Asgard

by Fynn F Gunnarson

  ‘But what?’ probed Mithrén, hoping that there may yet be a way to avoid Thor’s chariot-ride-of-death.

  ‘But… ’ continued Thor, ‘… it’s too far, Odin has given me instructions to take you there and, in any case, without me, you’d never get past Valhalla’s front door!’

  ‘Oh,’ sighed Sharp Axe and Mithrén as one, each every bit as disappointed as the other.

  Defeated, Sharp Axe eased himself carefully into the chariot beside Mithrén and the pair braced themselves for the imminent discomfort of Thor’s huge frame being squeezed in, beside them.

  Finally persuaded that everything was in order with the chariot, Thor took up the reins, raised his hands high, called out to his goats by name, then brought down the leather straps across their hindquarters with what, if asked, Thor’s passengers would probably have described as “extreme and unnecessary force”. The terrified goats took off and Sharp Axe and Mithrén felt the familiar sudden, uncomfortable wrench, as Thor’s chariot immediately lurched forward.

  *

  The cramped, noisy and far-from-smooth journey in Thor’s chariot of stone seemed almost endless. Sharp Axe kept a protective arm around Mithrén’s shoulders the whole time, mainly to prevent her from falling out along the way (he was far from convinced that Thor would have stopped to pick her up) and she clung to his waist (with much the same thought in mind). It was, then, to the passengers’ immense relief when, at long last, Thor made an announcement.

  ‘There it is!’ roared the God of Thunder, above the noise of the wind and the stone wheels, as the chariot flew along the narrow approach – a track very familiar to Thor, which he was negotiating expertly and, it seemed to Sharp Axe and Mithrén at times, downright recklessly. ‘Valhalla!’

  Sharp Axe felt as if a belt had suddenly been tightened around his abdomen by a couple of notches, as the possibility of actually seeing his grandfather again took another step towards becoming a reality. The dreadful thought of Knut not recognising or even remembering Sharp Axe occurred to him once more, as it had already done several times on the journey from Asgard; he could really do without an embarrassing scene in front of the Norse Lands’ finest and deadest warriors, as well as the Valkyries – the fearsome, statuesque female warriors who, when they were not riding across battlefields, gathering up dead warriors for Valhalla, were gainfully employed inside Valhalla, serving drinks to those same dead warriors.

  As Valhalla finally hove into view, Sharp Axe gazed at the enormous – the unimaginably-enormous, inconceivably-enormous – structure before him: it was bigger than anything he had ever seen. It would have dwarfed Odin’s palace, the Great Hall of the Dead and Surtr’s palace, even if the three of them could, somehow, have been joined together. Valhalla was, quite simply, indescribably vast, immeasurably big, impossibly huge.

  Built in the fashionable Asgard suburb of Gladsheimr, Valhalla, the Hall of the Slain, was constructed entirely out of polished shields and spears which, come Ragnarøkkr, were destined to be used in battle by its legion of warrior inhabitants against the enemies of the Aesir and Vanir. At regular intervals around the structure, there were giant doors: five hundred and forty of them, according to Thor. These giant doors were no ordinary giant doors, either; each one of those five hundred and forty doors was wide enough to allow eight hundred warriors to pass through it, standing side by side. An explanation as to why this was considered necessary when Valhalla was designed was not offered by Thor; neither passenger asked for one, just in case Thor did not know and they feared that having his ignorance exposed, where divine historical matters were concerned, might put him in a bad mood again.

  Am I really here? thought Sharp Axe to himself.

  ‘Can this be... real?’ gasped Mithrén out loud.

  ‘It had better be!’ replied Thor, skilfully and swiftly bringing the chariot to a halt, outside one of the doors. ‘I need a drink!’

  *

  One of Valhalla’s five hundred-odd doors creaked slowly open, in response to Thor’s mighty, hammer-assisted knock. Nodding briefly and distractedly to the two strikingly-attractive and remarkably-muscular Valkyries on door duty, the God of Thunder strode into Valhalla with all the determination of a deity on a mission: a mission to satisfy his thirst.

  Sharp Axe and Mithrén hurried in after Thor, acknowledging the Valkyries, who exchanged puzzled glances but did not attempt to prevent Thor’s two guests from entering. A few strides further on, however, a tall, bearded, rather imposing figure suddenly seemed to appear out of nowhere. Sharp Axe and Mithrén stopped dead in their tracks and looked up into the face of what Sharp Axe took to be Valhalla’s resident deity on duty.

  ‘I am Bragi: son of Odin and Frygga,’ announced the figure in grand fashion, thus confirming Sharp Axe’s suspicions. ‘I bid you wel – ’

  Sharp Axe, however, had no intention of being welcomed grandly by one of Odin’s innumerable offspring, nor anyone else for that matter, if it meant he risked losing his guide and protector in Valhalla’s Great Hall. He grabbed Mithrén around the wrist, muttered an apology to Thor’s rather confused-looking half-brother, side-stepped him and, transferring his grip to one of Mithrén’s hands, pulled her along with him as he went, scanning the horizon frantically for signs of the Thunder God.

  ‘Thor!’ cried Sharp Axe at the top of his voice, once he had spotted Thor’s rapidly-disappearing figure. ‘We need you to find my grandfather!’

  In the distance, Thor stopped dead in his tracks, sighed exaggeratedly and allowed his shoulders to slump slightly. He was under instruction from Odin; that drink would have to wait.

  As the God of Thunder turned to face Sharp Axe and Mithrén, they looked past him, then left and right, to observe a scene of near-total chaos and mayhem: Valhalla in full swing.

  There seemed to be no end to the Great Hall, either to the left or to the right. Each visitor’s attention was caught by the hall’s single, sturdy-looking wooden table (as long, for all Sharp Axe could tell, as the hall itself), at which were seated countless warriors, drinking, eating, laughing, singing, gesticulating, shouting and attempting to embrace the many, tantalisingly-evasive Valkyries who glided gracefully around the hall floor, carrying oversized trays on which were set far too many oversized horns of foaming ale. Sharp Axe could not actually see either end of the table, but he knew that, at one of those ends, there would be a rather splendid empty chair, belonging to Odin.

  Sharp Axe stood still for a moment, closed his eyes, took a deep breath and listened to the noise: it was incredible. It was the noise of thousands upon thousands of Viking warriors, who had achieved their life’s ambition: to spend their death enjoying themselves at the biggest, rowdiest, noisiest, best-catered, longest-lasting party there ever was or would be, and they were intent on making the most of it.

  Thor sighed again, took a few steps towards Sharp Axe and Mithrén, then bellowed over the din, ‘Follow me! I’ll ask around!’

  Sharp Axe and Mithrén walked after Thor, who barged his way impatiently past drunken reveller upon drunken reveller and the occasional over-laden, statuesque Valkyrie along the enormous, seemingly-unending wooden table bawling, as he went, ‘Knut Cod Killer! Where… is… Knut… Cod… Killer?’

  Warrior after warrior shook his head, shrugged his shoulders or replied in the negative, many raising a horn of ale to Thor, others scrutinising the odd couple who accompanied him, with alcohol-fuelled interest.

  Thor was quickly losing patience and Sharp Axe was growing increasingly concerned, partly that Thor might simply decide to abandon the search, but mainly that his grandfather might not actually be in Valhalla at all.

  Still, to Sharp Axe’s relief, Thor stuck to his task; he continued to push his way through the drunken throng, enquiring of any warrior who was sober enough to understand as to the whereabouts of the elusive Knut Cod Killer.

  Just as Sharp Axe’s hopes were beginning to fade, the warrior to whom Thor was speaking (or, more accurately, having to shout to be heard) sudde
nly nodded vigorously and swung out an arm to indicate the direction in which Knut might be found. The man appeared to be trying to show that, wherever Knut’s place at table might be, it was a long way down the Great Hall of the Slain from his own place.

  Sharp Axe glanced down the hall, to where the warrior’s finger had pointed. The table was absolutely crammed with occupants along its entire length. Sharp Axe’s heart sank: at this rate, it might take him the rest of his own natural life to locate his dead grandfather.

  Oh, well, thought Sharp Axe to himself. I’ve waited all these years… a few more won’t do any harm.

  Thor, on the other hand, did not share the same viewpoint at all. Having gauged the distance to the place the direction-giver had indicated, estimated the time it would take to walk there and, finally, calculated the volume of ale he would not be able to consume as a result of making the journey, his face fell catastrophically. Still aware that he was acting on Odin’s orders, however, he nodded to the warrior, took a deep, disgruntled breath and set off again, passing the seated drunken hoards as he went. This time, though, whenever a warrior raised a horn of ale to toast Thor’s health, the God of Thunder snatched it from the owner and downed the contents in the blinking of an eye, wiped his sleeve roughly across his mouth, then handed back the empty horn to the bewildered resident of Valhalla.

  It seemed to take an age for Thor and his guests to walk along the highly-elated, overly-ecstatic rows of boisterous warriors, especially as Thor apparently needed a drink every ten paces or so. They moved on, continuing to attract the interest of the revellers (especially of those whom Thor robbed of drinking-horn and contents thereof) until, at long last, the God of Thunder seemed satisfied that he had found the right part of the table. He stopped and began to look around him, apparently trying to spot Knut in amongst the crowd. Does he actually know my grandfather? Sharp Axe wondered to himself, impressed.

  Suddenly, recognition seemed to brighten Thor’s face. He set off quickly, straight ahead, with purpose. This is it! thought Sharp Axe, with mounting excitement and matched the God of Thunder, stride for stride.

  It was with considerable disappointment, then, that Sharp Axe had to draw himself to an abrupt halt, not twenty paces further on, as Thor reached his intended destination: a Valkyrie, carrying a tray overloaded with horns of ale.

  ‘I’ll take these,’ Thor informed the Valkyrie who, initially, looked slightly put out, although she soon seemed to melt in Thor’s presence, thanks to what Valkyries must have found to be his rugged good looks and equally-rugged charm.

  Thor disposed of the ale with consummate ease, skill, speed, efficiency and obvious relish. When the last horn had been emptied and as Thor was wiping any lingering signs of its contents from his facial hair, Sharp Axe tapped him on the shoulder. Thor turned around and looked a little surprised to see him standing there.

  ‘Knut Cod Killer?’ enquired Sharp Axe irritably and received a slightly disapproving look from Thor in return which, under the circumstances, he felt entitled to ignore.

  The God of Thunder paused briefly, rolled his eyes upwards, then took a deep breath and bellowed, once again, ‘Knut… Cod… Killer!’

  The revellers in the immediate vicinity fell silent. Several of them turned to look at one of their number – a tough-looking middle-aged man with a weather-beaten face, greying hair and a matching beard – who was in the process of despatching the contents of a large horn of ale. Suddenly aware of being the centre of attention, the drinker removed the horn from his lips rather self-consciously and looked around. After a moment, his gaze fell upon Thor and, finally, upon the fair-haired young man standing beside him.

  Sharp Axe returned the man’s gaze and took a couple of tentative steps towards the table; somehow, this man looked younger than his grandson’s memory of him but, at that moment, Sharp Axe was prepared to believe that living the good death in Valhalla might have some kind of miraculous restorative effect on the physical appearance of its residents.

  ‘Grandfather?’ asked Sharp Axe, uncertainly. The silence seemed to swell; it extended down both sides of the table; the scene around Sharp Axe seemed to dissolve into nothingness and he could see only the bewildered Viking sitting before him, holding a half-empty drinking-horn.

  The man frowned a little and tilted his head slightly, as he closely observed the young man who had addressed him. Something in the man’s eyes hinted that he just might recognise Sharp Axe.

  ‘Knut…?’ went on Sharp Axe, breathlessly, his heart pounding wildly. ‘Knut Cod Killer?’

  There was an agonising pause; all surrounding eyes seemed now to be focused on the pair.

  ‘No!’ said the old Viking flatly, apparently affronted. ‘I’m Knut Dog Killer!’

  Sharp Axe’s hopes plummeted. ‘Oh… s–sorry,’ he mumbled, hoping against hope that the floor of Valhalla might open up beneath his feet immediately and swallow him whole.

  The silence imploded and the din started up again, now every bit as loud as it had previously been.

  ‘Who wants Knut Cod Killer?’ came a lusty voice suddenly, over the terrible noise.

  Sharp Axe spun around. Sitting a dozen or so places down the table was the enquirer. Even though he had last set eyes on him when he was only five years old, Sharp Axe instantly knew he had finally found his grandfather.

  ‘I do,’ croaked a dry-mouthed Sharp Axe, looking his grandfather in the eye, as silence descended once more. ‘Erik Sharp Axe… son of Harald Wolf Wrestler… grandson of... Knut Cod Killer.’

  Knut rose slowly and warily from the table, never releasing his grandson from his gaze: he looked almost exactly as Sharp Axe had remembered him in his mind’s eye although, curiously, perhaps a little younger and fitter-looking. The notorious tree did not appear to have caused any permanent damage to Knut’s physique.

  ‘Erik…?’ he gasped quietly, though quite audibly in the silence, ‘... my… Erik?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sharp Axe managed to reply, despite the rising lump in his throat. Knut’s brow creased suddenly and his eyes narrowed, as if the prospect of something rather disagreeable had just occurred to him.

  ‘You are the good one, aren’t you?’ he asked, a little dubiously. Sharp Axe could not prevent himself from grinning.

  ‘Yes, Grandfather,’ he replied, ‘I hope that I am... the good one.’

  Finally, Knut smiled and nodded his head but, then, suddenly looked concerned again.

  ‘You aren’t… ?’ he began; Sharp Axe knew immediately what he was going to ask.

  ‘No, grandfather,’ confirmed Sharp Axe, with a slow, brief shake of his head, ‘I’m not dead... not just yet.’

  Knut smiled again and nodded. ‘That’s good,’ he said cheerfully and with some relief, ‘for I have a lot to tell you.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Cod Killer’s Tale

  The passage of a dead Viking warrior into Valhalla should have been a pretty straightforward affair: Valhalla was designed to accommodate only those warriors whose services were to be called upon to fight beside the Aesir and Vanir, come Ragnarøkkr. It seemed logical, then, that these warriors should have to prove, during their lifetime, that they would be of use to the Aesir and Vanir in that battle to end all battles. Some deity – none of the gods could remember who, but it might have been Týr, God of War, or Thor, God of Thunder, or even Odin himself – concluded that the type of recruit most suited to the task would be a seasoned (though still physically-capable) warrior, who felt so strongly about a particular cause that he was prepared to sacrifice his life for it in battle. This invariably involved any worthy candidate giving up the ghost whilst gripping at least one weapon, so Odin decided to keep things nice and simple by passing a decree stating that, in order for a dead Viking warrior to reside in Valhalla, that particular warrior should have met his end with his sword held firmly in his hand. This, Odin reasoned, would all but eliminate any risk of allowing into Valhalla the type of unsavoury individual who might attend a battl
e, but die trying to run away, or one who might hang back from the thick of fight, hoping to let his colleagues do all the work and claim the glory later, only to be hit accidentally by a stray arrow whilst sunbathing or whilst helping himself to his (or, more probably, someone else’s) packed lunch. Some in Asgard and Vanaheimr felt this penalised those otherwise entirely-worthy warriors who preferred the use of axe or spear to sword, but those deities kept their opinions to themselves rather than upset Odin or, worse still, complicate and prolong the debate even further.

  Subsequent exceptions to Odin’s decree on qualification for Valhalla residency – in other words, individuals who had managed to enter Valhalla following a less-than-heroic, non-battlefield death – were very few and far between.

  The first such exception on record was Ulf the Unlucky, so named because he had always seemed to be in the wrong place at the right time. Witness his rather unfortunate demise, which came about whilst he was trying, rather clumsily, to remove a stone from his horse’s hoof with his sword, when the ungrateful animal suddenly kicked out and struck Ulf smartly and squarely on the temple. His arrival, moments later, in Valhalla was met, it would be fair to say, with rather muted celebration by those of its occupants who had been acquainted with Ulf in their previous lives.

  The second example came some years later, when Kali the Cowardly found himself, to everyone’s surprise (especially his own), entering Valhalla’s great hall. Kali, long-noted for his unwavering principles of self-preservation was, against his better judgment, actually in the vicinity of a battle at the time of his passing. Of course, he had had absolutely no intention of venturing anywhere near the fighting but had risked expulsion from his village if he had not agreed, at the very least, to volunteer to take provisions to the band of local heroes, fighting to defend a group of villages (Kali’s included) against foreign invaders about whose origins Kali had not bothered to enquire. Kali’s partner in the process of delivering the provisions went by the name of Gellir the Grisly (a tough, wily old campaigner, veteran of many a battle and a man with one eye permanently on Valhalla) and, although he was now far too old to partake in any fighting, he went everywhere and even slept with his sword in his hand, as insurance against sudden and unexpected death. Unfortunately, a wheel of the cart carrying the food and ale rolled into a deep hole in the track (which the elderly driver, Gellir, had failed to see on account of his now somewhat-less-than 20-20 vision), causing the front axle to shear under the weight of the cargo and the cart to collapse, spilling the provisions. Gellir and Kali dismounted to inspect the damage and Gellir, assuming correctly that Kali would not be of much use during the inspection procedure, handed Kali his sword to hold, whilst he went through the cart’s former contents to assess which items the two of them could carry on foot to their destination and which should be left behind. As bad luck would have it, at that precise moment, Gellir and Kali were ambushed by a reconnaissance party of invaders. Gellir, through no fault of his own, suffered an undeservedly-dishonourable, weaponless death, whereas Kali died of a heart attack, brought on by blind terror, as he gripped Gellir’s sword firmly in his white-knuckled, trembling hand.