Jarnvidr

by Fynn F Gunnarson

  *

  In a stone-wheeled chariot, pulled by two over-sized goats, somewhere between Vanaheimr and

  Midgard, two impressively-handsome deities wore very concerned expressions.

  The chariot driver, Thor, shouted over the rumbling, thunderous noise of the wheels to his passenger, ‘Týr will be on his way, now. Odin has loaned him Sleipnir for the journey.’

  Thor’s passenger, Freyr, shuffled uncomfortably in the cramped conditions – Thor’s chariot had been created with the intention of accommodating only Thor – and raised his noble eye-brows in surprise, though kept his gaze fixed very firmly on the stony track ahead.

  ‘Sleipnir is... a handful,’ he replied evenly, having carefully considered the information Thor had given him.

  ‘But,’ shouted Thor in response, ‘he is fast!’ and he brought down the leather reins onto the goats’ hind-quarters in a particularly cruel, whipping-movement, as if holding the animals personally responsible for not being able to drag his chariot along as fast as an eight-legged horse with an attitude problem could run with a war god mounted on its back.

  ‘Is he fast enough, though?’ wondered Freyr aloud, as he rocked unsteadily in the chariot and directed a quizzical look at his driver.

  *

  Fearless, Hedin and Hamdir were doing their best to recover from their two recent ordeals: being possessed by evil spirits and having those same spirits driven from their bodies by means of fire, courtesy of Hodbrodd. They sat slumped on the hard forest floor, shivering in their charred and smoking clothing, feeling both unable to get up and generally rather sorry for themselves.

  ‘How are you, now?’ Fynn asked Sharp Axe, ignoring his three recently-possessed comrades.

  Sharp Axe instinctively rubbed his throat again gingerly, gave Fynn a half-smile and nodded appreciatively.

  ‘I’m fine, too; thanks for asking,’ muttered Fearless, a comment which received several unsympathetic looks from those around him. ‘Well, it wasn’t my fault those evil spirit things invaded my body and forced me to do their bidding,’ he reasoned, weakly. The looks did not grow any less unsympathetic.

  ‘You’re lucky that Hodbrodd, here, knows a thing or two about evil spirits,’ came a hoarse whisper from Sharp Axe, who still needed to be convinced that Fearless had not had at least some control over his own actions, whilst trying to strangle him to death.

  Fearless did not reply; he merely bristled silently at the insinuation that he should somehow be grateful to Hodbrodd for setting him alight – and not for the first time.

  There followed a period of quiet reflection amongst the men which, in the light of recent events, Sharp Axe decided to savour for as long as he could; he eased himself down onto the forest floor, lay back, closed his eyes, breathed deeply and tried to forget about the cold and that the Trickster God and his mistress were doing their utmost to ruin his first and, he hoped, last visit to Jarnvidr. Gradually, he began to drift off into a state of half-sleep, as his adrenalin levels finally settled down to somewhere near normal and fatigue caught up with him. The sensation was almost pleasant. Of course, it did not last for very long.

  ‘Why aren’t we trying to get out of here?’ piped up Ulric suddenly and shattering, as he did so, Sharp Axe’s peaceful, but all-too-brief, moment of rest and relaxation.

  [Supportive noises from some of the men,]

  Making a run for it was the last thing on the leader’s mind, at that moment. In his delicate, weakened state, he knew he would be unlikely to find the strength to fight off or outrun whatever Loki and Angrboda decided to send in pursuit, should the men attempt to flee the Iron Wood. It would be better, he had long since concluded, to stay put and fight as a tight unit, if the need arose.

  Fynn apparently read Sharp Axe’s mind. ‘I think we should stay where we are,’ he said firmly, turning his eyes from his leader towards Ulric and wearing a disapproving expression, intended to discourage Ulric from pursuing his present line of questioning.

  [Groans from some of the men.]

  ‘We need to rest,’ went on Fynn (by which he meant Sharp Axe, in particular, needed to rest), ‘and, in any case, if we try to escape, we’ll be spread out and more vulnerable to an attack. Better to remain here.’

  Beneath him, still lying on his back, Sharp Axe nodded weakly; it hurt his throat, so he stopped.

  ‘But… ’ came back Ulric, his eyes widening until he looked in genuine danger of becoming hysterical, ‘… does that mean we’ll have to stay here… forever?’

  [Worried noises from some of the men, followed by a moment of silence, followed by louder worried noises, as the full horror of the prospect sank in,]

  ‘No, of course not,’ retorted Fynn dismissively, taking it upon himself to continue to speak in his incapacitated leader’s place and trying to sound as though he believed what he was saying. He was not altogether sure how convincing he had sounded.

  ‘Because?’ drawled Fearless enquiringly, thinking now would be a good time to join in the discussion.

  ‘Hmm?’ went Fynn innocently, trying to buy some time, in order to think of a plausible reason.

  ‘Well… ’ replied Fearless, shifting into a more comfortable sitting position, as if he expected his imminent explanation and the ensuing debate might take some time, ‘… at what point do you think that our two hosts will give up, stop sending mad old women, wild animals and evil spirits after us and simply let us go home, with no hard feelings?’ He stared at Fynn blankly and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

  [Concurring noises from most of the men, followed by comments along the lines of, ‘He’s got a point,’ ‘Probably never,’ and ‘We need an exit strategy!’]

  Fynn hesitated. As he had done the previous night with his brother, Fearless now went for the throat. ‘I suppose,’ he continued, unyieldingly, ‘they might simply get bored with attempting to kill us and trying to retrieve the list… but just how likely is that, do you think?’

  [Silence.]

  Fynn began to realise that this must be what it was like for Sharp Axe, as leader of the group, having to deal with challenging personnel issues most days, almost invariably concerning his own brother. In the few minutes during which he had been deputising for his leader, Fynn had not enjoyed the experience much.

  A quick glance down at Sharp Axe’s motionless form told Fynn that he was on his own with the latest challenging personnel issue. He cleared his throat, as the rest of the men waited expectantly for the stand-in leader’s considered evaluation of their current chances of survival. After a moment’s further consideration, Fynn decided the best course of action to diffuse the situation was to put the ball into Fearless’s court.

  ‘If you were leading us, Fearless… ’ probed Fynn, ‘… what would you do? Make a break for it and risk being hunted down like a dog, with all of us separated and unable to help one another… or stay and fight in a group?’

  [Interested noises from some of the men, followed by comments along the lines of, ‘Good question,’ ‘Let’s hear the Wolf-Slayer’s plan,’ and ‘This should be worth hearing!’]

  It was now Fearless’s turn to hesitate. The blank expression returned to his face, as all eyes turned back to him, with the notable exception of Sharp Axe’s; he did not move, but snorted quietly where he lay and Fynn knew he had taken the right course with his leader’s troublesome sibling. He did not, however, want to leave it there: he still felt angry with Fearless, mostly for his earlier actions, but also just for being Fearless. ‘Which, then… ’ he pressed, ‘… if the decision were yours to make?’

  Beneath Fynn, the sound of someone clearing his throat, rather painfully, told him he had gone as far as he needed to with the throat-clearer’s brother. He understood, but he continued to stare at Fearless, threateningly.

  Fearless’s eyes narrowed, as the stare he was aiming back at Fynn grew colder and more murderous, but Fynn was now confident that he need not concern himself further on this matter for the time being. That did not make t
he ensuing silence any more comfortable but, eventually, the rest of the men lost interest in waiting for Fearless to answer and began talking amongst themselves.

  ‘That thunder’s getting worse,’ observed Alfgeir suddenly, looking skywards and deciding a change of subject was in order. ‘It’s been rumbling for a while, now... sounds like it’s getting nearer all the time... wouldn’t be surprised if we had a nasty storm, later.’

  ‘Maybe we’re going to have a visit from the God of Thunder himself!’ said Jormunrek. ‘It’s certainly loud enough!’

  ‘Oh… don’t exaggerate!’ snorted Fearless, miserably.

  *

  ‘... And, now... ’ announced Angrboda finally, raising up her hands and looking towards the rising full moon rather melodramatically, as Loki looked on with growing impatience, ‘... for the final part of the incantation.’

  Angrboda chanted, in ancient words, the conclusion of what Loki had recently referred to as “that interminably-long, accursed spell”, to Angrboda’s great displeasure; immediately, the small fire in front of her burst into life without warning and began to burn ferociously. Loki, who had been standing close by the fire jumped in surprise, took half a step back away from the flames and despatched a disgruntled scowl in the direction of his beloved.

  ‘It... is... done!’ cried Angrboda, eying Loki and ignoring the scowl, clearly delighted with herself.

  ‘Why, that’s marvellous!’ enthused Loki, clapping his hands together. ‘Er... what is done, exactly?’

  Angrboda sighed and frowned in Loki’s direction. ‘The transformation!’ she replied, impatiently. ‘The flames tell me that Fenrir has now changed into human form – well... more or less human form – and he has escaped his bond!’

  At first, Loki looked rather impressed, but then some doubt gradually crept into his expression.

  ‘And... where is he, now?’ asked the Trickster God.

  By way of response, Angrboda slowly placed two fingertips to each temple, closed her eyes and began to chant once again. Loki looked eagerly at her for some clue as to what the answer might be. Initially, none came.

  ‘I have... summoned him... ’ said Angrboda, eventually, ‘... he will appear before us, presently.’

  ‘Ancient magic performed by a crack exponent of the art… and a beautiful one, at that,’ sighed Loki, allowing himself a self-satisfied smile. ‘You just can’t beat it!’

  *

  Astride an eight-legged horse, the enormous frame of Týr clung on for dear life, as the two of them careered unsteadily towards Midgard and Jarnvidr.

  Týr liked to ride sturdy war-horses: horses built for battle, rather than for speed. He was comfortable on a war-horse: he knew exactly where he was, sitting on top of one of those. They were trained not to attempt to unseat their riders for no apparent reason; they were not so highly-strung as to be startled by the slightest noise in their hearing-range, or the slightest movement in their field of vision; best of all, they had just the four legs. Horses, in Týr’s considered opinion, should have no more than four legs; four should definitely be the absolute maximum number of legs, where horses were concerned.

  Týr liked nothing better than war; war was, basically, Týr’s whole reason for existing. He longed for the noise of battle in his ears and the smell of blood in his nostrils. He anticipated that Odin’s mission would provide more than its fair share of noise and blood and it was this comforting thought which gave Týr the will to cling on to the impossible Sleipnir, as it raced erratically along the path at breakneck speed.

  You’re lucky you belong to Odin, Týr thought to himself, as he eyed the back of Sleipnir’s head with a murderous glint in his eye, or else I’d gladly slaughter you, the moment we reached Jarnvidr!

  *

  The fire located between Angrboda and Loki was still raging. The Great Hagia was staring into it and, without really questioning why, Loki did likewise.

  ‘Look,’ whispered Angrboda urgently, after a short while had passed, ‘look... into the flames!’

  At first, Loki saw nothing except the brightness of the flames which, frankly, had begun to hurt his eyes and to give him the makings of a rather promising headache. After a while, however, he could just begin to make out a growing, dark figure, which seemed to be rising, gradually, out of the fire: it presented a vaguely-human form, though already far taller than any man.

  ‘Is that... ?’ began Loki, to which Angrboda gave a wide-eyed, enthusiastic, silent nod, ‘… Hod... nit... wit... ?’

  Angrboda’s smile faded rapidly. ‘Hród... vit... nir!’ she snapped.

  ‘Yes, yes... ’ muttered Loki dismissively, ‘… Hrod... whatever.’

  The figure – which would best be described as “humanesque”, rather than “human-like” – stepped slowly, unsteadily, out of the flames. It stood on two legs, true enough, but it was covered in what appeared to be grey fur and it had long-nailed, claw-like hands and feet, upward-pointing triangular ears, the rather over-long, yellowing teeth of a dog or wolf and, perhaps, most strikingly of all, piercing, amber-coloured eyes.

  Angrboda immediately embraced Hródvitnir fondly, drawing him to her and hugging him for all she was worth. Hródvitnir stared straight ahead, slobbering, then dribbled, rather inconsiderately, down the back of his mother’s shoulder. Her embrace finished, Angrboda turned Hródvitnir around, to face Loki.

  Loki, not very paternal at the best of times, even for a Frost-Giant-turned-evil-Aesir-deity, offered a cursory nod in Hródvitnir general direction and partially raised a hand, by way of a half-hearted greeting.

  ‘Well... ?’ said Angrboda, in a disappointed fashion which made it clear that she had been expecting a more emotional reaction from Hródvitnir’s father. ‘What do you think of your son?’

  ‘He’s... all right, I suppose... but... well, he’s neither one thing nor the other, is he?’

  Angrboda’s thunderous face told Loki he ought seriously to consider elaborating upon his observation.

  ‘I mean,’ continued Loki, taking the hint quickly, ‘as Fenrir, you could see he was a wolf – an enormous one, admittedly, but a wolf, all the same. Now, he’s... well... ’ and he released his breath in a not-terribly-complimentary-sounding ‘Pfffffff!’ noise.

  ‘Don’t listen to the nasty Trickster God, Hródvitnir!’ pouted Angrboda as she stroked the man-wolf’s hairy back soothingly, appalled at the father’s reaction to the son’s long-awaited appearance.

  ‘I suppose… what I’m trying to say,’ ploughed on Loki, determined to elaborate, however ill-advised it might have been to do so, ‘is that... well... he just isn’t very much like... me.’

  Hródvitnir, seemingly a little upset by his father’s opinions, sniffed loudly, wiped his nose with almost the entire length of his arm, belched, then flexed the fingers of one hand, reached back and scratched his behind unselfconsciously.

  ‘Oh, yes he is,’ muttered Angrboda, just too quietly to be heard.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Týr and Fenrir

  Just outside the Iron Wood, under a full moon, an elf maiden pored over a scroll of parchment, struggling to read the ancient script which adorned it, by the combined light of the moon above her and a small fire in front of her.

  Mithrén had spent almost the entire time since leaving Jarnvidr working her way down the list. She did this partly to help pass the hours (which, otherwise, would certainly have been spent worrying about the fate of Sharp Axe and her brother) and partly to satisfy her curiosity about the list’s contents. Freyr had given her an insight into the document’s history, but Mithrén wanted to go through each listed item herself.

  Unfortunately, Mithrén’s Ancient Norse was rather limited, although she had encountered the language on occasions during her years of training as an Elven healer and was able to make out some of the list’s contents but not, by any means, all of the items which appeared on the parchment. She had, by now, been studying the list for what seemed to her like forever and she was growing very we
ary of the process.

  According to Freyr, however, the true significance of the list lay not in what it contained but, rather, in what it might not contain. This piece of information had served only to confuse Mithrén when Freyr had told her and now, having failed miserably to identify the vast majority of the list’s contents, she certainly felt none the wiser as to how Loki and Angrboda could possibly use it to their evil ends.

  Suddenly, the very blood in Mithrén’s veins seemed to chill, as she heard a noise originating from within the wood. So engrossed had she become in the list that she could not actually remember when she had last heard any noise coming out of Jarnvidr. This noise, though, more than made up for the wood’s lack of recent acoustic activity: it was a sound, the like of which Mithrén had never heard before and, moreover, hoped she would never hear again.

  This was a scream, repeated over and over again; probably a man’s scream, though it could not have come from any ordinary man. Then again, it was more of a howl; but no wolf or dog, in Mithrén’s experience, had ever howled like that.

  For almost the first time since she had started to look at the list, Mithrén’s attention was diverted away from it and she began to worry again for Sharp Axe, Aldaron and the others. The thought occurred to her, not for the first time since leaving Jarnvidr, that she may already have set eyes on them for the last time.

  *

  ‘Does he have to make that infernal noise?’ demanded Loki of Angrboda, as the two of them stood on either side of Hródvitnir, who was emitting a series of ear-splitting, screaming howls, apparently aimed at the moon.

  ‘Oh... ’ pouted Angrboda, ‘... let him have his fun,’ and she clapped her hands encouragingly, for

  Hródvitnir’s benefit. ‘Also... he’s striking fear into the hearts of his enemies.’

  Loki did not appear convinced and stuck the tip of an index finger into the depths of each of his ears.

  ‘Pity he can’t strike fear into his enemies’ vital organs a little more quietly!’ he shouted, but Angrboda could not hear a word on account of the howling.