*
‘What’s that smell?’ asked Hedin, with a sniff and an expression which implied it was unfamiliar to him.
‘The smell of fear,’ proclaimed Aldaron, grimly.
All eyes moved swiftly and instinctively to Fearless, who was still massaging his midriff, where the tree branch has struck him earlier.
‘Er... Hodbrodd might have something to help you with the pain, after that nasty accident, Fearless,’ suggested Sharp Axe, with a knowing look in Hodbrodd’s direction. ‘Mightn’t you, Hodbrodd?’
‘Um... no, I don’t think – ’ began Hodbrodd, but caught sight of Sharp Axe’s thunderous expression and quickly corrected himself, ‘ – Oh, I see! Why... yes,’ he went on, reaching for a small, leather pouch which was attached to his belt, ‘as a matter of fact, I do. Here... try this, Fearless.’
Fearless looked at Hodbrodd unenthusiastically.
‘It’s herbs, isn’t it?’ he sneered.
‘Partly… yes,’ replied Hodbrodd with an enthusiastic nod, having mistakenly taken Fearless’s intuitive question to be a sign of interest.
‘No, thanks,’ spat Fearless, with curled lip. ‘I think I’ll just go on suffering,’ for which Hodbrodd had no answer, so stood still, frowning and holding out the pouch, until Sharp Axe intervened.
‘Fearless,’ said Sharp Axe, ‘I really think you need to take this remedy... we need all our men to be fully fit... who knows what we’re going to have to face, in here.’
‘Is that an order?’ snapped Fearless, turning to face his brother.
‘Yes,’ replied Sharp Axe, assertively.
‘Then, no,’ said Fearless, crisply.
‘All right, Fearless,’ conceded Sharp Axe smoothly, deciding a change of tack was required, ‘but, bear in mind, we won’t be able to stop to help the wounded... we’ll just have to leave them to their fate – whatever terrible, agonising, unspeakably-horrific fate that might be – and move on… ’
‘Oh, just give me the herbs,’ growled Fearless and Hodbrodd handed over the pouch.
‘Job done,’ muttered a relieved Sharp Axe to himself.
*
One of the downsides of being able to communicate telepathically is that bad news is impossible to disguise. Mithrén, having finally ‘made contact’ with her brother, Aldaron, now realised that he and the rest of the men were in even more imminent danger than she had originally feared. Unfortunately, being aware of this fact did not mean she was now in any better a position to help them than she had ever been. She was simply even more worried and, consequently, now felt even worse.
Mithrén, though still feeling exhausted from the journey from Álfheimr and ill from the effects of the Old Elven Magic spell she had recently experienced, immediately took the decision to enter the Iron Wood, despite the fact that it was almost dark. She did not know how to avert the danger the men faced, but wanted to be as close to Sharp Axe and Aldaron as she could, just in case there was something she might be able to do to help; if nothing else, at least she thought her healing skills might come in useful, should anyone sustain wounds, as seemed highly likely.
As she rode into Jarnvidr, Mithrén could hear vile, high-pitched, feverish screams from deep within the wood. She had no idea to whom or to what they might belong, but she was certain such voices – shrill, piercing voices, which sent a tingle of icy fear right through her – could never have belonged to anything good. There was evil at work within this forest; of that, she had no doubt.
Mithrén encouraged her horse into a canter, by tapping its sides gently with her heels and hoped, desperately, that she would not arrive too late.
*
Sharp Axe and his men were preparing themselves for an attack. They did not know who or what was about to attack them, or when the mysterious force would strike; nonetheless, they were preparing themselves as best they could, given the circumstances.
The dreadful screams were growing louder and more hysterical. They also seemed to be closing in from all directions, so Sharp Axe instructed the men to form an outward-facing circle, swords drawn, in a small area clear of trees and to brace themselves for what he was convinced would be a violent and frenzied attack.
The night was all but upon them now, although a little light was being helpfully provided by a fullish moon. As soon as the men had arranged themselves into the circular formation, Fearless spoke.
‘Er, perhaps I should go into the middle of the circle,’ he suggested, looking all around himself in the poor light, for any sign of the unknown enemy. ‘I can launch an attack against… whatever it is I’ll need to attack, much more effectively from in there.’
‘How long should the potion take to start working?’ muttered Sharp Axe to Hodbrodd, who was standing next to his leader in the circle.
Hodbrodd shrugged, helplessly. ‘Er... any time now… I think,’ came his quiet, furtive and clueless reply.
‘Well, it certainly isn’t working yet!’ hissed Sharp Axe, quietly, furtively and impatiently, before addressing his brother forcefully, with: ‘Fearless, take your place in the circle. Quickly! It sounds as if they’re almost upon us!’
Suddenly and with the words hardly out of Sharp Axe’s mouth, the terrible, screaming Jarnvidjur emerged from the surrounding trees, closing rapidly in on the circle of men, from what seemed like almost every direction.
In the little time he had to make the judgment, Sharp Axe estimated that between twenty and thirty Jarnvidjur had appeared from the wood. They were unarmed but no less frightening for that.
The Jarnvidjur were roughly the size of human women though, perhaps, a little on the taller side; they had what appeared, at least in the failing light, to be a greyish-coloured skin and long, wild, grey hair, which streamed out behind them as they ran; they wore filthy, tattered, knee-length grey robes; bare-footed, they ran screaming, with their hands held out in front of them, brandishing their long, discoloured fingernails, threateningly. Something else which was, to say the least, rather unusual caught Sharp Axe’s attention the moment the Jarnvidjur appeared; it was also noticed by several of the men, including Ulric, who was the first to mention it.
‘Aaargh!’ he screamed, in an uncannily Jarnvidjur-like way. ‘They have no eyes!’
The faces of the Jarnvidjur would not have been described as terribly attractive anyway, possessing, as they did, loose, wrinkled skin and wide, gaping mouths which were equipped with over-sized, pointed, yellowing teeth. The absence of eyes, however, was a final and absolute masterstroke of hideousness.
Sharp Axe’s first reaction, once the initial shock of witnessing the Jarnvidjur’s sudden and terrifying appearance had abated, was that what was about to ensue was a rather unfair fight, even taking into account the imbalance in numbers. What chance did a couple of dozen unarmed old women stand against ten Vikings and a Light Elf, who were armed with swords, axes and knives?
It was a reasonable assumption and one based, in Sharp Axe’s humble and modest opinion, on rather sound logic. Unfortunately, the logic was flawed in one single, though not insignificant, respect: the Jarnvidjur were not actually old women; they were far from being human.
Without so much as considering slowing down, one by one, the Jarnvidjur launched themselves at the circle of men. The first one to do so hit Alfgeir with such force that she knocked him off his feet; he hit the frozen ground with a terrible thud and the Jarnvidja rolled on past him. The next Jarnvidja to arrive landed on Jormunrek, who staggered backwards, crying out in pain, as she wrapped her arms around his arms, dug her sharp, talon-like fingernails into the flesh of his back and gnashed her teeth wildly, in what appeared to be an overly-enthusiastic attempt to eat the flesh from his face.
Unable to use the sword with which he was armed, on account of the Jarnvidr’s vice-like grip which was pinning his own upper arms to his sides, Jormunrek spun around, shook his body one way, then the other, spun around some more and eventually forced the Jarnvidja to break her grip. Quickly seizing his chance, he grabbed
her by the throat with his non-sword hand and threw her to the ground, but she immediately jumped to her feet again and made to attack him once more. This time, however, Jormunrek managed to make a pre-emptive strike, rapidly stretching forward and thrusting his sword, two-handed, straight at his assailant; the tip of the blade was driven right into the Jarnvidja’s windpipe and Jormunrek breathed a sigh of relief as the oncoming attacker’s chin came to an eventual halt, just in front of the sword’s hilt.
Jormunrek’s relief was, sadly, short-lived on two counts: firstly and rather confusingly, the beautifully-executed strike drew no blood; secondly, whilst Jormunrek was trying to decide whether or not he had killed the first Jarnvidja, a second one chose that precise moment to land on his back, to which she clung whilst he released his sword, around which the first Jarnvidja was still skewered, then wheeled around, trying to shake off the second Jarnvidja, shouting to his comrades for help.
Help, though, was most definitely not at hand.
Like Jormunrek, all the men were fighting or, in most cases, wrestling with at least one Jarnvidja. Blind they might have been, but the Jarnvidjur were fierce and determined fighters. Their nails and teeth tore cruelly at flesh; their piercing, unrelenting screams seemed to heighten the sense of confusion amongst the men, disorientating them and making it almost impossible for them to hear one another’s shouts of warning or cries for help.
Sharp Axe swung his sword wildly, indiscriminately, at any Jarnvidja within range, whilst one of their accursed number clung to his back, sinking her nails into his skin and attempting to sink her teeth into his neck. Eventually, he managed to bend forward quickly and vigorously enough to throw her off; she landed on the ground in front of him and, as she picked herself up with the clear intention of attacking him again, he brought his sword around in a lightning-fast arc and beheaded her. His eyes were drawn instinctively to the head, as it bounced along the ground but failed to notice, until she was almost upon him again, that the absence of a head was little more of a disadvantage to a Jarnvidja than the absence of eyes. At least she can’t scream at me, anymore, was the single thought with which he comforted himself, as he took a neat back-step and the hag’s dangerously-sharp fingernails missed his face by a hair’s breadth.
The feeling of hopelessness in Sharp Axe, which had begun the moment Loki had revealed himself, now reached a new low, as he realised there were simply too many of the Jarnvidjur and they just refused to be killed. All around him, his men were sustaining bites and deep scratches, some of them were pinned to the ground by two or even three of the hags and it would surely be only a matter of time before the Jarnvidjur had their first kill.
The men were fighting desperately, but defeat and eventual death were staring them all in the face. Fynn, the luckiest man alive, seemed to have been deserted by his usual good fortune, for even he seemed unable to despatch any of the grotesque, repulsive monsters with his wildly-swinging sword.
Come on, Fynn, thought Sharp Axe, as he struggled with a new arrival on his back, whilst the first, now headless, Jarnvidja clawed at his face from the front; we need some of your luck, now.
Whether or not Fynn was responsible in any way, Sharp Axe would never know but, at that moment, the men’s luck did, indeed, change.
Fearless, having his lower leg chewed by one Jarnvidja, whilst trying to prevent another from removing his face with her talons, could not resist the opportunity to poke fun at one of his comrades.
‘Hodbrodd!’ he shouted. ‘Talk to this one! Get her off me! I think it might be your mother!’
From his own rather uncomfortable position beneath two Jarnvidjur and close to Fearless’s side, Hodbrodd managed, despite being throttled by one of the hags, to turn his head just enough to be able to look directly at Fearless.
There followed complete and utter pandemonium in the immediate vicinity of Fearless, so much so that it was noticed even by Sharp Axe, although he was some way away, still wrestling with two Jarnvidjur of his very own.
Several loud screams began the sequence of events, the first and loudest of them from Fearless. The two Jarnvidjur who had been pinning him down then rolled off him, frantically. Fearless proceeded to thrash around on the ground where he lay, first one way, then the other and the two Jarnvidjur did much the same. Smoke was rising from all three of them and Sharp Axe could just make out small, orange-yellow flames on his brother’s breeches and back.
These creatures are frightened of fire! Sharp Axe told himself. This discovery raised his spirits to such an extent that he suddenly found the strength to lift one of his attackers clean off her feet and throw her, through the air, into one of her fellow hags who was just about to launch an attack on Alfgeir, a short distance away. He then reached back and pulled the second Jarnvidja over his head and threw her to the ground, picked her up roughly by an ankle, swung her for two or three complete revolutions, then let go of her, not caring to look where she landed.
Sharp Axe darted quickly over to where Hodbrodd was struggling with his own Jarnvidjur and hauled them off him in quick succession.
‘Hodbrodd!’ cried Sharp Axe. ‘Get up! Ignite the hags! They’re afraid of fire! I’ll protect you!’
Slightly dazed, Hodbrodd scrambled to his feet and, with Sharp Axe circling him, viciously swinging his sword at any Jarnvidja who happened to approach, he set about his task of setting the enemy alight, one by one.
Fire was certainly a most effective weapon with which to fight the Jarnvidjur. Hodbrodd ensured the backs of the hags caught fire, as he knew this would instil in them the most terror and confusion. As the cruel flames ate painfully into the skin of their backs, they zigzagged blindly, arms reaching out in front of themselves, panic-stricken and screaming wildly, in an attempt to escape the invisible, agonising heat.
It took Hodbrodd little more than two or three minutes to disperse all the Jarnvidjur, taking particular care to deal last of all with the two hags who had resumed their attack on Fearless, the moment he had managed to extinguish himself.
When all the Jarnvidjur had finally fled the scene, Sharp Axe surveyed the damage which the foul creatures had inflicted upon his men. Whilst that damage might have been worse, Sharp Axe reflected, it was still significant: all of the men, himself included, were nursing bloody wounds, as a result of their encounters with the vile hags. In addition to the bites, scratches and gouges he had sustained, Fearless also had several painful-looking burns, although Sharp Axe pretended not to notice.
‘How did that happen?’ said Fearless, genuinely puzzled, for he had not been able to witness properly the systematic burning of the Jarnvidjur from his position beneath the hags who had been pinning him to the ground.
‘It was all down to Hodbrodd, here – and his thought-magic,’ announced Sharp Axe triumphantly, with the intention of giving Hodbrodd all the credit he deserved.
[Silence.]
‘So!’ cried Fearless, eventually making the connection and turning to face Hodbrodd. ‘It was you who kept setting fire to me!’
‘Yes, it was,’ confirmed Sharp Axe bullishly, having decided that, in this case, attack was the best form of defence. ‘Just think of it all as rehearsals for tonight’s big show. By giving Hodbrodd the practice he needed to perfect his technique, you’ve actually done us a great service, Fearless... thank you – from all of us.’
[General noises of quiet, rather confused gratitude from the men.]
Despite their pain and continuing blood-loss, the men proceeded to surround Fearless, then patted his back (in most cases, over-vigorously and, in some cases, with clenched fists) and offered him their heartfelt thanks although, for the life of them, they were not sure why.
Fearless, as bewildered by the men’s reaction as they were themselves, shrugged modestly, in the middle of the throng.
‘It was… nothing,’ he said, which is exactly what it had been.
*
Mithrén heard the noise of the Jarnvidjur attacking Sharp Axe and his men but, infuriatingly,
could not decide on the precise direction from which the noise was coming. Eventually and most fortunately, though, she caught sight of a faint, orange-yellow glow through the infuriating barrier created by the forest’s trees, emanating from the various burning Jarnvidjur. Although this light appeared to be dispersing in several directions, Mithrén instinctively and cautiously headed towards the place from where it had appeared to originate; after a few anxiety-laden minutes of walking through the coldest, creepiest, scariest place she had ever visited, she finally – and with enormous relief – came upon Sharp Axe, Aldaron and the rest of the men.
What met Mithrén’s delicate pale-blue eyes was a far-from-pleasant sight: all the men were sitting or kneeling on the ground, stemming the blood flow from their wounds as best they could. Alfgeir appeared to be in the worst condition, having sustained several deep, painful-looking gashes to both sides of his neck, although Ulric’s and Jormunrek’s wounds to their arms and legs also looked quite serious. The elf maiden realised straight away that she had no time to waste with greetings, questions or explanations.
Mithrén hurriedly dismounted, rushed to Alfgeir’s side and opened a leather bag, which she had removed from her saddle and from which she now extracted several small pouches. She began her healing work quickly and carried it out silently until all the men had received the necessary attention.
Sharp Axe and Aldaron, neither of whom were badly wounded, did not speak until Mithrén had finished. Neither was completely surprised that she had made the journey to join them; both were grateful for her presence and relieved that she had, somehow, managed to find them safely.
Sharp Axe approached his betrothed and looked her in the eye lovingly.
‘What in Odin’s name took you so long?’ he said, forcing a smile.
‘You wouldn’t believe it if I told you,’ replied Mithrén, as the tears of relief from finally finding Sharp Axe and her brother began to fall down her face.
Jarnvidr Page 5