Helheimr

by Fynn F Gunnarson

  The pause, however, was clearly making Bekan feel uneasy.

  ‘You... have heard of him?’ he ventured cautiously, looking from Sharp Axe to Fynn, both of whom were wearing puzzled expressions.

  ‘Yes… of course,’ lied Sharp Axe, with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. ‘Obviously… but what does King... er... ’

  ‘Harald,’ muttered Fynn, through clenched teeth.

  ‘… King Harald,’ continued Sharp Axe, more confidently, ‘want with me?’

  ‘My liege,’ said the messenger, some desperation now evident in his voice, ‘I have travelled many weeks in search of you!’ He made to approach Sharp Axe, but Sharp Axe, remembering the unpleasant shock of the smell from a few moments before, took another backward half-step to maintain a safe distance between the two of them.

  ‘The king is in grave danger!’ insisted Bekan, apparently unaware of his offensive body odour. ‘Norway herself is in grave danger!’

  Sharp Axe and Fynn looked at each other again.

  ‘How?’ asked Fynn.

  ‘Why?’ asked Sharp Axe.

  ‘The king,’ replied Bekan,’ will explain everything to you. He awaits you, some days’ ride from here – you must leave immediately! Time is of the essence! There is – ’

  ‘Wait a moment… ’ interrupted Sharp Axe, ‘… how does the king know of me?’

  Bekan looked gobsmacked; his eyebrows descended into a frown and his mouth fell open.

  ‘But… ’ began the messenger, now appearing as though he might start to laugh, ‘… everyone knows of you! You are, today, the most renowned warrior in the whole of Norway!’

  ‘What – ?’

  ‘Why,’ continued Bekan, having recovered his composure, ‘only King Harald himself is more famous than you are!’

  ‘Oh… right… ’ said Sharp Axe, taking his own turn to look gobsmacked, ‘… well, naturally the king is very famous… but I didn’t realise that I… well, I’ve been what you might call “out of circulation” for a little while.’

  ‘Yes... I see,’ replied Bekan, though looking as if he did not see at all. ‘Anyway, the king has heard of your heroic exploits. He needs your help urgently – and he knows that, as a good and loyal citizen of Norway, you will honour your duty to serve your monarch.’

  ‘Well… ’ said Sharp Axe uneasily, beginning to feel rather cornered, ‘… if you put it like that – ’

  ‘Do you know of any good men?’ asked Bekan, suddenly.

  ‘What?’ replied Sharp Axe, wrong-footed again.

  ‘Any... good men… ’ repeated Bekan, eagerly, ‘… to assist you… in serving your king.’

  Sharp Axe thought immediately of his quest to find the hammer of Thor and of the men he had assembled to accompany him on it: of Alfgeir Stargazer, the elderly navigator with no virtually sense of direction, at least on land; of Randver Woodenleg, the wily, though no less elderly, campaigner with an incomplete set of lower limbs; of Jormunrek the Exaggerator, whose only notable contribution throughout the entire quest had been to guide Sharp Axe, smoothly, effortlessly and inadvertently, into his marriage with the Frost Giantess, Rind; of Ulric the Unwilling, last to volunteer for everything; of Hodbrodd the Odd, of whom the kindest thing which could be said was that he had displayed a habit of inventing pastimes which would simply never catch on; of Hedin Dogbiter and Hamdir the Halfling, as unsavoury a pair of characters it had ever been Sharp Axe’s misfortune to encounter and, finally, of his own despicable brother, the inappropriately-named Erik the Fearless, whose cruel betrayal at the very end of the quest had wounded Sharp Axe so deeply.

  ‘No,’ said Sharp Axe, finally and emphatically.

  ‘What?’ gasped Bekan, disbelievingly.

  ‘No,’ repeated Sharp Axe, firmly. ‘No good men… just him,’ he added with a sideways tilt of the head, to indicate Fynn.

  ‘Oh,’ said Bekan, crestfallen. ‘Well… ’ he went on, tentatively, ‘… I suppose… that will be… all right with his majesty.’

  ‘Well, it will have to be... ’ observed Sharp Axe drily, with a wan smile, ‘... won’t it?’

  *

  Bekan explained to Sharp Axe and Fynn where the king would be waiting for them. It appeared that the situation in which Harald Fairhair now found himself meant that he dared not make his whereabouts known to all and sundry; Sharp Axe and Fynn were therefore both sworn to secrecy, with regards to the king’s exact location.

  Bekan did not stay to wait for Sharp Axe to escort him out of Álfheimr. He declined Sharp Axe’s offer of food, water and a bath, instead taking his leave with inexplicable suddenness; he was through the trees and out of sight even before Sharp Axe and Fynn had so much as had the opportunity to thank him for delivering the king’s message, or to wish him well on his journey.

  Of course, it had immediately occurred to Sharp Axe that Mithrén would be less than happy about this sudden turn of events. He decided, however, that the only thing to do was to break the news to her as soon as possible, so he asked Fynn to get some supplies together quickly, then went off in search of Mithrén. The tense conversation which ensued went something along the following lines:

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m sworn to secrecy.’

  ‘Why are you going?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘When are you going?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘When are you coming back?’

  ‘Um... not sure.’

  ‘You are coming back?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘You hesitated!’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Is there a woman involved?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You hesitated again!’

  ‘No, I did not!’

  ‘Right… well… is it going to be dangerous?’

  ‘Dangerous? No, no. Not at all.’

  ‘Can I come with you, then?’

  ‘No! Absolutely not!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It might be d – er… boring… that’s all.’

  ‘Right… so you don’t want me to come with you… ’

  ‘No… it’s not that… it’s just… boring men’s stuff, that’s all.’

  ‘Hmmm… all right… but if you’re lying to me, I’ll never forgive you!’

  Sharp Axe knew that Mithrén would find out that he had, indeed, been lying to her, but was satisfied – even rather pleased – that Mithrén clearly trusted him. He was also sure that, once she realised he had done it to protect her, she would forgive him.

  Possibly.

  *

  Sharp Axe and Fynn set off on their horses, having exchanged brief goodbyes with the Light Elves – brief, that is, so that no-one had had the chance to make probing enquiries about the reason for their sudden departure or their intended destination. They were both feeling nervous but, at the same time, both strangely excited about the prospect of embarking upon a new adventure, after spending so long in the quiet, idyllic but, frankly, dull surroundings of Álfheimr.

  ‘You know, Fynn,’ said Sharp Axe, a few minutes into the journey, ‘I’ve missed your company these past few months… you don’t seem to have been around very much, lately.’

  ‘Well… ’ began Fynn, awkwardly, ‘… I … er… I’ve been spending rather a lot of time with someone else, over the past few months.’

  ‘Really?’ said Sharp Axe, both surprised and intrigued; he turned to face Fynn and, in doing so, managed to increase still further his friend’s feeling of awkwardness. ‘Who?’

  ‘Er… well… Imrén, actually.’

  ‘Im… rén… ’ repeated Sharp Axe, with slow deliberation, as if trying to picture a face to accompany the name, ‘… Merithron’s sister?’

  ‘Hmmm… ’ went Fynn, obviously not terribly keen to pursue the subject.

  ‘Imrén… she seems very nice… ’ said Sharp Axe, lightly, truthfully, supportively and
slightly remorsefully, as it occurred to him how he had been neglecting his closest friend in recent times, having allowed himself to become so consumed with his annoyance with the Elven Elders and what he considered to be their supreme stubbornness. Sharp Axe’s expression then changed – though not for the better, ‘… I’m not sure how much I’d enjoy being related to Merithron, though... ’ he continued, with a mischievous glint in his eye, ‘… although he did put up a good performance in the sword-fighting contest, today... as a matter of fact, he kindly stood in for you... as runner-up!’

  ‘Ha... ha... ’ responded Fynn ironically, although he had to admit that, unless they happened to meet in one of the qualifying rounds, he and Sharp Axe generally found themselves facing each other in the final of whichever contest they had entered – and invariably with the same result.

  ‘Yes... ’ continued Sharp Axe, now a little distantly, ‘... I even thought he might actually beat me at one point... ’

  ‘Really?’ yawned Fynn, who did not share or understand his friend’s fierce determination to defeat their hosts in competition at every available opportunity. In truth, Fynn was rather bored with the whole idea of competing against Light Elves; unlike Sharp Axe, Fynn had no quarrel with them and he had come to find the idea of performing with a sword in front of a Light-Elf audience increasingly unappealing.

  ‘So, you and Merithron might well end up as brothers-in-law, one day… ’ continued Sharp Axe, ‘… I mean, the Elven Elders shouldn’t have any objection to your marrying Imrén, should they?’

  ‘No, I suppose not… ’ sighed Fynn, a little guiltily, then suddenly said, ‘Oh!’ in a much more enthusiastic tone, in the manner of someone relieved to be able, finally, to change the subject.

  ‘What?’ asked Sharp Axe, wondering what Fynn might be looking at, over his shoulder.

  ‘Speaking of brothers-in-law to be... here comes yours!’

  Chapter Three

  The Reunion

  ‘Mithrén sent you, didn’t she?’ said Sharp Axe accusingly, looking Aldaron squarely in the eye, as Mithrén’s younger brother sat in the saddle, struggling to keep his horse still.

  ‘Do you really think I can’t make my own decisions?’ countered Aldaron indignantly, clearly hurt by this scandalous accusation. ‘That I can’t decide for myself where I go and what I do? That Mithrén gives me an order and I obey – ’ he clicked his fingers, ‘ – just like that? Is that what you think of me? I thought you knew me better than that, Sharp Axe, I really did!’

  ‘Mithrén sent you, didn’t she?’ repeated Sharp Axe, unmoved.

  ‘Yes,’ conceded Aldaron, as his haughty, indignant expression caved in completely, to be replaced by one comprising pleading eyes and deeply-furrowed brow. ‘Please don’t tell her I told you – she’d kill me!’

  ‘No… all right,’ said Sharp Axe, after a moment’s consideration. He knew all about Mithrén’s ability to ‘persuade’. ‘You can come with us... but what I tell you must remain between us – I mean, I know you and Mithrén have this thought-transfer thing going on... so you have to give me your word that you will keep Mithrén from finding out about whatever I tell you.’

  Aldaron looked at Sharp Axe, the furrowed brow and pleading eyes still very much in evidence.

  ‘Will you do that?’ persisted Sharp Axe.

  ‘Can you do that?’ enquired Fynn. ‘I mean, is it something you can control… or do thoughts just sort of fly between the two of you?’

  [Silence.]

  ‘Aldaron!’ demanded Sharp Axe. Aldaron crumbled again.

  ‘Yes, yes – all right!’ he gasped, totally crushed, as if he knew that agreeing to Sharp Axe’s terms would, somehow, cost him dearly. ‘I give you my word… oh, she is going to kill me… anyway... where are we going?’

  As this conversation progressed, high up in a nearby tree, unseen by all, sat a solitary hooded crow, with grey body and jet-black head, which seemed to be watching and listening to the proceedings below with great interest.

  *

  Bekan had given Sharp Axe directions to the meeting-place and progress towards its location proved swift. The pleasant, late-spring weather proved quite conducive to riding and, for most of the journey, Aldaron rode at Sharp Axe’s side, with Fynn a little way behind.

  ‘Sharp Axe,’ said Aldaron on the second afternoon, following a long period of near-silence between the three riders.

  ‘Hmm?’ replied Sharp Axe, whose thoughts had been in a distant place.

  ‘You’ve never said much about your heroic deeds… you know, when you and your brave band of warriors found the hammer of Thor.’

  ‘Er, no... well, it’s not something I like to – ’ began Sharp Axe, but Aldaron interrupted.

  ‘I mean, I know what happened in Álfheimr, obviously – well, most of it – but I don’t think I’ve never heard you talk about the rest of the quest.’

  ‘No… I don’t really – ’

  ‘So... what happened?’ pressed Aldaron.

  Behind the two of them and unseen, Fynn raised an interested eyebrow, in an expression which said, This is going to be interesting.

  ‘Er, well... ’ shrugged Sharp Axe, in a manner which Aldaron mistakenly took for modesty, ‘... there isn’t that much to tell, really – ’

  ‘Not that much to tell!’ blurted out Aldaron. ‘What about when you faced all those dragons who were descended from Fafnir and removed a tooth from one of them, whilst it was still alive? What about your time in Jøtunheimr, when you met – and escaped from – the Frost Giants? What about your battle against the dwarves in Nidavellir? What about when Kraken almost pulled your boat down into the depths of the Norwegian Sea?’

  ‘How do you know so much about it?’ asked Sharp Axe suspiciously, although he had a pretty shrewd idea already.

  Aldaron flushed.

  ‘Er... ’ he began, clearly embarrassed, ‘… I think Mithrén might have mentioned, once or twice, some of what happened – out of pride for you, of course.’

  ‘Right… well... ’ returned Sharp Axe, now in a somewhat softer tone.

  ‘... but,’ continued Aldaron, seizing his chance, whilst he sensed Sharp Axe’s guard had been lowered sufficiently, ‘I’d like to know what it was really like to face all those dangers, with a group of such courageous, fierce, highly-skilled fighting men!

  ‘Ye – es... ’ muttered Sharp Axe, thinking about Hodbrodd’s game of ‘Kick-the-Eyeball-with-your-Foot’ with Kraken’s spare eye and about Fearless fainting at the sight of blood, when the dragon’s tooth was extracted. He thought it would be best to put these memories out of his mind, at least for the time being, ‘… well, it was... ’ Sharp Axe continued, racking his brains for a suitable adjective which might summarise the entire experience adequately; eventually, he settled for: ‘... indescribable!’

  ‘Really!’ replied Aldaron, apparently so in awe of Sharp Axe’s achievements that he did not hear Fynn, stifle a laugh behind him. ‘I wish I’d been there!’

  ‘So do I... ’ muttered Fynn, ‘... instead of me!’

  ‘No, you don’t!’ returned Sharp Axe, whose hearing was every bit as sharp as his axe and he looked back over his shoulder with a grin. ‘No, he doesn’t, Aldaron; he wouldn’t have changed it for the world!’

  ‘Well... ’ conceded Fynn, ‘... some of it, perhaps... but if I never see another dragon or monster of the deep, I shall not be disappointed!’

  Sharp Axe did not reply. He was still looking back over his shoulder, but his gaze was now fixed well above Fynn’s head.

  ‘Strange... ’ said Sharp Axe to no-one in particular.

  ‘What?’ replied Fynn, looking around, concerned that something might be about to fall on him from the sky.

  ‘Oh... nothing,’ said Sharp Axe with a frown. ‘I just thought I saw another hooded crow above you in that tree over there.’

  Fynn turned around to look.

  ‘It’s gone, now,’ said Sharp Axe. ‘There seem to be quite a few of them along this ro
ute.’

  ‘Maybe it’s the same one, following us,’ offered Fynn, far from seriously, ‘with a burning desire to meet and pay homage to Harald Fairhair, King of Norway.’

  ‘Hmm... ’ replied Sharp Axe, distantly, ‘... I suppose it must be my imagination.’

  *

  The imagination can be a truly wonderful thing; Aldaron’s was now working overtime, desperately trying to recall the characters who had visited Álfheimr with Sharp Axe and Fynn on their adventure to find Thor’s hammer.

  In addition to being wonderful, however, the imagination can sometimes be rather unhelpful: for example, when it is given licence to work on a particular, vague memory and, as a result, ends up affecting the accuracy of that memory adversely. “Woefully inaccurate” would best describe the picture of Sharp Axe’s men which Aldaron’s imagination had managed to put in his memory, some two years or so after the event.

  Aldaron had, of course, met all of Sharp Axe’s men at that time in Álfheimr, but he could not really remember any of them in detail; this was partly as a result of Aldaron’s overly-romantic perception of the quest to find Thor’s hammer, but mainly due to an almost total lack of memorable qualities on the part of Sharp Axe’s men.

  When Aldaron thought of those men now, his mind’s eye saw them all as tall, young, muscular, brave and resourceful, ready to risk life and limb at Sharp Axe’s command, ready to swim across icy, fast-flowing rivers, ready to scale impossibly-steep mountains, ready to fight to the death and take their rightful places in Valhalla, should their leader so instruct them. Describing Aldaron’s recollection of Sharp Axe’s men as “woefully inaccurate”, then, is probably something of an understatement, as Aldaron was on the verge of discovering for himself.

  *

  As Sharp Axe, Fynn and Aldaron approached the meeting-place Bekan had described – the outskirts of a small, dense-looking copse – they could see in front of it a group of men who were, although still some way ahead in the distance, instantly recognisable to two of them.