‘Who wants to make a wager on the outcome of the hunt?’ enquired Harald, just loud enough for the others to hear but, he hoped, not so loud as to discourage any prospective killer-wolves from entering or remaining in the vicinity.
Fynn stopped walking and turned around to face Harald.
‘What?’ he said, incredulously.
‘I said,’ growled Harald, drawing to a halt just in front of Fynn, ‘“who… wants to make a wager... on the outcome… of the hunt?”’
‘Meaning?’ pressed Fynn unwisely, shortening the odds on Harald causing sudden and probably life-limiting physical damage to his person.
Harald, unaccustomed to being addressed in this less-than-reverent way, flirted momentarily with the idea of removing Fynn’s head from its present location but, intrigued by the latter’s boldness, resisted the temptation.
‘Meaning,’ spat Harald, looking upwards into Fynn’s eyes, ‘that I am willing to bet money on who will triumph in today’s hunt… the wolf… or… ’ Harald now seemed to be struggling, either to recall Fearless’s name or simply to speak it out loud, ‘… our resident… wolf slayer, there!’ he concluded finally, pointing ahead towards Fearless’s back.
Fynn looked aghast. ‘You mean,’ he replied, ‘you’d actually place a bet… on the life of your own son!’
‘Yes,’ nodded Harald, chirpily and without hesitation, unable to grasp why this should disturb Fynn to the extent that it clearly did.
‘That… is… ’ began Fynn, pausing to rack his brains for a suitably-contemptuous adjective, finally settling on, ‘... appalling!’
Harald considered this, scratching his close-cropped bearded chin as he did so.
‘Hmmm… ’ he went, after a moment, ‘... so… you think the result is a foregone conclusion and, therefore, there is no point even in considering a wager?’
Fynn opened his mouth to protest further, but Harald did not give him the opportunity. ‘I see what you mean,’ he continued with a slow, pensive nod, ‘but… well… sport is sport… I’ll tell you what... I’m willing to double the odds if you’re prepared to bet on him!’
‘I… cannot… ’ began Fynn, again, apparently still appalled.
‘That means I’ll give you odds of two-to-one… ’ explained Harald, mistaking Fynn’s hesitation due to incredulity for a lack of comprehension of the rules, ‘… so, if the wolf wins, you pay me… oh, let’s say ten pieces of silver… but if old Wolf Slayer over there wins, I pay you… twenty!’
Fearless and Aldaron had also now stopped and were listening, with great interest, to the discussion.
‘We are talking about the life of your son!’ gasped Fynn.
‘Yes… ’ said Harald, whose turn it was now to hesitate, as he considered this observation, ‘… yes, it’s a good point you make, there… five-to-one, then.’
‘This – is – outrageous!’ ranted Fynn, shaking his head, raising his arms and looking to the skies.
‘You’re right… ’ nodded Harald slowly, wearing a frown, ‘... yes, you’re right… I’m being unfair… final offer: ten-to-one!’
Fynn closed his gaping mouth. ‘Let me get this straight,’ he said, now in quieter, calmer, more deliberate and very clear tones, ‘you are offering me a wager where, if Fearless is killed by a wolf today, I have to pay you ten pieces of silver…?’ to which Harald nodded, equally deliberately, ‘… whereas,’ continued Fynn, ‘if Fearless kills a wolf… you have to pay me… one hundred pieces of silver?’
‘The boy is a genius!’ declared Harald, smiling broadly. ‘Grasped the concept in no time at – !’
‘You’re on!’ interrupted Fynn and stuck out his right hand quickly, in order to conclude the deal in the time-honoured way.
‘Oi!’ protested Fearless, a short distance away. ‘This is my life we’re talking about, here!’ but Harald ignored him and shook Fynn’s hand vigorously.
‘Absolutely!’ concurred Fynn. ‘But what’s the worst that can happen?’
‘That I get ripped to shreds by a wolf, you idiot!’ shouted Fearless, apparently unconcerned that his indignation might be scaring off likely candidates for the role of executioner.
‘Yes,’ muttered Fynn wearily, too quietly to be heard, ‘but if it cost me only ten pieces of silver, it would be an absolute bargain!’
*
Neither Sharp Axe nor Mithrén had been looking forward to travelling back to Asgard with Thor, his goats and his chariot, in their present, hung-over condition. As it turned out, their reluctance was fully justified, as the journey not only met, but also surpassed, their lowest expectations and worst fears in every possible way. Thor’s chariot seemed to have shrunk to an even smaller size, compared with the last journey they had taken in it; Thor’s goats, Tanngnjóstr and Tanngrisnir looked, if anything, even more miserable than Sharp Axe and Mithrén had remembered them; Thor’s mood had certainly not brightened, either.
As the chariot rumbled along the stony track and away from Valhalla’s great hall, the Thunder God lashed cruelly at the goats’ backs, driving them on, determined to get the journey over with as soon as possible. Sharp Axe and Mithrén clung on to each other tightly and desperately until, after what again seemed like an eternity on the road, the rainbow bridge, Bifrost and Odin’s silver palace, Valaskjálf, finally came into view. The passengers’ collective sighs of relief could almost be heard over the thunderous rumbling of the stone wheels on the hard ground beneath.
Surprisingly, Thor seemed to have taken on board Mithrén’s earlier advice, for he made a definite and determined effort to slow down his vehicle as it approached Bifrost; the chariot still parted company with the bridge at the top of its arc, but the subsequent landing came far more quickly, and was far less traumatic and far more successful than it had been the last time they had all made the journey together, in that Thor’s passengers actually managed to remain in the chariot with him. Bifrost having been safely negotiated, Thor encouraged the goats to accelerate towards Valaskjálf’s colossal silver door. Just as Sharp Axe and Mithrén had decided, independently, that their chances of surviving the very last part of the journey would be increased dramatically by throwing themselves out of the chariot before it collided with the palace’s entrance, Thor elected to bring the journey to a sudden conclusion. He pulled so hard on the leather reins that the goats were dragged backwards and onto their backsides, as they skidded to an abrupt, undignified, painful and very unsteady halt. Sharp Axe and Mithrén lurched forward and only just managed to keep themselves in the chariot by reaching forward and pushing themselves back against the battered, bruised and petrified goats. Thor leapt to the ground in silence, strode briskly to the palace doors, struck them hard with Mjøllnir several times, waited impatiently for the doors to open, then showed his wards a clean pair of heels as he entered Valaskjálf at speed.
Sharp Axe and Mithrén followed the Thunder God at a run, having fully taken on board the silent message that he was not best pleased still to be escorting them, when he would rather have been fighting Frost Giants in Jøtunheimr, pursuing beautiful women in Midgard, or drinking any alcohol-based liquid in any one of the Nine Worlds. Nonetheless, Thor fulfilled his obligations by leading the way up to Hlidskjálf, where they all once again found Odin, seated on his throne, looking out of the window.
Odin turned his attention to his two visitors and Thor quickly departed the scene (just in case, Sharp Axe assumed, Odin decided to ask him to take them anywhere else).
Sharp Axe and Mithrén bowed gingerly and, courtesy of their night in Valhalla and the ensuing chariot ride, rather reluctantly. They expressed their thanks to Odin that he had seen fit to allow them to visit Valhalla; he acknowledged their thanks with an impassive nod and looked at Mithrén.
‘You asked, Mithrén, for an annulment of Sharp Axe’s marriage to the Frost Giantess, Rind, so that you and he could be married,’ recapped Odin briskly, though calmly. Mithrén immediately went tense; Sharp Axe did likewise.
‘Yes?’ brea
thed Mithrén, anxiously and fearing the worst.
Odin ran a hand downwards, over his chin and along his beard, clearly contemplating his next move carefully.
‘Will that… ’ began Mithrén, hardly daring to finish the question, ‘… still… be possible?’
Odin frowned slightly, perhaps a little put out that Mithrén seemed to suspect he might be about to rescind the promise he had made to her or, alternatively, that she seemed to be doubting his power and influence across the Nine Worlds.
‘Of course,’ he replied quietly and allowed himself the hint of a self-satisfied smile. ‘In fact, it rather fits in with certain… plans of my own. No, I am simply wondering how best to achieve both aims at once.’
Odin was not surprised to see the puzzled looks on the faces of his guests; they could not know of his intentions, nor be expected to understand them.
‘I plan to marry Rind myself,’ declared Odin, after allowing a few moments for the mysterious tension to build. ‘It would therefore be most convenient if her present marriage were annulled – a marriage which was actually never destined to take place.’
The relief that Sharp Axe and Mithrén felt on hearing this statement was mixed with confusion, though for different reasons.
‘She’s very tall,’ cautioned Sharp Axe, in a tone of voice which hinted that he had been there, done that and, therefore, knew what he was talking about.
‘But… what about Frygga?’ asked Mithrén who, in the brief time she had spent with Odin’s wife had grown rather fond of her.
Even through his one eye, Odin seemed to hold both visitors in his gaze.
‘Well,’ he began, addressing Sharp Axe and suppressing his amusement successfully, ‘yes, she is tall – as is all of her race – but this is less of a problem for the Aesir as it would be for a human, such as yourself. And,’ he continued, now speaking to Mithrén, ‘we gods do things a little differently in our worlds… my intention to marry Rind is understood by all, here – including my beautiful wife, Frygga,’ he added before Mithrén could pass comment; she wisely took this to mean that the discussion was at an end.
‘My judgment,’ resumed Odin, ‘is that you should travel to Jøtunheimr and speak directly with Rind, to seek her agreement to an annulment – it would be only courteous to do so. At the same time, my proposition needs to be taken to the Frost Giants by someone of sufficient standing that I can trust… and, given that Jøtunheimr is a most dangerous place, by someone who can also provide you both with the protection you need.’
An identical look of foreboding was beginning to settle on the face of each of Odin’s guests.
‘And that… ’ continued Odin, ‘… is – ’
‘Thor!’ groaned Sharp Axe and Mithrén, deflating in unison before their host.
*
‘What was that?’ hissed Fearless, looking around frantically, with the wide-eyed, fear-ridden facial expression of someone being hunted. ‘Was it a wolf?’
Fearless had by now almost attached himself to Fynn, in the hope that this would ensure his protection against any hostile, dangerous wood-dwelling wildlife which might wish to attack him. Harald, much to Fearless’s despair, was not too far away, either.
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ replied Harald, to the question which had not been asked directly of him. Fearless breathed a sigh of relief, but Harald continued, ‘I mean, what wolf in his right mind would dare to approach the great Wolf Slayer?’
Fearless ignored the insult and resumed his watch for unfriendly woodland carnivores.
‘Because,’ went on Harald, in a much more serious tone, ‘the wolf is an intelligent creature.’
Fearless looked at his father. ‘And?’ he said, wary yet intrigued.
‘And… ’ continued the Wolf Wrestler, ‘… he would therefore think very hard before trying to attack you.’
‘Oh?’ frowned Fearless, not sure what was coming next.
‘Of course!’ confirmed Harald. ‘He would know the chances were that he’d die of exhaustion, long before he managed to catch up with you!’
‘Oh, very fun – !’ retorted Fearless, but he stopped short as Fynn raised his hand to silence him and pointed into the distance.
‘Look… ’ he whispered, ‘… up ahead… there. He’s up-wind; he hasn’t picked up our scent, yet.’
Way off in the distance, too far away to hear the discussion which had been taking place, Fearless could just make out the thing which, after his father, he feared most in all the world at that particular moment. He would rather have come across a Frost Giant, because a Frost Giant would have been tackled by the other three. As it was, there was only one person who would be attempting to kill the distant wolf and, unfortunately for Fearless, that was Fearless.
‘This time,’ said Harald, now much more quietly, from behind Fearless, ‘no climbing trees to escape,’ and he gave his son a helpful, encouraging shove in the back, to direct him towards his intended quarry.
Off set Fearless, sword by his side, in no less reluctant a fashion than he had done on all previous occasions. This occasion, however, was different: somehow, Fearless knew in his heart that this would be his last chance to earn his name in his father’s eyes and to bring Harald’s constant insults and derision to an end. It went against every instinct Fearless possessed to walk towards the wolf, but he realised that this, one way or another, would be the day his name changed forever: henceforth, he would be known either as Fearless Wolf Slayer by all, including his father, or as the late Fearless Wolf-Slain, newly-arrived resident of Valhalla (provided, of course, that he could keep a grip on the hilt of his sword, as he was being brutally disembowelled by the wolf).
The next few moments of Fearless’s life seemed to take place in a dream: everything appeared slightly blurred; everything happened, as Fearless perceived it, in some kind of slow-motion.
Something disturbed the wolf. He looked up and saw Fearless. Characteristically, Fearless froze.
Up-wind or down-wind, it mattered not, because the wolf sensed Fearless’s terror and made its way, tentatively at first, head down, towards his trembling frame.
Keep hold of the sword! was all Fearless could think to himself, although he was so terrified, he probably could not have relaxed his fingers enough to release it, even if he had wanted to.
On came the wolf, gradually gaining speed, baring what looked to Fearless like very long, surprisingly white, incredibly sharp- and dangerous-looking teeth.
This is the end! thought Fearless, closing his eyes and bracing himself as best he could, in preparation to be eaten alive.
Slowly, as Fearless perceived it, inexplicably and to his great relief, the wolf did not attack him but, instead, carried on past him towards the trio of onlookers, some twenty paces or so behind him. Fynn and Aldaron, standing either side of Harald, started to take evasive action, but it was clearly Harald whom the wolf had identified as its victim, for it launched itself at his short, stocky frame, knocking him to the ground in the process.
As he fell, Harald struck the side of his head on an exposed tree root and he rolled over into a face-down position, unconscious. The wolf, which had bounced off Harald when the two collided, quickly recovered its balance, turned and made straight for the prone, motionless figure, as if bearing some kind of long-standing and irrational grudge against it.
Instinctively, with any fear for his own safety temporarily absent, Fynn swung into action and succeeded in halting the wolf’s attack: he managed to grab two handfuls of fur in the vicinity of the animal’s neck from behind and fought hard to prevent it from fulfilling what appeared to be a burning ambition to eat Harald alive. This was a struggle that Fynn knew could not last for long: either the wolf would wrench itself free and attack Harald where he lay, or it would eventually turn on him.
To his rear, Fynn heard Aldaron draw his sword, but he called out, ‘No! Leave it to Fearless!’ Then, he turned his head and called, with some effort, ‘Fearless! Quick!’
Looking daze
d, confused and slightly bilious, Fearless arrived at the scene, most definitely not wearing the look of a man who was about to save his father’s life in heroic fashion; instead, he stood still, staring at the wolf which was struggling wildly and determinedly to free itself from Fynn’s grip.
‘Finish it… off!’ groaned Fynn, wearing a sweat-covered grimace. ‘I can’t… hold it… much longer!’
Still Fearless made no move.
‘There’s nothing to fear,’ gasped Fynn. ‘It’s a sitting target!’
‘I’m not afraid,’ said Fearless in a calm, composed voice and Fynn had no doubt that he was speaking the truth. ‘I’m just… undecided.’
‘Fearless… ’ said Fynn in as calm and composed a voice as he could manage under the strain of holding back a crazed, determined, adult wolf, single-handedly, ‘… he’s your father… it will be all right… trust me.’
Fearless looked down at Harald, as he lay still on the ground; then, he looked at the snarling, straining wolf, apparently so intent on eating his father alive; finally, he looked at Fynn, his brother-in-arms, fighting a desperate and, probably, losing battle to prevent the wolf from killing the man he, Fearless, seemed so incapable of failing to disappoint.
Fynn, straddling the wolf in a most uncomfortable bent-knees position, looked up at Fearless pleadingly and could have sworn he saw a change come over him: it was as if the indecision were leaving him, to be replaced by acceptance and resignation. Fynn knew then that Fearless had made up his mind but, in that moment, as he fought desperately to retain his failing grip on the wolf, Fynn had no idea what action, if any, Fearless had chosen to take.
Fynn was on the point of giving up on Fearless and appealing to Aldaron for help when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fearless carefully draw back his sword, then drive it home swiftly and cleanly. As the unfortunate victim writhed on the ground in the throes of death, Fynn and Fearless both sank to their knees, the first simply too exhausted to do anything else, the second hopeful that he had relieved himself of an enormous, life-long burden. It was over.
Asgard Page 10
