At first, this piece of information did nothing to shorten the leader’s stride, as he sprinted impressively through the trees of Jarnvidr but, after a few moments, during which he considered the piece of news which the ever-trustworthy Fynn had just delivered, he slowed his pace and, eventually, came to a halt.
‘What in Asgard... made you... run off… like that?’ panted Fynn, as he staggered, unsteadily, over to his now-stationary leader.
‘Fearless... ’ gasped Sharp Axe, hands on his knees, fighting for breath and shuddering at the memory of what he had witnessed, as the others arrived, ‘... I’ve never seen anything like it... it was... horrible... really horrible!’
‘Well,’ wheezed Randver, finding a sturdy tree against which to lean for support, ‘he’s not the most handsome specimen at the best of – ’
‘No, no,’ protested Sharp Axe, straightening his back, taking a deep, calming breath, holding it, then releasing it slowly, ‘I don’t mean that. This was... ’
‘What?’ asked several of the men, eagerly.
‘Just... indescribable!’
‘What did you see?’ enquired Aldaron, although his keen and normally highly-dependable Elven instincts suggested to him that it might actually be better for him not to know.
‘His eyes... ’ began Sharp Axe, as the memory caused him to screw up his face, ‘... they were green... and all around them was this sort of... darkness... and his face was pale – deathly pale... and his lips were green... and he looked... he looked... ’
‘Like Hedin, here?’ suggested Ulric.
‘And Hamdir?’ ventured Jormunrek.
The rest of the men, their leader included, looked from one latest object of interest to the other and, finally, at one another.
‘Yes... ’ nodded Sharp Axe, eventually, ‘... quite like... they – run!’
If the men at whom Sharp Axe had directed his recommendation were confused by their leader’s response, they did not stay still for long enough to show it: they departed the scene with the same immediate swiftness of foot their leader had displayed with, of course, the notable exception of Randver Woodenleg – but even he, despite his obvious disadvantage in the lower-limb department, still managed to make good his escape.
‘Whatever,’ breathed Fynn heavily, dodging the oncoming trees with a series of deft body-swerves, ‘has got into those two?’
‘Evil spirits!’ came back Hodbrodd, a split second before he was suddenly faced with three important choices: whether to swerve to the left, to swerve to the right, or to try to stop in front of a particularly sturdy-looking tree which, up until that point, he had failed to notice. Unfortunately, by the time he realised he had to make the choice, he was too close to the tree to stop and could not decide whether to go left or right in the time available to him. Hodbrodd’s indecision cost him dearly: he collided head-long with the trunk, staggered backwards, rotated on the spot two or three times and fell to the ground, face down.
Although the men running behind Hodbrodd groaned as they witnessed the painful collision, none of them actually stopped to check on the victim’s state of health and even Randver somehow managed to hurdle over Hodbrodd’s prone body, without breaking stride.
‘What was that?’ shouted back Aldaron who, from his advanced position just behind Sharp Axe, had not seen Hodbrodd’s altercation with one of the Iron Wood’s more solid and immovable residents, but whose keen sense of hearing had picked up the sound of the impact. Fortunately for him, as a Light Elf, he was also somewhat less susceptible to the influence that Jarnvidr’s spirits were having on the courage of Sharp Axe and the rest of the men.
‘Hodbrodd’s been killed by a tree,’ exaggerated Jormunrek in response – a piece of news which he delivered in a remarkably matter-of-fact tone, completely devoid of all concern.
On hearing this, Aldaron stopped running, turned around and began to jog back towards Hodbrodd, in order to survey the damage the tree had inflicted on him.
Seeing Hodbrodd’s lifeless form, even from some distance, Aldaron realised his colleague was, at best, unconscious. At worst, Aldaron concluded, Jormunrek might not, for once, have been exaggerating.
‘We have to help him!’ shouted Aldaron, to anyone who might listen, as he reached Hodbrodd.
No-one heard. Everyone had disappeared. Aldaron looked all around, feeling uneasy: he was
uneasy about the silence; he was uneasy about the absence of assistance; he was uneasy about the presence of three men, out of sight but somewhere in the vicinity who, even when they were not possessed by evil spirits, were not the most savoury of individuals but, given his current predicament, they were certainly three of the people he would least like to have to meet at that moment.
Aldaron’s most immediate and greatest cause for concern, however, was Hodbrodd, who was still lying motionless on the forest floor. Carefully, Aldaron knelt down, gently put his hand behind Hodbrodd’s head and carefully raised it, to look at his face.
Even at the best of times, Hodbrodd’s face was not exactly a pretty sight: small, dull-grey eyes, which were rather too close together for comfort and which had the unfortunate habit of looking in slightly different directions, a somewhat turned-up button nose and enough facial hair to stuff a mattress. On examining Hodbrodd now, Aldaron winced even more than he might usually have done: the button nose was twice its normal size, dark, bruised and bleeding; blood was also trickling from Hodbrodd’s mouth into his beard and from just above one of his generous eyebrows down the sides of his face. The tree had clearly given him one almighty head-butt.
Aldaron looked around him, anxiously. Where was an Elven healer when you needed one? He closed his eyes and listened with his sensitive Elven ears. There was virtually no sound: all Aldaron could hear was the ghostly whispering of the breeze in the trees which surrounded him.
Suddenly, Aldaron began to feel the cold. He started to shiver uncontrollably. He listened to the breeze again; it sounded strange, almost as if it were actually whispering to him, somehow speaking words. The words made no sense to him but words, he decided, were what the sound of the breeze resembled.
This breeze seemed to engulf Aldaron, to embrace him, to transport his very soul to a different place: a place where, for some reason he did not understand, he really, desperately wanted to go. At the same time, though, something inside him told him not to go there: this place was evil and dangerous – no place for a Light Elf.
Aldaron got to his feet, turning around slowly, looking for some clue as to what could be making him feel this way. There was nothing; only the breeze.
All at once, Aldaron realised what was happening.
There was no breeze.
It was the evil spirits of which Hodbrodd had spoken: the Spirits of the Iron Wood.
Aldaron could not think very clearly at that moment but, somehow, came to the conclusion that trying to resist the influence of these spirits should probably take priority over trying to help his injured comrade, so he slowly made to walk away from the lifeless figure of Hodbrodd. Staggering a little, the Light Elf fought to close his mind to the spirits’ unwanted intrusion. He clenched his fists, gritted his teeth and took deep, urgent breaths. His face twisting, contorting with the invisible, internal struggle his soul was enduring, Aldaron released a loud, desperate, anguished cry – more a scream than a cry – into the cold, still Jarnvidr air.
*
‘Shhh!’ hissed Angrboda quietly and raised a hand to silence Loki, who had been heaping praise upon his lover and covering most of one of her lower arms with grateful, respectful kisses, for the brilliance of her decision to summon and release the Iron Wood’s spirits.
Loki stopped in mid-compliment, lips pursed.
‘Listen... the spirits are claiming another soul,’ Angrboda informed him calmly with a satisfied look, which became gradually less satisfied the longer the distant cry continued. ‘Although… this one is a fighter... ’ continued Angrboda, sounding both intrigued and mildly disappointed, ‘...
I wonder if they will succeed.’
‘Mmm... ’ replied Loki, ‘I do enjoy a good, sporting contest, now and again! There really is nothing to beat a bit of healthy competition, I always say.’
‘Oh,’ grinned Angrboda, wickedly, ‘there’s nothing healthy about this competition... or sporting, come to that!’
‘Why,’ declared Loki, an evil glint in his eye, ‘that’s just how I like it!’
*
‘What was that?’ called out Fynn, still running at high speed. Sharp Axe, just ahead of him, slowed down to a gradual halt and the rest of the men did the same.
The leader looked at the members of the group as they caught up with him and quickly realised that Aldaron and Hodbrodd were not amongst them. Fighting for breath, he looked straight at Fynn.
‘How... did we get... here?’ he asked, looking genuinely puzzled.
Fynn shrugged. ‘I’m not... absolutely… ’ he panted, but Sharp Axe did not wait for him to finish.
‘We have to go back,’ he interrupted, ‘for Aldaron and Hodbrodd. They need our help.’
‘And Fearless and the others?’ enquired Fynn, with a pained look on his face, as if he were hoping his leader would dismiss the suggestion.
‘Well... ’ replied Sharp Axe, reluctantly, ‘... I suppose we should look for them, too,’ and promptly signalled to Fynn and the rest of the men to join him on the short journey back the way they had come, then broke into a weary trot as he passed them.
The men had no particular desire to retrace their own steps, but it appeared that the influence of whatever it was that had caused their courage to fail them had now all but disappeared.
*
Aldaron was alone, on his knees, head bowed when Sharp Axe found him. The leader approached him tentatively and placed a hand on the Light Elf’s shoulder. Aldaron looked up; his face, apart from being rather flushed and drenched in perspiration, looked normal. Sharp Axe breathed a sigh of relief.
‘What happened?’ he asked Aldaron, just as Fynn arrived, closely followed by the first of the other men.
Aldaron looked scared. His eyes widened and he began to tremble. ‘I – I don’t... know,’ he stammered, ‘I started to feel really strange when I went back to see to Hodbrodd... ’
Seeing Aldaron in his present state restored some unwelcome fear and uncertainty in the men’s hearts. It was Ulric who first articulated its restoration.
‘Let’s get out of this wood while we have the chance!’ he proposed, with a sweeping wide-eyed glance which scanned all visible parts of Jarnvidr for any undesirable presence.
By way of seconding Ulric’s proposal, Jormunrek nodded vigorously and managed a grunt. Randver and Alfgeir remained silent, although their faces implied that Ulric had their support.
‘But what about the others?’ asked Fynn, before he had really considered his question.
[Scornful looks from Randver and Alfgeir.]
‘Fearless, Hedin and Hamdir can probably look after themselves in their present condition,’ replied Sharp Axe, after a moment’s thought.
[Hopeful noises from the men.]
‘But... ’ continued the leader, ‘... I don’t want to leave Jarnvidr without Hodbrodd.’
[Disappointed groans from the men.]
‘If we can find Hodbrodd,’ said Sharp Axe, raising his hands to quieten the groans, ‘we’ll try to leave.’
The men agreed, although without universal enthusiasm. Fynn looked at Aldaron.
‘Can you remember where Hodbrodd was when you saw last him?’ he asked.
Aldaron sighed and shook his head apologetically. ‘No... sorry,’ replied the Light Elf.
‘All right,’ announced Sharp Axe, standing a little way apart from the rest of the men, ‘never mind. I suggest we stay together, whilst we’re looking for Hodbrodd. It will probably take us longer to find him like that, but it should be safer.’
The men stared silently, intently and attentively in their leader’s direction.
‘Something has clearly happened to Fearless and the other two… ’ he explained, ‘... and I think they could be dangerous if we come across them.’
The men continued to stare silently and intently, though rather less attentively, in Sharp Axe’s direction.
The silence continued awkwardly, as Sharp Axe returned the stare of this men.
‘They’re... standing behind me... aren’t they?’ croaked Sharp Axe, not wishing to turn around.
Slowly, as if not wanting to make any sudden movement themselves, the men all nodded in response.
Sharp Axe felt a cold chill take a rapid, one-way, downward tour of his spine and quickly took stock of the situation: none of the men in front of him looked particularly alarmed, which suggested that none of those behind him was about to make an imminent attack; he had a sword and an axe at his side, both of which he could draw in the blinking of an eye and with which, if necessary, he could kill at least two potentially-murderous assailants, before the third had realised what had happened; but one of those potentially-murderous assailants was his own brother; it was likely that none of the three was in control of – and, therefore, responsible for – his actions. Would it be altogether right to kill any of them? Did he have a choice? Did he really care?
After a moment’s deliberation, Sharp Axe decided against obeying his warrior instinct, which had urged him to launch an immediate, surprise attack on those behind him. Instead, he carefully, deliberately and somewhat reluctantly turned around to face the three least faithful of his men, aware that, if push came to shove, this might be the last time he saw one or more of them alive.
Chapter Eighteen
Hródvitnir
Thor’s goat-drawn chariot tore along the path connecting Asgard to Vanaheimr, leaving in its wake a particularly furious-sounding thunder. Time was not on Thor’s side; he had learned the details of Loki’s plans from Odin only at a rather advanced stage of the proceedings, which meant he now had a lot to do and, if he were to stand any chance of thwarting the Trickster God, he had to do it quickly.
Just before leaving for Vanaheimr, Thor had briefly informed his half-brother Týr, God of War and fellow Asgard resident, of Loki’s evil intentions, what the consequences would be if Loki carried them out successfully and precisely how Týr’s help was required. This he had been instructed to do by Odin.
In all the Nine Worlds, Odin could think of no one better suited to the task ahead, the details of which Thor had had to deliver, than his son Týr. True, Thor might have been more than capable of carrying out the task successfully, but Thor was Odin’s favourite son; this was a dangerous assignment and Odin had no intention of jeopardising Thor’s life, however great the risk of failing to stop Loki might be.
No. Far better to appoint Týr: courageous beyond measure, battle-hardened beyond compare and, most importantly, witless beyond belief. Týr would welcome the challenge, Odin told himself. Where others would cower or flee, Týr would stand his ground and fight, no matter how much the odds might be stacked against him. In short, Týr would buy Thor the time he needed to fulfil his own task and, hopefully, live to tell the tale. That was the plan. Odin was convinced of its soundness but realised that there was still considerable risk involved so, just to be on the safe side, he had told Thor to divulge only the vaguest of details to his hapless half-brother, Týr.
Thor urged his goats on impatiently, bellowing at them to run faster and lashing their hindquarters viciously and repeatedly with the reins. Tanngnjóstr, the tooth-gnasher and Tanngrisnir, the tooth-grinder, forged on towards Vanaheimr, panting heavily, eyes bulging, desperately trying to outrun the painful strokes of the leather straps across their backsides. They were terrified of their master at the best of times, but especially when he was in this mood: angry, impatient, spoiling for the fight. In fact, their entire lives were spent in constant fear, never knowing, from one day to the next, which of them would be slaughtered, skinned and eaten by Thor, come the evening and which one had to witness his brother’
s brutal death, simply to provide their master with a meal to fill his belly and a skin to keep him warm in the night. The next day, the victim would somehow come back to life, but that knowledge provided little comfort to either goat when Thor was sharpening his knife by the failing sunlight, at the end of each day.
The goats’ fear was intensified still further, when the Thunder God let out a sudden mighty roar of fury and frustration, which seemed to shake the very skies: fury at the once-loyal Loki’s betrayal and frustration with the speed limitations of his goat-powered vehicle. The next time his father charged him with saving the Nine Worlds, he promised himself he would make sure he was equipped with a faster mode of transport.
*
‘So… my precious... ’ crooned Loki, stroking Angrboda’s long, iron-grey hair lovingly, as she knelt on the cold ground, beside his standing figure, ‘... tell me of this... discovery of yours... I’m all ears.’
‘Well,’ began Angrboda eagerly, turning her head quickly to look up at Loki, having obviously been awaiting the signal from her lover to provide him with an explanation, ‘I first saw it in the runes – ’
‘Ah, yes... ’ mused Loki nostalgically, staring into the distance languidly, though still stroking Angrboda’s hair, ‘... the runes... where would we be without the runes?’
‘They told me to search through the ancient writings... prophecies… spells of transformation… ’
Loki looked less enthusiastic.
‘Hmm... ’ he went, pursing his lips, ‘... ancient writings... never cared much for reading, myself... more one for making it up on the spot... still... each to his own... sorry, my dear; you were saying...?’
‘Transformation!’ repeated Angrboda snappily, slightly put out by the interruptions. ‘The art of changing one object’s form into another.’
‘Yes... ’ nodded Loki, ‘... a speciality of mine... but I’m not sure I... follow how that will move us forward, exactly.’
‘The magic,’ spat Angrboda, fighting to keep a grip on her rather fragile temper, ‘which binds our son in his prison, was designed for his kind... but if he took... another form... that magic should not work any longer. Don’t you see? This could be the way to fulfil the prophecy foretelling of Fenrir’s participation in Ragnarøkkr itself!”’
Jarnvidr Page 9