Jarnvidr

by Fynn F Gunnarson

  ‘Look,’ said Sharp Axe, finally, unable to bear the burden of guilt any longer, ‘Fearless wasn’t... himself, exactly... back there.’

  ‘You can say that again!’ piped up Fynn. ‘I’ve never seen him like that! He was like an animal!’

  [Appreciative murmurings from the men.]

  ‘He was under the influence of a spell,’ sighed Sharp Axe.

  [Silence.]

  ‘He was so far under,’ said Hodbrodd, sheepishly, ‘that he might not even remember what happened when he wakes up.’

  ‘But, how – ?’ began at least half a dozen of the men.

  ‘We – that is Hodbrodd and I – we gave Fearless a potion, to give him courage,’ confessed Sharp Axe.

  ‘Except I couldn’t get all the ingredients in the exact quantities I needed… ’ continued Hodbrodd, apologetically, ‘… so I... well... I made it up, as best I could.’

  ‘So, it was the spell... ’ said Jormunrek.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Sharp Axe and Hodbrodd together.

  ‘Not Fearless... ’ said Randver.

  ‘No,’ answered Sharp Axe and Hodbrodd together.

  ‘And he couldn’t help himself… ’ said Alfgeir

  ‘No,’ answered Sharp Axe and Hodbrodd together.

  [Silence from the men... followed by an outburst of near-hysterical laughter.]

  *

  In a Higher World, a noble-looking bearded figure, wearing a patch over one eye, sat on a huge, ornate throne, set at the head of an enormous, rectangular, oak dining-table, which extended away from the seat nearly as far as the eye could see. Languidly, he picked up occasional morsels of food from his golden plate and dropped them onto the floor. Two wolves, one lying at each side of the throne, eagerly snapped up the titbits their master presented to them.

  The bearded figure with the eye-patch gazed down the table at the two rows of noisy, feasting warriors without much interest, until his attention was taken by the sudden arrival in the banqueting-hall of two jet-black ravens. They landed delicately, one on each of their masters’ shoulders, then put their beaks close to his ears, as if whispering to him.

  The bearded figure frowned and nodded gravely, in a way which suggested that, whilst the news he was receiving was not good, neither was it catastrophic.

  ‘Huginn, Muninn – you have done well,’ pronounced the bearded figure and raised a hand, in a signal to one of the many statuesque young women who were serving the revellers. ‘I must leave,’ he informed the young woman simply, as she approached. ‘Freki, Geri – come! We must seek out Thor, Freyr and Týr!’ at which, the two wolves immediately rose and followed their master out of the hall, through its incomprehensibly-gigantic doors.

  *

  Loki, smiling fondly, stood over the kneeling Angrboda, watching her closely and admiringly, as she raised her arms skywards, looked to the heavens and chanted, eerily, in a strange tongue. He had allowed his beloved the time to seek out and tend to their badly-wounded grandchildren, Hati and Skøll – time which he felt he could ill afford under the circumstances, but it was a gesture he felt he had to make, if only to secure Angrboda’s continued co-operation. Together, they had then decided on the best plan to relieve Sharp Axe and his men of the list Loki craved so desperately: the plan had two parts and the first part was now being put into operation.

  A small fire was burning in front of the Great Hagia and it threw out sparks and thick, dark smoke with a sweet, choking smell, which Loki quickly came to realise was making his eyes water.

  Angrboda continued to chant.

  Loki’s smile began to fade.

  Angrboda’s chanting went on.

  Loki sighed.

  ‘Do you think you could, perhaps, chant a little quicker, my dear?’ he enquired, with forced patience. ‘Now the daylight is almost here, we don’t want Sharp Axe and his men to escape from Jarnvidr, remember?’

  Angrboda ignored him and went on with her chanting.

  ‘Any sign of them, yet?’ ventured Loki, looking towards the tops of the surrounding trees.

  Still, Angrboda chanted.

  Loki finally snapped.

  ‘Oh, for Odin’s sake, get on with it!’ he ranted. ‘They’ll get away!’

  Angrboda stopped her chanting, in a rather unconcerned fashion and calmly looked up at Loki.

  ‘They’re here,’ she breathed, calmly, the trace of a triumphant smile on her ancient lips.

  ‘Where?’ spat Loki, looking all around. ‘I don’t see any – ’

  Something cold and almost silent brushed past Loki’s ear; a whisper or a breeze or, perhaps, something a little more substantial. Whatever it was, it sent a chill down Loki’s spine.

  ‘Was... was that... ?’ he ventured uncertainly, looking down at Angrboda. The broad, loving smile with which she responded told him that his wait was finally over.

  ‘Took their time!’ grumbled Loki, looking all around for more convincing evidence of any other discernible presence in the vicinity. ‘It’s not... as if they… live far away... is it? Are you absolutely sure they’re here?’

  ‘Oh, they’re here, all right,’ confirmed Angrboda, waving her arms around slowly. ‘Can you not feel them, my love? Hold out your arms... feel them!’

  Loki did not look keen. He stopped looking around.

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Loki, curling his upper lip, unattractively. ‘I think I’ll pass.’

  ‘Oh... ’ pouted Angrboda, with evident disappointment, ‘... but it’s such a... lovely feeling!’

  ‘Hmm,’ went Loki, clearly far from being persuaded. ‘Now,’ he continued, slightly more agreeably, ‘if you could just explain to them... wherever they are... what they have to do and then point them in the appropriate direction. Time is moving on, you know.’

  Reluctantly, Angrboda lowered her arms.

  ‘And just make sure they understand what is required of them – to keep Sharp Axe and his men inside Jarnvidr until tomorrow night’s full moon! I don’t want this lot following Sharp Axe home!’

  ‘My spirits can’t leave the Iron Wood, Loki,’ frowned Angrboda, humourlessly, ‘you know that.’ She looked up and all around herself, at the swirling, wispy, near-nothingness of the spirits, as they flew at great speed in every direction. ‘The very souls of Jarnvidr’s dead… ’ sighed Angrboda fondly, ‘… it’s so nice to have them all around us, don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh... wonderful,’ replied Loki, with deliberate and obvious insincerity, ‘and I’m sure they just love being here!’

  ‘Better here,’ countered Angrboda, ‘than buried under Helheimr’s floor... or with Ran, in Aegir’s hall, beneath the waves! At least, in the Iron Wood, they’re free as... well, as free as spirits!’

  ‘Yes... so they are… ’ groaned Loki, weary of the conversation, ‘… now... send them off on their errand and warn them not to fail you!’’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Spirits of the Iron Wood

  Fearless was regaining consciousness with the first light of day. He had been out cold for a while and, during that time, had been dragged a considerable distance by Ulric and Jormunrek, as Sharp Axe led his group of men towards the edge of Jarnvidr. From the rather undignified position in which he woke to find himself (being hauled along, on his back, with his legs in the air at roughly 90 degrees to each other), Fearless could see little, apart from a clear, very early morning sky, which was still inhabited by a near-full moon.

  It took Fearless some moments before he remembered who he was and could work out where he was. Neither revelation came as particularly welcome news to him.

  ‘Ow!’ he complained, as his head hit a small rock, embedded in the frozen ground – not for the first time, as it happened but, on the previous occasions, he had not been conscious to feel it. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Aha!’ exclaimed Alfgeir. ‘The hero awakes!’

  ‘Where?’ asked Fearless, doing his best to look around, but failing to see this mysterious hero of whom Alfgeir had just spoken
.

  ‘Hail, Wolf Slayer!’ pronounced Randver.

  ‘Who?’ asked Fearless.

  ‘And so modest, too!’ observed Fynn, drily.

  ‘What?’ asked Fearless.

  ‘Er... they’re talking about you, Fearless,’ said Sharp Axe, not very distinctly. ‘You’re the modest, wolf-slaying hero.’

  Fearless’s puzzled silence prompted Sharp Axe to stop and look back, down the track along which the men had just walked. Once satisfied that they were not being followed, he told the men to stop.

  Immediately, Ulric and Jormunrek released Fearless’s feet, which crashed to the frozen ground, heavily.

  ‘Ow!’ cried Fearless again. ‘Careful! You could’ve broken my ankles!’

  Fearless struggled to his feet gingerly, rubbing first the backs of his wounded legs, then the back of his head, which was also sore and extremely cold after being dragged across Jarnvidr’s floor for so long.

  ‘What’s... all this... about me... being a hero?’ he enquired a little distractedly, through quiet gasps of discomfort.

  ‘I... think I owe you... an explanation... ’ began Sharp Axe awkwardly.

  *

  In a Higher World, a warrior-like figure was lashing a handsomely-decorated, stone-wheeled chariot to two very large goats, in preparation for the long journey he was about to begin. He gripped two sets of leather straps in his massive hands and tightened them hurriedly, causing the muscles in his forearms to stand out impressively. As he leaned forward, his long hair – fair, with the slightest tinge of red – fell around his face, obscuring his view of the work in hand and requiring him, repeatedly, to sweep it back, out of the way. Eventually, exasperated with his unco-operative hair, he reached for a winged helmet on the floor of the chariot, took it in his hands and pulled it onto his head.

  Finally satisfied that the chariot was securely fixed to the goats, he reached down towards the floor of the chariot again, this time to pick up a large, stone-headed, short-handled battle hammer and fixed it to his wide belt of thick, strong hide.

  This done, he stepped into the chariot, took the leather reins in his hands and took a deep breath.

  ‘Tanngnjóstr! Tanngrisnir!’ he cried, in a thunderous, booming voice. ‘We must delay no longer!’

  He lifted the reins high and brought them down sharply onto the hindquarters of the goats, who reacted by immediately setting off as rapidly as the considerable combined weight of the chariot and its driver would allow.

  The mighty, angry rumble of thunder, made by the chariot’s stone wheels as they rolled along the ground, could be heard across all the Nine Worlds.

  *

  ‘Sounds like thunder,’ tutted Alfgeir, looking skywards, his observation serving to break an awkward silence which had descended upon Sharp Axe’s men.

  ‘I... did... what!?’ demanded Fearless disbelievingly, looking up at the array of grinning faces before him from the kneeling position which he had felt compelled to adopt, immediately after receiving the most incredible and disturbing news he had ever received in his life.

  ‘When you jumped down from the tree,’ explained Sharp Axe again, patiently, ‘you raced away to head off the three Varns... seriously wounded two of them... then fought off a dozen or more vicious wolves – ’

  ‘More like twenty!’ proposed Randver, cheerfully.

  ‘Two dozen!’ observed Hedin.

  ‘At least!’ insisted Hamdir.

  ‘ – killing about half of them,’ continued Sharp Axe.

  ‘And horribly disfiguring most of the rest!’ recalled Jormunrek, fondly.

  ‘A true wolf slayer!’ added Fynn.

  [Noisy cheer of approval from the men for Fynn’s compliment.]

  ‘Er... right... ’ said Fearless who, by now, was in serious danger of hyperventilating, ‘… I think I’m going to be sick.’

  ‘No, no!’ contradicted Randver. ‘Heroes are never sick!’

  ‘Eughhh!’ went Ulric, a moment later. ‘This one just was!’

  *

  ‘So,’ grinned Loki eagerly, eyeing Angrboda with loving admiration, now that the first part of the latest plan had been completed to his satisfaction, ‘just explain to me how your beloved spirits will go about detaining Sharp Axe and his men long enough for... well... as long as is necessary.’

  Angrboda smiled appreciatively, delighted by the apparent interest her lover was taking in the modus operandi of one of her protégé groups.

  ‘They... will... ’ she began, teasingly, ‘... take control of their prey.’

  ‘Hmmm... ’ replied Loki, pretending to understand, ‘... I see... ’

  Angrboda scrutinised Loki and immediately decided that clarification was required.

  ‘The spirits will... shall we say... get under the skin of those they wish to possess... literally.’

  Loki considered this briefly, then knelt, took the hand of Angrboda and kissed it fondly.

  ‘My darling,’ declared the God of Mischief, ‘I kneel before you – you are a true genius of evil.’

  Angrboda smiled affectionately. ‘Oh... well... ’ she shrugged, ‘... I have had a wonderful teacher.’

  ‘Good point,’ conceded Loki, modestly, ‘but,’ he persisted, becoming more intrigued as he weighed up the possibilities, ‘will they possess all the men? I mean... as I think about it, complete control over Sharp Axe and his entire group of half-wits would be so much less... entertaining... ’

  ‘My spirits... ’ replied Angrboda proudly, after a moment’s deliberation, ‘seek out the vulnerable... the weak... also, they can sense evil in an individual... and, whenever they find it... they put it to very good use!’

  ‘Ahhh,’ said Loki, wistfully, ‘almost seems like a waste of potential recruits... still... it’s all in a good cause, I suppose.’

  Angrboda smiled again: a mysterious, almost secret smile. ‘But,’ she went on, ‘that’s not all... the very presence of the spirits can induce a faint heart in even the strongest and bravest individual... I think, my love, that you might be pleasantly surprised with the results.’

  ‘Well, well... ’ sighed Loki, in a rather self-satisfied way, ‘... the news just keeps getting better!’

  *

  ‘Are you feeling all right, now?’ enquired Sharp Axe tentatively of his brother, who was still in a kneeling-position and still looking thoroughly confused by recent events. Sharp Axe and Fearless had been left alone by the rest of the men who, deciding there were probably things the two brothers needed to discuss privately, had retreated to a tactful distance.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Fearless tersely with a curt nod, although Sharp Axe doubted this to be the case.

  ‘That was quite a display of courage!’ Sharp Axe told the new hero, in a tone which was honest and still some way short of being totally free of guilt. ‘You probably saved us from being torn apart by those wolves.’

  ‘Er, yes – would you mind not going on about it?’ snapped Fearless. ‘I’d rather just forget... if it’s all the same to you.’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Sharp Axe, with more sympathy than he felt his brother really deserved, ‘but it’s clearly taken a lot out of you... you’re very dark around the eyes… I’ve just noticed... and you’re looking very... pale... and, you know, I never realised how green your eyes were... or... your lips, in fact... very green lips, you have, Fearless... your teeth are looking very healthy, though... especially when you bare them like that and... er... you know what? I think I’m going to go over there... somewhere... for a while and just leave you to... rest... and... get your strength back.’

  With that, Sharp Axe began to withdraw, gingerly, from the spot where his brother was kneeling, never taking his eyes from Fearless, who merely stared back, green eyes now bulging hideously in their darkened sockets and breathing more and more noisily.

  Having reached the point where he felt it was safe to turn his back on his brother, Sharp Axe did so and ran, feeling only the slightest new pang of guilt at leaving Fearless in his
present, inexplicable condition; Sharp Axe was scared and his immediate and overwhelming concern, for reasons he did not understand and felt he had no time to analyse, was to save his own skin.

  ‘What – ?’ began Fynn, as Sharp Axe raced past him.

  ‘Why – ?’ attempted Aldaron, a few strides further on.

  ‘It’s Fearless!’ called Sharp Axe, over his shoulder, without having slowed down in the slightest. ‘I think he’s possessed!’

  ‘Possessed...?’ repeated most of the men, clearly stunned by Sharp Axe’s startling revelation.

  ‘I’d say so!’ came the leader’s fading voice, as he disappeared into the distance.

  The men looked at one another, puzzled. They looked towards the direction into which Sharp Axe had run; they looked towards the opposite direction, where Fearless was now getting to his feet; they looked at one another again. Then, they ran. They ran after Sharp Axe for their lives, wide-eyed with panic, frantic with fear, despite the fact that almost none of them had any idea what Sharp Axe had been talking about, nor why they themselves suddenly felt so frightened. They knew their leader well enough, though, to know that if he were running away from something, there would be a very good reason for it and it made absolute sense for them to do the same.

  ‘What... ’ shouted Randver, panting heavily at the back of the group, from where he was struggling to keep up with the rest, ‘... does “possessed” mean?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ replied Alfgeir, who was not far in front of Randver and struggling only slightly less than his wooden-legged comrade to keep up with the men ahead of him, ‘... but I’ve never seen Sharp Axe look frightened like that and I’d trust his judgment with my life!’

  ‘It means,’ called Hodbrodd, from his rather less vulnerable position in the middle of the fleeing group, ‘that Fearless has been bewitched by some kind of evil spirit, which has taken control of his mind and body!’

  ‘Ah!’ went Randver and Alfgeir together, although they were, in fact, hardly any wiser than before, despite Hodbrodd’s brief and totally accurate summary of the situation.

  ‘Sharp Axe,’ shouted Fynn into the distance, ‘Fearless isn’t following us!’