Jarnvidr

by Fynn F Gunnarson

  The moment she was able to taste the bitter preparation, Mithrén began to gag, her body trying to prevent the revolting substance from making any further progress into it. Mithrén thought she was going to be sick but persevered and, somehow, succeeded in swallowing and keeping down the first mouthful. That, she knew, would be the worst: the rest would be easier – although, as it turned out, not by very much.

  Down went the preparation but, such was its consistency, Mithrén had to scrape the last remnants of it from the bowl with her fingers. As she swallowed for the last time, Mithrén dropped the bowl, licked her fingers reluctantly, clapped her hand to her mouth to keep the liquid roughly where she knew it had to remain and blinked back the tears which were now stinging her eyes. She shook her head from side to side until she was sure that the repulsive concoction would not leave her stomach, gingerly removed her hand from her mouth, placed both hands on the ground behind her and eased her weight back, tentatively, not daring to make any sudden movement.

  Mithrén did not know exactly what to expect, but the magic did not leave her to wonder for long. Within seconds of consuming the preparation, the scattering of sparse trees by the side of the track, along which she had been travelling, began to blur and undulate before her eyes; a loud buzzing sound started up in her ears; she felt hot and, yet, at the same time, she was shivering.

  I wonder if the elders actually intended to kill me, after all, was Mithrén’s last thought before her arms collapsed under her weight and she fell back onto the ground, where she lay, motionless.

  *

  At first, there was nothingness: a pale, almost imperceptible grey mist, perhaps; nothing more.

  Then, there was a rainbow. Somewhere, in the distance, there was definitely what looked like a rainbow: a rainbow with pale, indistinct colours at first, but which gradually became stronger, bolder and sharper, until she could see it clearly in front of her; it made her think of a bridge, for some reason.

  The sun felt pleasantly bright and warm on her face.

  Two beautiful, pure-white swans languished upon a small pond of still water, occasionally lowering their beaks lazily to the water’s surface, to eat the leaves which floated upon it.

  Three young, golden-haired maidens, clothed in knee-length, gleaming white dresses and white leather sandals, stood around the water, looking down benignly, almost lovingly, at the swans.

  There was a warm, gentle breeze, which carried on it a mixture of fragrances, of sweet flowers and savoury herbs: rose and sage, honeysuckle and dill, primrose and fennel, saxifrage and marjoram… and was that Lily of the Valley? Mithrén could not decide, but it was not important, she told herself. She liked it here, wherever she was: this felt like a safe world… much safer than the other world – the world which Mithrén had just left.

  A figure was approaching: Mithrén could tell it was the figure of a man. The man had long, fair hair and a short, close-cut beard, rather like someone she thought she might love in that other world. He was dressed in a dark-green woollen cloak, which was tied loosely around his neck, draped across his shoulders and belted around his waist.

  The man had a strong, noble-looking face, but kind, deep-green eyes. He was smiling.

  ‘Welcome, Mithrén,’ said the man gently. ‘You have risked so much to see me.’

  The man continued to speak in calm tones, yet the way in which he spoke seemed to carry with it a certain urgency. It was the eyes, it occurred to Mithrén, which showed the urgency, rather than the voice or the face. Occasionally, there was a sign of distress or profound anxiety in those eyes; not panic so much as a look of tragic inevitability, as if something terrible were about to happen, but nothing could be done to prevent it.

  At the same time, however, those wonderfully-expressive eyes seemed to contain something else.

  What was it?

  It looked a little like hope.

  Yes, Mithrén decided, it might be hope; I’d like it to be hope.

  The man finished speaking and said his kind, gentle farewell. He walked calmly away from her.

  The swans continued to swim, watched by the three maidens, clothed in gleaming white.

  The rainbow was still there and so were the fragrances, carried on the warm, gentle breeze.

  Gradually, the scene faded back to one of grey mist and then, once again, to nothingness.

  *

  Mithrén regained consciousness, very gradually and most uncomfortably. The agonising pain she felt in her stomach was more than matched by the agonising pain in her head. She felt sick. The sun was low in the sky and she had no idea how long she had been unconscious, but rather wished she could be unconscious again and quickly, if only until the pain had subsided a little.

  Gathering her wits, Mithrén rolled from her back onto her stomach and struggled slowly to her knees. The pains in her head and stomach intensified and she collapsed again to the ground, gasping for air. There she stayed for what seemed like a long time.

  Eventually, perhaps ten or fifteen torturous minutes later, the pain seemed to ease slightly although, at first, she was unsure whether she was simply getting used to it. No, Mithrén told herself, though hardly daring to believe it, the pain is getting more bearable.

  With the pain’s easing came the realisation that she had lost more precious time: time – perhaps several hours – that she could scarcely afford to lose. She rose uncertainly to her feet and staggered around for a while, trying to remember where she had tethered her horse. Eventually, she found it, reached out unsteadily and grabbed for the reins. She caught hold of them at the third attempt and climbed, slowly and ungracefully, into her saddle, urging the horse to move north-westwards, with the sun setting just to the left of her, as she rode.

  Freyr had been very informative. He had told Mithrén almost everything she needed to know, in fact. She now knew why Sharp Axe, Aldaron, Fynn and the rest of the men had been sent on the errand for Harald Fairhair; she knew the reason for Surtr’s assistance; she knew how it was they had survived both the treacherous journey to Helheimr and their brief stay there; she knew why Hel had been so accommodating; she knew what they had retrieved from Hel and the purpose for which it had been taken.

  Knowing all these things was most useful; of that, there was no doubt. Mithrén realised, however, with a feeling of despair which grew as every minute passed, that all this knowledge would not, by itself, be enough to assist Sharp Axe, Aldaron and the rest of the men in any way, let alone save them from the fate which was now awaiting them all.

  Freyr had offered to help Mithrén. He had said that certain of the other Vanir and Aesir would also help; in fact, it was in their interests to do so. The problem was that, although Freyr was able to confirm that Sharp Axe and the men had reached Jarnvidr, their precise whereabouts remained unknown. The Iron Wood was a very large forest; it could take a long time to find them and what neither Freyr nor any other god could do was to influence time: time could neither be reversed nor slowed down.

  It might already be too late; her nightmares, fear, worry, pain and courage might all have served no purpose whatsoever.

  As Mithrén clung precariously to her horse and encouraged it, with dwindling patience, to move with a little more forward speed, but a lot less upward-and-downward motion, she tried her best to remember the detail of what Freyr had told her, partly to make sure she did not forget anything, but mainly to take her mind of the intense feeling of sickness she was still experiencing.

  There had been a lot to take in, although the way Freyr had explained it to her, it had all seemed to make some kind of sense.

  One thing had alarmed her, though, more than anything else that Freyr had told her. There was something he kept repeating and, every time he did, his eyes took on that look of... what was it, again? Distress? Fear? She could recall thinking that there were signs of hope there, too, and that was always a good thing, but Mithrén knew she had seen something terribly ominous in the depths of Freyr’s green eyes. Was it… resignation?
Yes, she remembered: that was it! Freyr was resigning himself to the inevitability of events to come!

  Mithrén continued to try to recall the word – the one particular word – which seemed to have caused Freyr so much anguish and caused Mithrén to go cold, whenever Freyr had mentioned it.

  What had it been?

  With a jolt, Mithrén suddenly remembered.

  Now, as if the Old Elven Magic were at work once again, all the pieces fell into place and Mithrén understood everything: why the perpetrator had set up the mission; why he needed the list; why Freyr and the other gods were so concerned and why they were so willing to help her save Sharp Axe, Aldaron and the others.

  It was all because of that single word: the one which Freyr had used over and over again...

  Ragnarøkkr.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Iron Wood

  ‘It’s freezing in here! It’s as cold as it was in Niflheimr!’ complained Jormunrek who, for once, was not exaggerating.

  ‘Oh, it’s not that bad,’ shivered Sharp Axe, in a cheery tone he felt should have belonged to someone else, far away, in warmer surroundings, ‘and the meeting place shouldn’t be too far along this track.’

  In truth, it was very cold. It was incredibly unseasonal, in fact and every bit as cold as it had been in Niflheimr. The men had been riding slowly through Jarnvidr for only a short time, but the plummeting temperature had already taken its toll on the group’s morale.

  ‘Where is he?’ whined Ulric.

  ‘How much further?’ moaned Alfgeir.

  ‘Damp cold... worst kind of weather for my stump,’ grumbled Randver.

  ‘This doesn’t feel right,’ complained Aldaron and, much to his regret, Sharp Axe had to concede that Aldaron had a point.

  It was strange enough that it should be so cold, but what was doubly strange was the peculiar atmosphere of the forest itself: it was still, almost silent, with no sign whatsoever of life.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ continued Aldaron, seemingly unaware that Fearless was gripping the hilt of his sword and considering whether or not to draw it, with a view to stabbing the elf in the lower back. ‘It’s too... quiet.’

  ‘Well, it would be... ’ muttered Fearless having decided, at least for the time being, against a display of surgical swordsmanship, ‘... if you would just shut up.’

  ‘And why,’ resumed Aldaron, ignoring Fearless, ‘is there snow on the treetops, but none on the ground?’

  [Puzzled mutterings from the men.]

  ‘And... ’ said Aldaron, now in full flow, ‘… how is the king going to know we’re here?’

  [More puzzled mutterings from the men.]

  ‘Well, I got the impression,’ replied Sharp Axe, drawing to a halt and holding up a hand to indicate to the men to do the same, ‘that this forest was his refuge: a safe haven from his enemies, so I suppose he spends a lot of his time here... I don’t know why there’s no snow on the ground, but you’re right, Aldaron... it does seem too quiet... listen... there isn’t a sound – well, apart from Hodbrodd’s teeth, that is.’

  Hodbrodd clamped his hand over his mouth to silence his chattering teeth, with an apologetic shrug of his shoulders.

  The complete silence and total stillness within the forest were eerie. Sharp Axe felt a shiver run up and down his spine, which was largely unrelated to the present temperature levels.

  ‘I think we should go back,’ ventured Fynn.

  Fearless was outraged. Hedin and Hamdir also looked less than happy with Fynn’s suggestion.

  ‘That’s because the king didn’t offer you any money!’ snarled Fearless, whose considerable cowardice was being suppressed only by his even more considerable greed. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he continued, riding over to Sharp Axe’s horse and removing the casket containing Freyr’s list from one of the leather bags it was carrying, ‘I’ll take charge of this and you three can turn back if you want.’

  Unopposed by his brother, Fearless resolutely tucked the casket under his arm, following his uncharacteristic show of bravado, but then the silence of his surroundings and his comrades got the better of him and he looked all around warily, which succeeded only in shattering the illusion of fortitude he had temporarily managed to create.

  ‘We’ll carry on,’ said Sharp Axe, gently but firmly. ‘All of us.’

  On rode the men, through the snow-covered trees, deeper into the Iron Wood.

  After a short distance, however, several of the horses began to show signs of uneasiness: some tossed their heads back, suddenly; others whinnied anxiously; one or two actually tried to turn around on the narrow forest track, although their riders fought with the reins and managed to prevent them from doing so.

  Sharp Axe’s horse reared up on its hind legs, almost throwing him to the ground.

  ‘Something definitely isn’t right, here,’ said Sharp Axe, turning round to address the men, once his mount had four hooves planted firmly on the ground once more.

  ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,’ replied Aldaron, the exasperation evident in his voice.

  ‘Well,’ sighed Sharp Axe, ‘I think we should – ’ but his words were cut short by another voice. It was a bold, strong, noble, vaguely-familiar voice, which took all the men by surprise and immediately persuaded them to turn their attention away from Sharp Axe and towards the clearing ahead of them: a clearing which, until a moment before, had been completely deserted.

  ‘Welcome to Jarnvidr,’ the voice had declared and had belonged to Harald Fairhair. The king stood alone in the clearing, smiling benignly at the men, to indicate he was pleased to see them – the kind of facial expression, it must be said, which was rarely offered to many of them.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ said Sharp Axe, with a reverent nod and the relief in his voice was plain to hear. He then dismounted his horse, as a mark of respect to his monarch and the rest of the men followed suit.

  ‘I’ve been expecting you!’ said King Harald, enthusiastically. ‘How did you fair?’

  ‘We have the list, your Majesty,’ declared Sharp Axe, at which piece of news the king’s smile broadened and he nodded approvingly.

  ‘I knew you were the right men for the mission,’ announced Harald Fairhair, proudly. ‘You can be well pleased with your work, for you have done me a great service.’ At his monarch’s words, Sharp Axe looked first at Aldaron, then at Fynn and, although he remained silent, the look he gave them said, Oh, ye of little faith!

  ‘It was our pleasure,’ announced Fearless, generously, though insincerely. ‘I have the list here,’ he continued, removing the wooden casket from a leather bag on his horse and raising it for the king to see.

  ‘Thank you, er... ?’ began Harald Fairhair.

  ‘Fearless,’ sighed Fearless.

  [Quiet sniggering amongst the men.]

  ‘Thank you, Fearless,’ nodded the king. ‘You have done well.’

  Fearless turned to give his brother a smile absolutely crammed to the brim with smugness. He then turned again to his monarch. ‘Yes, quite… ’ he said, ‘… now, about this gold you promised... ’

  King Harald’s smile faded only a little, but his voice took on a completely new tone, much colder than the one the men were used to hearing.

  ‘Ah, yes, the gold… well, I’m afraid... ’ began the king, slowly, ‘... that I have been less than... totally honest with you.’

  Here, Aldaron turned to Sharp Axe, with a look which said, Don’t you talk to me about faith!

  Fearless looked as though someone had suddenly punctured him; he started to deflate visibly.

  ‘Less... than... ’ repeated Fearless, with an uncomprehending frown.

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed the king, as though it were breaking his heart, ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘So,’ said Sharp Axe, taking his turn to speak and well aware that concerned eyes were boring into him from all directions, ‘exactly what have you been less than totally honest about... your Majesty?’

  ‘Well... ’
pouted the king, appearing to give the question careful consideration, ‘... everything, really.’

  Visions of Kolfinna Cat Strangler’s deception flashed through Sharp Axe’s mind. Now, he and his men had clearly been duped again. Admittedly, this time they had been duped by someone posing as royalty but, somehow, this did not make the resulting humiliation any less painful for Sharp Axe. Why did people keep doing this to them? Taking advantage of the temporary hiatus which had settled upon the conversation, Sharp Axe looked round, quickly, at his companions and realised, with a rather disagreeable, sinking feeling of realisation, that this was really not such a difficult question to answer: one of the number had a wooden leg; another was always lost and both of them were the wrong side of elderly, in warrior terms; three would have sold their grandmother for a small bag of gold, then stabbed the other two in the back, to make sure it would not have to be shared; three more would believe absolutely anything they were told; of those remaining, one was a Light Elf, whose true value to the group remained unproven; that left just Fynn and Sharp Axe himself.

  The signs, Sharp Axe reflected, had been there... but I chose to ignore them. Aldaron and Fynn raised very serious doubts about Harald Fairhair and about the entire venture... and I simply rejected them. The men can’t be blamed, admitted Sharp Axe to himself. This is my fault. He turned his attention back to the king.

  ‘Who are you?’ demanded Sharp Axe with some force, partly because he wanted to find a way of disguising his embarrassment and partly because, when all was said and done, Harald Fairhair was still outnumbered by eleven to one.

  ‘He’s the king,’ insisted Hodbrodd. ‘Harald Fairhair. He’s the King of Norway.’

  Sharp Axe looked at Hodbrodd and sighed.

  ‘Hodbrodd,’ he replied wearily, but gently, ‘Norway may well have a king and, for all I know, his name might be Harald Fairhair... but I don’t think this is him.’