own.

  ‘Prove it,’ pressed Sharp Axe, who had seen enough of Loki to lead him to the conclusion that it would be better to risk irritating Thor than to find himself at Loki’s mercy again if it could be avoided.

  Thor sighed and did, indeed, now appear to be slightly irritated. Sharp Axe did not care.

  ‘How?’ demanded Thor reasonably, the severity of the frown gradually increasing, together with the first signs of Thor’s well-known impatience.

  This was, Sharp Axe realised immediately, a very good question: so good, in fact, that he had no intention of attempting to answer it unaided.

  ‘One moment, please,’ he said pleasantly to Thor, though in the full expectation that Thor’s patience would not hold for much longer. Sharp Axe turned to Fynn, Aldaron and, against his better judgment, Fearless, quickly arranging them into a tight huddle. ‘You, too, Mithrén,’ he said to his intended, over his shoulder. ‘She’ll be all right without you for a minute or two,’ he added, anticipating – if not, at that particular moment, actually sharing – Mithrén’s concern for his mother.

  ‘Right,’ whispered Sharp Axe, once Mithrén had joined the tightly-bound huddle. ‘How can we get him to prove he is who he says he is?’

  Several suggestions were immediately forthcoming.

  ‘Ask him something Loki wouldn’t know,’ was the best of them; it had come from Mithrén.

  ‘Yes… all right… ’ replied Sharp Axe, looking Mithrén squarely in the eye, ‘... good idea. But what?’

  ‘Ask him… ’ said Mithrén, slowly, ‘… what is in the famous list. Loki hasn’t seen it and no-one could have told him, or he wouldn’t need to get his hands on it.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ hissed Sharp Axe, more than content not to scrutinise Mithrén’s logic too thoroughly, given the limited time available. ‘Brilliant!’

  The huddle disbanded, its members now confident of having found a way of establishing the huge visitor’s true identity.

  ‘Right,’ said Sharp Axe, addressing Thor. ‘What is in... the list?’

  Thor shook his head. ‘There isn’t time,’ he replied evenly. ‘It’s too long. You need to leave with me now.’

  Sharp Axe grunted his frustration, quietly. The answer was valid, but Loki could have guessed it.

  ‘What’s the first item on the list?’ pressed Mithrén.

  Thor looked down at the elf maiden and gave her his reply without hesitation.

  Mithrén looked at Sharp Axe.

  ‘That’s Thor,’ she said.

  *

  Far away, a hooded crow was nearing the end of its exhausting journey into another world: a hot, smoke-filled and what, to most creatures – though not to this particular bird – would be an alien and most inhospitable world. The crow’s excitement grew steadily the closer it got to its destination – and it was very close, now.

  In the distance, the crow’s keen eyesight could make out a figure: that of a Fire Giant – a Fire Giant who did not look at all surprised to be watching a hooded crow approaching him at high speed, despite visitors of the avian variety being extremely rare in his homeland and despite the atmospheric conditions of that homeland being rather less than conducive to wing-powered flight.

  Loki knew that, in a matter of minutes, the long wait would be over; he could get on with the task of initiating Ragnarøkkr. With what Loki held in his claws, there could be no stopping him: it would take a little time to establish the information he required from Frygga’s list but, once he had done that, the assassination could take place, events would be set in progress and no-one – not even Odin himself – could prevent them from reaching their eventual, spectacular, cataclysmic and, as far as Loki was concerned, highly-gratifying conclusion.

  All in all, Loki admitted to himself as he began his descent over Muspelheimr, he was more than satisfied with the way things were turning out, given what had, at times, seemed like insurmountable odds. What was more, as an added form of insurance, he had Surtr to assist him with planning.

  What in the Nine Worlds, Loki asked himself smugly, could possibly go wrong, now?

  *

  In a higher world, a husband and wife were seated in an enormous room, facing each other across a broad, el
aborately-carved wooden table. On the table was spread a long, faded piece of old parchment which was, following a considerable amount of recent rough-handling, looking rather the worse for wear.

  ‘You’re certain this is it?’ asked the husband, an imposing figure, with a long, chestnut-brown beard, flecked with grey and white and wearing a leather eye-patch, as he indicated the parchment anxiously with a leather-skinned index finger.

  His wife looked up from the parchment, swept her long, fair hair away from her face and fixed her gaze on her husband’s solitary eye.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, calmly.

  The husband’s sigh of relief was long, heartfelt and seemed to leave a whispery echo hanging in the enormous room.

  ‘You don’t think,’ continued the wife, now slightly less calmly, as she felt she could not suppress a nagging fear any longer, ‘he could know what’s it contains… ?’

  The husband’s brow transformed into a series of deep, parallel creases, as he considered, not for the first time, the unwelcome possibilities this question raised. His hesitation clearly caused his wife some consternation.

  ‘… do you?’ she concluded, her anxiety growing.

  The husband’s brow relaxed a little and some of the deeper creases became noticeably shallower.

  ‘Loki… ’ he began, having once again considered all the information which his son, Thor, had passed on to him (though not, it had appeared, with any degree of contentment), ‘… does not seem to have had the opportunity to read the contents… the humans did not know what the list contained before Loki fled… the elf maiden knew, but did not tell Loki.’