The Reckoning of Asgard

by James Malcolm Elrick

  He continued: “And so I hope you accept these gifts as a token of my friendship.”

  Thrymr grumbled: “Stolen weapons are not gifts.”

  Loki shrugged. “Ah, well, I am quite sure that at some point these weapons were stolen before,” he said. “Are you not pleased that these weapons are now in your hands?”

  Thrymr’s voice was full of scorn as he spat: “You did not even earn these weapons in battle.”

  Loki shot a pleading look at Yorli who said: “Father, these are the weapons that lost us the great dwarf wars. These weapons blunted our strengths, stopped our vanguard, held the dwarves’ line against our attacks. We threw our strongest frost giants at them again and again and again. And because of these weapons before you, their defenses held. And now these weapons were in the hands of Midgardians. Midgardians! And when those pathetic Midgardians, lowly blacksmiths the two of them, wielded these enchanted dwarf weapons, they stopped my brothers—your sons. Why are you not more grateful?”

  Thrymr allowed a pregnant pause to hover in the air before speaking: “I do not need them.”

  Yorli scoffed. “You are never one for secrets, father,” she said. “By the icy beards of the snow wyrms, what have you got up your sleeve?”

  Thrymr allowed himself a rare chuckle. “Daughter, you are right,” he said. “We have been thwarted before. But now we are strong.”

  “Father, of course we are strong. We have an army of frost giants.”

  “No longer just frost giants, daughter. Now we have an army of golems.”

  “Do not play me false, father. You will need to show this army of golems else I brand you liar.”

  Thrymr smiled as if he had not smiled in eons and even Loki found himself disturbed at the sight.

  Thrymr stood and led the way, followed by Yorli and Loki, while the two sons brought up the rear.

  Down the great staircase they went until they were in the bowels of the ice castle. At the entrance of the great hall stood two massive doors. One of Yorli’s brothers each opened a door. As everyone walked through the doors, they all then stood at the top of a balcony, with stairs at both ends leading down to the floor.

  In the middle of the great hall was a forge and it was a forge that looked familiar to Loki.

  “How is it, King Thrymr, that you have a replica of the great dwarf forge?” asked Loki.

  Thrymr sneered: “For an old forgotten Norse god, you have not forgotten the dwarf forges. Did you notice, daughter, he remembers the dwarf realm because he has been there.”

  Yorli looked bored. “Yes, father, he kissed a dwarf princess, this is old news and much forgotten. Loki, what of this forge?”

  Loki replied: “There are many different types of forges in the realm of the dwarves. Some make weapons, some make armor, some make forks and spoons. But this one before us, this one makes items of magic. And I see the army of statues you have made, you now proudly own enchanted golems, or as I prefer to call, homunculi.”

  “Homunculi is such an odd word I find,” said Thrymr. “Golem has more immediacy.”

  “I agree, King Thrymr, it is also easier to say, which is probably why you favor it too. You are not one for using large and complicated words.”

  Thrymr said: “A fool you are, a fool you remain.”

  “At your service,” replied Loki adding a mock bow.

  Thrymr’s sons reached for their weapons at the perceived insult, but Thrymr waved them away. Then: “Now is not the time for fighting, now is the time for impressing an old and soon to be forgotten Norse god.”

  “I am flattered you still wish to impress me,” began Loki, “as I did not realize I still held that level of importance.”

  “More of a formality, perhaps an old habit,” said Thrymr. “A pity your father, Odin, is not alive. How I miss those days, those battles were legendary. A fine warrior, your father. You, however, are not a fighter, but you still have your uses.”

  “Well, we must all still be useful in one way or another,” said Loki as he cast a look at Yorli, who merely shrugged. “So, now, King Thrymr, lord of the frost giants, how may this old god be of service?”

  “Come, I would like to show you my army up close,” answered Thrymr.

  As they walked down the stairs, Thrymr leading the way, Loki whispered to Yorli: “If I did not know better, I would say your father is actually giddy with excitement.”

  Yorli frowned, but still nodded in agreement, not pleased with the situation.

  They walked along a straight path between the rows upon rows of golems, until they reached the forge. There, Thrymr turned and with an uncharacteristic flourish, he raised an upturned hand towards the golems as if to introduce them.

  “Are you not impressed?” Thrymr asked.

  “Well, they look to be finely made,” said Loki. “But an army of statues I do not think will strike fear into any opposing army.”

  “Statues they are, but statues they will not remain.”

  “An interesting statement, and one of which I do not know what to make. Now, this may appear to be a dwarf forge, but no dwarf would ever make golems for the frost giants. So, out of sheer curiosity, who are your blacksmiths? And do not tell me it is those pesky Midgardians.”

  “Nay, Trickster, but you may recognize them.”

  “You may forget that only recently have I not been standing as a statue.” The frost giant king was enjoying the moment a little too much thought Loki.

  Thrymr clapped once, and three people emerged from behind the forge. “The blacksmiths who made my army,” said Thrymr. “Lanson, a Midgardian; one who calls himself Old Monk, also a Midgardian; and Alchemist, whose realm I still cannot determine, but it makes no matter.”

  Loki looked at the three gaunt and obviously overworked blacksmiths. Said: “You should take better care of your blacksmiths, King Thrymr, else they may drop dead on the spot.”

  “They still have meat on their bones and fires in their bellies,” said Thrymr. “Now, about those golems—”

  Thrymr’s sons each grabbed one of Loki’s arms.

  “Hey now,” said Loki offering no resistance. “If you wanted to dance, you just had to ask. We will need music.”

  “Father!” shouted Yorli. “Loki came to us in good faith and with gifts. This is disgraceful.”

  “There is only one gift I need from this Old God,” said Thrymr as he pulled a peculiar looking blade out. “Do you recognize this blade, Trickster? Yes, you do, I see it in your eyes. The bane of the Aesir. It belonged to Alchemist, that sorry looking old man over there, but I relieved him of it. The elves gave it to him and he used it quite well as he freed us from an icy slumber. And it still had enough of your sister’s blood on it to open the Jotunheim gateway. But now it is clean and no old god’s blood poisons its blade. That is where you play your part. You see, you have enough blood in you to power my army of golems. Somehow the blood of an old god has magical abilities, something we frost giants lack. Else I would have simply bled one of my sons. Oh, do not worry boys, you would have lived. Not like the Trickster here.”

  Oddly calm, Loki said: “I am sure we can come to some sort of an agreement.”

  Thrymr scoffed: “What do you have to offer? Jewels? Gold? Old dwarf weapons? You have nothing with which to barter. You have only one thing of value to me and it flows through you, red and sluggish.”

  “Father!” cried Yorli. “I protest!”

  “Silence!” roared Thrymr as faced his daughter. “If you wish to one day lead this realm you must make hard decisions. He is not one of us. His father was my sworn enemy. If we wish to take Asgard, this is how it will be done.”

  “Father, he came to you in good faith. We wish to marry.”

  Thrymr’s face turned a harsher shade of purple. Cried: “Silence! The only reason I entertained such a notion was to lure him here for his blood. His kind is done. The time of the Aesir is done. The Norns weave their Tapestry and have taken the measure of the Aesir and will soon take scissors to cut
even their strings. Asgard fell and will fall again. And this time, the frost giants will claim it as their rightful realm. It should have been our realm since the beginning but those pesky Norns gave it to Odin and the Aesir. But no longer. The frost giants waited patiently, and the time is now. The age of the Aesir is done. The rise of the frost giants begins.”

  And with that, Thrymr cut across Loki’s forearm, coating the Aesirslayer Blade in thick, viscous blood.

  Loki grimaced in pain. “You need not cut so deeply,” he said. “And if you had asked nicely, I could have simply picked my nose to cause a nosebleed and I am sure that would have been sufficient for your needs.”

  “Perhaps,” said Thrymr. “But I would not have enjoyed it as much.”

  He handed the blade to Alchemist who dropped it in a boiling cauldron that Loki had not noticed before. The liquid in the cauldron boiled and popped, almost spilling over the lip.

  “Father,” pleaded Yorli, “you know the Aesirslayer Blade’s poison will kill Loki. You must stop this insanity.”

  But Thrymr only grunted: “You do not give me orders, daughter, not while I still draw breath. Now, Alchemist, a demonstration of your potion-making abilities.”

  Alchemist nodded, and using a ladle, poured some liquid from the cauldron over the head of the nearest golem.

  Everyone held their breath in anticipation—even Loki.

  Slow like molasses, the liquid spread down the head of the golem, across its face and nape, over its chest and shoulders, down its back and stomach.

  Loki asked: “May I go home now? I do not believe it worked. I am bored.”

  Alchemist said through gritted teeth: “I have animated a golem before without the blood of an old god. This will work, just give it time.”

  Loki teased: “It is like watching a kettle boil. I do believe the suspense is killing me. No, wait, that is the poison from Aesirslayer that kills me.”

  “Quiet, fool,” spat Thrymr, “cease your endless yammering. Alchemist, what takes so long?”

  Alchemist licked his lips nervously. “It will work, Your Majesty, it will work,” he said. “See, the color of the golem changes before our very eyes.” Relief flooded Alchemist’s face. “Soon it will draw its first breath.”

  And as Alchemist spoke those words the golem did indeed draw a breath. And the runes that covered its body glowed with animated vitality.

  “Your Majesty,” began Alchemist, “the first of your great army is yours to command.”

  Thrymr’s smile was terrible to behold. Then: “Tie the Trickster up and throw him in one of our darkest dungeons,” he ordered to his sons. “And daughter, do not think of freeing him.”

  Yorli gritted her teeth in response. She glanced at Loki, who caught her gaze and simply winked. She shook her head in disbelief at his bravado.

  “Once you finish chaining the Trickster up,” said Thrymr, “your presence is needed in our great hall as we will be hosting a contest of strength and wits with those pesky Midgardians. Today is the beginning of a new era: a defeated Trickster and soon, those Midgardians who bested my sons will taste humiliation.”

  CHAPTER 36

  The Frost Giant Games

  The great hall of the frost giants swirled into view. Farling clenched his teeth and fought the urge to retch.

  “Arastead,” mumbled Farling, “you must really make these portal runes easier on my stomach.”

  “Apologies, Farling,” replied Arastead, who appeared no worse the wear. Peg, Arastead’s cat and familiar rested on his shoulders. “This was not a simple portal rune within a realm, it was a gateway between realms rune and it is harder on the body.”

  Grum said: “Farling, I think you just need to eat before you travel between realms. I find it helps calm my nerves.”

  “Perhaps next time,” said Farling, whose usual color now returned. “Or, as I said, Arastead could make the jump between realms easier.”

  Arastead shook his head playfully. “This new ring that holds all the magic of the Book of Princore is not as easy as you might guess to use,” he said.

  Farling looked surprised. “You seemed to work it fine before,” he said.

  “Hush, frost giants approach,” said Arastead.

  Thrymr strode into view, followed by his sons, then lastly, Yorli.

  Upon seeing Thrymr, they all bowed low.

  “Greetings, King Thrymr,” said Arastead. “Thank you for agreeing to the contest on such short notice.”

  Thrymr sat his throne and stared at Farling and his friends. His sons cracked their knuckles as if readying for battle. Yorli sighed at her brothers’ antics.

  She said: “Welcome, Midgardians, to Jotunheim.”

  “Thank you, Princess Yorli,” replied Arastead. “The ravens thought it would be a good idea for there to be a friendly contest of wits and strength between our two realms, a way of building comradeship.”

  “There has not been a contest in many a year,” said Yorli. “We too look forward to the games. Have you selected your champions?”

  “We have, princess,” said Arastead. “It is we three.”

  “Our champions are yet to show,” said Yorli.

  “We are not competing against your brothers?” Arastead was surprised.

  Yorli shook her head. Said: “My brothers are not strong, smart, or fast compared to our champions.”

  “That is good as we would not want this to be an easy contest,” said Arastead.

  “Ah, here they are now,” said Yorli.

  Farling looked at the three people as they entered the great hall. He grunted in surprise as they did not look like frost giants and so supposed they must be workers from other realms. One was tall and whip thin with red hair that seemed to be pulled back as if being permanently blown in the wind. The next was short and stocky with a great rotund belly. And the third and last kept flexing his massive muscles.

  Yorli asked: “Is there to be a friendly wager on this contest?”

  Grum grinned as Arastead said: “Princess Yorli, I understand the frost giants possess Flamebringer, bane of the frost giants, the Shield of Strength, and the war hammer, along with its Gloves and Belt of Strength, forged by the dwarves. If we win the contest, we earn those weapons back.”

  “I see you are well informed,” she said, her face not betraying her thoughts. “Yes, those weapons are in our possession.”

  One of Yorli’s brothers interjected: “You cannot give them those weapons if they win.”

  Yorli rounded on him, her voice sharp. “You are not competing, nor are you in charge of the contest,” she snapped.

  The brother grumbled and argued no further. Thrymr merely smiled.

  “Agreed,” she said to Arastead. “And if our champions win, what prize do you offer?”

  Arastead answered: “The dwarves have agreed to fashion a sled that will require no animal to pull it. It will be powered by your thoughts and will glide through the snow as it will feel no drag.”

  “A truly wondrous sounding prize,” said Yorli over the protestations of her brothers who wanted no enchanted sled, especially one made by dwarves.

  “And what will be the competition categories?” asked Arastead.

  “We do not compete in archery, sword, quarterstaff, and especially not joust as no horse is large enough for a frost giant to sit astride,” said Yorli. “We prefer the contests to judge one’s speed, strength, and appetite.”

  “Agreed,” said Arastead. “What competition is first?”

  “Speed,” said Yorli.

  “And where is the course?” asked Arastead.

  “I will show you,” said Yorli. Once everyone was outside, she pointed at a mountain with a unique shaped peak far off in the distance. Said: “At the base of that mountain there is a statue of a sitting polar bear with a gold bracelet in either front paw. The first to bring one of those bracelets back here wins. Who is to be your champion?”

  “I am,” answered Arastead, as he handed his staff and extra clothes to Far
ling and Grum. Peg, his cat, jumped straight from his shoulders onto Grum’s. “Wish me luck,” Arastead said to his friends as he played with the new ring on one of his fingers.

  “Luck,” they replied slapped him on the shoulder for extra encouragement.

  The red-haired person who represented the frost giants stepped forward and stood at the line Yorli had drawn in the snow. Arastead walked to the line and assumed a runner’s starting pose.

  “Begin!” shouted Yorli.

  Arastead and the frost giant champion raced towards the mountain like loosed arrows speeding towards their targets.

  Grum asked: “So Farling, how long do you think they will take?”

  “A few hours, I suppose,” replied Farling. “If you want, Arastead’s cat may lay across my shoulders.”

  “I think Peg is comfortable where she is. Besides, she keeps me warm. Do you think Arastead will win?”

  “That red-haired champion seems to have more than luck and skill on his side. Honestly, if Peg wants, she may sit on my shoulders.”

  “Arastead will win, he was always the fastest at School. Sprinting short distances is not his best event, but he excels at these long-distance runs. And Peg is fine where she is.”

  “I sure hope so. We need those weapons if we are to free Margret from the assassins guild.”

  After an hour, one of the frost giant brothers exclaimed and pointed towards the mountain. “They approach!” he yelled.

  “Grum, your eyes are better than mine,” said Farling. “The frost giants have the advantage of height, though, but can you see anything?”

  Grum squinted, shading his eyes against the glare of the sunlight on snow. Said: “I see two waves of snow created by both champions. But I cannot tell who is in the lead from this distance. I cannot even see who-is-who as the snow both are throwing up into the air obscures my vision.”

  “Hurry Arastead,” mumbled Farling again and again, willing encouragement. After a few minutes, Farling asked Grum again.

  “I still cannot tell,” said Grum, “but neither can the frost giants as they too seem subdued in their enthusiasm. But this I can say; the two runners are picking up speed.”