Jarnvidr

by Fynn F Gunnarson

  ‘Hmm… I seem to remember hearing a similar story after I had rashly proposed your precious Jarnvidjur as the ideal candidates for the job,’ groaned Loki, no less sceptically than before. ‘How are their injuries now, by the way?’ he asked as an insincere afterthought.

  Angrboda looked murderous and ignored the question, which she suspected had been asked merely to emphasise the Jarnvidjur’s earlier failure.

  ‘The Varns... will... succeed!’ she growled indignantly. ‘They are fierce, powerful and intelligent – ’

  ‘Yes, yes!’ interrupted Loki, offering Angrboda an indulgent, but largely-unconvincing smile by way of compensation. ‘They have all their granny’s best qualities, of course... but I fear we may have underestimated Sharp Axe and his band of half-wits. Can you give the Varns any... help? You know, just to be on the safe side?’

  Angrboda put aside her anger and thought for a moment. Then, she threw back her head and howled at the night sky: a long, high-pitched, unnaturally ear-splitting howl, which also seemed to last an unnecessarily long time.

  ‘That would be a yes, then, would it?’ muttered Loki, removing his fingers from his ears when Angrboda had finally finished.

  ‘The wolves of Jarnvidr,’ replied Angrboda, with an air of supreme confidence, ‘are on their way to us, as we speak.’

  ‘Nothing like a bit of insurance,’ smiled Loki, finally satisfied. ‘The wolves of Jarnvidr can set about tearing our intrepid band of Viking heroes to shreds, while your dear grandchildren seek out the list. Should work out quite nicely, methinks.’

  *

  From all parts of Jarnvidr, forest wolves were now racing through the trees, eager to answer their mistress’s urgent call.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Varns

  It had taken Mithrén a few moments to gather her wits. She had been rather stung by suddenly being left alone in the forest, charged with the safekeeping of the casket containing the list on which Loki was so desperate to get his hands. She had been somewhat hurt by the apparent indifference of her intended and her brother towards her endeavours to save them from the fate of which they had, until quite recently, been blissfully unaware. She had been positively annoyed that they had not given her the opportunity to reveal the true nature of the information contained in the list and what the implications would be if that list were to end up in Loki’s possession.

  Once Mithrén had calmed herself and managed to get her various emotions under control, however, she began to think rationally. She was a sensible elf maiden when all was said and done and this enabled her to make the right decision now, given the situation in which she found herself.

  She decided to try to escape from Jarnvidr with the list as quickly as she could, whilst she still had the chance.

  Mounting her horse and turning it to face more or less the opposite direction from the one the men had taken in pursuit of Fearless, she rode briskly through the trees, the only light to assist her now coming from the near-full moon, in a cloudless night sky.

  *

  Ancient Norse tales told of three very large, ferocious wolves who inhabited the Iron Wood: the sons of the Great Fenrir. One wolf, Skøll, chased the sun; a second, Hati, chased the moon. The stories foretold that, come Ragnarøkkr, the two brothers would finally catch their prey and the third wolf, Managarmr, the largest and most ferocious of all, would eat the moon, causing its blood to darken the sky and block out the sun.

  At this particular moment, however, the sun, moon and Ragnarøkkr were far from the thoughts of the Varns: they were on a mission for their beloved grandmother and were, as ever, very keen to please the old girl.

  Angrboda’s instructions had been quite explicit: to find a group of strangers, secreted somewhere in the Iron Wood; to find a carved, wooden casket which was in their possession; to bring the casket back safely and, finally but just as importantly, to ensure that none of the strangers survived the encounter. The Varns neither knew nor cared for the reasons behind their grandmother’s request, but the task itself seemed fairly straightforward to them and it appeared to present no particular operational difficulties.

  The Varns had not reckoned, however, on encountering a sword-wielding, screaming lunatic, charging towards them at full speed before they had had the chance to pick up the scent of the group of strangers, let alone begun to decide how best to carry out the task to their grandmother’s satisfaction. This was decidedly unfortunate for the Varns, because a sword-wielding, screaming lunatic, charging towards them at full speed, before they had had the chance to pick up the scent of the group of strangers was exactly what they encountered.

  It was Fearless. It was, in fact, the new, largely-unrecognisable, ‘fearless’ Fearless, who bore a rather striking resemblance to another sword-wielding, screaming lunatic from whom he was, himself, directly descended. Even the mighty Harald Wolf Wrestler, though, for all his experience, his courage and (where fighting was concerned) his downright stupidity, might have doubted the sanity of taking on all three Varns simultaneously and single-handedly, but fear and self-doubt no longer figured in Fearless’s vocabulary.

  The Varns were not used to being attacked. It was far more usual, in fact, for their prey to make a desperate but, ultimately, vain attempt to outrun them by beating a hasty but, invariably, short retreat through Jarnvidr, until they were brought down by one or two of the brothers and ripped apart by all three. It was a well-established, tried and trusted, familiar routine and the Varns could boast an impressive track record, where killing their prey was concerned.

  The unexpected and confusing sight of Fearless running to meet them head-on, however, stopped the Varns in their tracks. For the briefest of moments, they all stood still, panting heavily and observing the rapidly-approaching, crazed and noisy figure who should now, in the normal course of events, have adopted the role of doomed victim and, as such, be running for his life in the opposite direction.

  During that brief moment, Skøll, Hati and Managarmr evaluated the situation individually: each considered the size, weight and speed of the adversary; each appraised the likely damage which might be inflicted by this adversary’s wild, flailing swords; each weighed up all the shameful consequences of running away from the adversary and, in particular, their grandmother’s wrath. That final consideration may well have tipped the balance but, whatever the reason, each wolf arrived at the same conclusion.

  As one, the Varns lunged for Fearless.

  *

  Some way behind his brother, Sharp Axe was determinedly and anxiously leading the rest of the men along the path Fearless had taken, when he had set off to meet the Varns. They had not managed to make up any ground on Fearless before the sound Sharp Axe had been dreading shocked the still night air: the agonised scream of a close relative being torn apart by a pack (albeit a small one) of ferocious, over-sized wolves.

  Sharp Axe stopped dead, his body almost paralysed by the terrible realisation that the inevitable had come to pass. His twin brother was dead. Worse than this, it was Sharp Axe himself who was responsible.

  The men pulled up behind their leader.

  ‘What was... that?’ panted Hodbrodd, looking all around, holding his chest.

  ‘Fearless... ’ breathed Sharp Axe, though his throat was so tight, it would hardly release the name.

  ‘Didn’t sound like Fearless,’ pointed out Fynn, fighting for breath.

  ‘No... ’ began Sharp Axe, not wanting to contemplate the terrible agony his brother must have suffered, to cause his voice to change in the way it had, ‘... it didn’t, really, but that’s – ’

  ‘Sounded more like a wolf,’ commented Aldaron.

  ‘Well,’ began Sharp Axe again, ‘possibly, but – ’

  ‘A very large, injured wolf,’ elaborated Aldaron.

  The men looked at one another for the briefest of moments.

  ‘Come on!’ cried Sharp Axe and he set off again at high speed, through the trees.

  Within thirty seconds, the men had cau
ght up with Fearless and the Varns, in a small clearing. Sharp Axe rubbed his eyes, allowed his jaw to drop to mid-chest level and took in the scene.

  At the far side of the clearing, one of the Varns, Hati, lay whimpering feebly, bleeding heavily from a long, deep, sword-inflicted gash, just behind its left shoulder. Skøll and Managarmr, Hati’s brothers, were circling Fearless with some considerable caution, having just witnessed his sword work from close quarters, watching him with snarling intent, waiting for an opportunity to strike. Fearless turned slowly, keeping a very close eye on the two uninjured Varns, biding his time with uncharacteristic patience, waiting for the right moment to strike again.

  The arrival of Sharp Axe and the men distracted all three combatants, but it was Fearless who regained his concentration first. Suddenly, with lightning speed, he shifted his weight low to his right side, at the same time thrusting the sword in his right hand into the neck of one of the Varns, whilst keeping the sword in his left hand extended sufficiently to discourage an attack from its brother.

  Skøll had tried to retreat to avoid the oncoming sword, but Fearless’s strike was too fast. The point of the blade sliced clean through the wolf’s jugular vein. Fearless withdrew the sword, almost as quickly as he had inserted it and, realising he no longer needed to fear Skøll, who staggered backwards and slumped to the ground, he turned to face the final and most substantial threat which the Varns posed to his continued existence: the colossal Managarmr.

  Sharp Axe witnessed these events with a mixture of feelings: relief that his brother was still alive and, for the moment at least, unharmed; horror, in respect of the likely eventual repercussions of Fearless’s actions; continuing guilt that he, Sharp Axe, had effectively put his brother into his present predicament and, finally (and most incredibly), a little pride at the way Fearless was handling himself – albeit whilst clearly under the influence of mind-altering chemical substances.

  Managarmr, more the size of a bear than a wolf began, once again, to edge around Fearless in a slow, circular movement. Fearless looked the Varn in the eye and revolved with him, both swords held out in front of himself, almost willing Managarmr to strike. Although Managarmr was now driven by both desire to avenge the damage Fearless had inflicted on his brothers and fear of displeasing his grandmother, he was not about to risk a fate similar to that of Hati and Skøll, so patiently circled his prey, all the time growling quietly and watching, waiting, yearning for an opportunity to destroy his new enemy.

  ‘Stay back!’ warned Fearless with his eyes firmly on Managarmr, but addressing Sharp Axe and the men who, at that moment, were almost directly behind him. ‘You might get hurt... and, besides... he... is... mine.’

  Hodbrodd’s potion must have robbed Fearless of his sanity, Sharp Axe told himself. Either that, or the man in front of us is Loki in disguise. But, then... why would Loki – ?

  Sharp Axe’s thoughts on the true identity of the impressive warrior before him then stopped abruptly, as his attention was directed away from Fearless, towards the arrival of a host of new wolves – normal-sized ones, now – who were quietly and stealthily beginning to join the scene.

  Fearless and Managarmr did not change their relative positions in the least, but continued to move carefully, threateningly, each ready and only too willing to despatch the other, should he make the mistake of risking an attack at the wrong instant, or of allowing his footing to slip.

  The other wolves – perhaps fifteen or twenty of them – were now prowling cautiously towards the group of men, apparently unconcerned for the two dying Varns or about Managarmr’s situation.

  Fearless became aware of the wolves but, unlike them, he did appear to be concerned; he appeared to be concerned not for his own safety, but that Sharp Axe and the men were about to engage the wolves in combat.

  ‘No – wait! It’s too dangerous!’ warned Fearless, again. ‘There are too many of them! Leave them to me!’

  ‘What – ?’ began Sharp Axe.

  ‘You watch this one,’ commanded Fearless, addressing all the men and indicating Managarmr. ‘If you all surround him, you should be able to hold him here until I’ve finished with the others.’

  ‘What – ?’ began Sharp Axe again.

  ‘Quickly!’ insisted Fearless. ‘Surround this one! They’re going to attack!’

  Before Sharp Axe could remind Fearless of the precise nature of the group’s chain of command, the rest of the men had followed Fearless’s order and surrounded Managarmr who now, not surprisingly, looked thoroughly confused.

  There then followed a brief, frenzied, noisy and blood-soaked encounter between man and wolf pack, so intense that, rather than concentrating on Managarmr as they had been instructed, most of the men became spectators and watched the encounter instead, for once cheering Fearless on as the fight progressed. Even Managarmr stole the occasional glance, when he was sure it would not put his life at greater risk than it already was.

  Fearless had launched himself into the pack and set about reducing the Iron Wood’s wolf population with great relish. His arms were little more than a blur, as he spun around and swung his swords this way and that, hacking body parts off his aggressors, a leg here and an ear there, decapitating those who foolishly ventured too near in an attempt to attack, slicing clean through the tails of those who changed their minds and tried to flee.

  In what seemed like no time at all, a dozen or so wolves lay dead or dying, the others having fled in fear. Exhausted by the effort of fighting as he had never fought in his life, Fearless collapsed to his hands and knees, head bowed, gasping for air, bleeding from the wounds on his lower legs which he had received from those few wolves who had been able to get close enough to bite him, during the brief, violent skirmish.

  A rousing cheer went up from the men, which seemed to startle Fearless and he raised his head. As he looked in their direction, his expression changed immediately from one of severe fatigue to one of grim determination, as he suddenly realised he had unfinished business to which to attend: Managarmr.

  Fearless hauled himself to his feet, using his two weapons as supports and staggered towards the men, still breathing heavily, eyeing Managarmr murderously.

  The look was not wasted on Managarmr. He began to back away from the approaching maniac until he came up against Jormunrek and Ulric, who were standing next to each other in the surrounding circle.

  Understandably afraid that they would fall victim to an avenging Varn, they immediately separated, leaving a gap in the circle more than wide enough for Managarmr to escape the scene. He took his chance gratefully and departed at high speed, to loud, disappointed and profane curses of derision from Fearless.

  Fearless did not have sufficient strength to pursue Managarmr but, with what strength he could muster, he hurled one of his swords after the lupine deserter in a final dramatic, symbolic act of aggression, but to no avail.

  Another cheer went up. Fearless raised his hand, modestly. Three seconds later, he passed out.

  *

  Now safely outside the borders of Jarnvidr, Mithrén was settling down for what remained of the night. She had found it surprisingly easy to retrace her steps, in order to escape the confines of the Iron Wood and was now grateful for what light the near-full moon provided, so as not to have to try to sleep in complete darkness: the silence of the night was bad enough for her to endure, for there was not even the slightest of noises coming from Jarnvidr.

  Mithrén lay on her side, clutched the casket containing the list close to her and concentrated on the sound in her ears of her own heart, pounding wildly. It seemed as though her heart had not stopped pounding wildly since her most recent meeting with the Elven Elders. She breathed deeply, tried to relax and told herself that everything would be all right. She had no idea how this might be possible but, for the sake of her sanity, she convinced herself that it had to be so.

  Who could say? Perhaps Freyr would be true to his word and help would yet come from the gods.

  *


  ‘Just... just... tell me all that… again,’ said Loki, his face screwed up in an expression which had the description ‘incredulous’ written all over it.

  Angrboda looked dolefully up at him with tear-filled eyes, from where she knelt stroking and comforting Managarmr.

  ‘He said... ’ sniffed Angrboda, ‘… that Skøll and Hati are lying ... bleeding to death... in a clearing... they... they might already be dead!’

  ‘So... let me get this straight… ’ persisted Loki, ‘… he doesn’t actually know where the list is… ’

  ‘No!’ screamed Angrboda, with such force that it caused Loki to rock back on his heels, slightly.

  ‘Right,’ sighed Loki, disappointedly, but with a definite air of resignation, ‘so… what do we do, now?’ he muttered quietly, mostly to himself.

  ‘We have to save them!’ sobbed Angrboda. ‘They are your grandchildren, too!’

  ‘I meant about – ’ began Loki, but then his eyes met Angrboda’s and he checked himself, ‘ – Oh, yes,’ he said, quickly changing tack, ‘of course we have to save them! Immediately!’

  This seemed to placate Angrboda a little.

  ‘But,’ continued Loki, ‘I think we shall have to extend the duration of our guests’ visit to Jarnvidr... that is, until we can find a way of relieving them of that list!’

  *

  ‘Who’d have thought it? Fearless… a hero!’ mused Ulric, as he helped Jormunrek to drag the unconscious “hero”, by his feet, through the Iron Wood.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Sharp Axe and Hodbrodd together, each of them walking a little way in front.

  ‘Did you see him with those wolves!?’ reminisced Alfgeir, appreciatively.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Sharp Axe and Hodbrodd together.

  ‘And that beautifully-executed, one-handed thrust!’ enthused Randver, clearly a sword-fighting purist, ‘whilst maintaining a precautionary shielding posture on his other side, to prevent the possibility of attack… sheer poetry in motion – ’