Jarnvidr

by Fynn F Gunnarson

  *

  ‘What in Midgard is that?’ gasped Alfgeir, as he and the men heard the first of a series of loud, spine-chilling howls rise up towards the night sky.

  No one answered for a moment.

  ‘Wolf?’ suggested a few of the men, uncertainly.

  ‘Then, I say, send in the wolf slayer!’ announced Randver and all eyes turned immediately to Fearless.

  ‘What?’ snapped Fearless as he sat, arms wrapped tightly around his legs, finally breaking the moody, silent state he had adopted sometime earlier. ‘I... er... didn’t hear anything.’

  ‘The wolf slayer has lost his hearing!’ lamented Randver, with a sad shake of his bowed head. ‘We are doomed.’

  ‘It isn’t a wolf,’ said the sharp-eared Aldaron.

  [Some confusion amongst the men.]

  ‘That thing,’ continued the elf, with growing discomfort, ‘whatever it might be, does not belong here in Midgard.’

  [More confusion amongst the men.]

  ‘It is some kind of horrific, terrifying creature,’ persisted Aldaron, his eyes widening and the alarm rising in his voice, ‘created unnaturally, with a dreadful, evil purpose in mind and we must – ’

  ‘Get out of here!’ cried Fearless, putting his current woes to the back of his mind as he leapt to his feet and accelerated past Aldaron.

  ‘Fearless!’ shouted Aldaron, to Fearless’s disappearing form. ‘I think you’re running towards it!’

  ‘Thank you!’ said Fearless gratefully, as he passed Aldaron for a second time, now running in the opposite direction.

  ‘Fearless!’ This time it was Sharp Axe who shouted, though it hurt his throat to do so. ‘We’ll lose you! And,’ he continued, a little more quietly, ‘however tempting that is, we need to stay together!’

  ‘So follow me!’ came the faint reply, as Fearless faded into the dense, arboreal surroundings of the Iron Wood.

  The men looked at one another, then looked towards the trees into which Fearless had charged.

  Another screaming howl ripped through the night.

  ‘Run!’ shouted several men in unison and, after a brief pause and a scramble, they each followed Fearless’s latest shining example of self-preservation and set off after him at high speed.

  *

  ‘Now, listen to me, Hródvitnir,’ said Angrboda soothingly, as she rested her hands tenderly on the man-wolf’s massive shoulders; Hródvitnir, apparently not the brightest of specimens, frowned, looked questioningly at Angrboda with open mouth and dribbled again.

  In response to his questioning look, Hródvitnir merely received the kind of loving (but, in this case, completely unhelpful) expression which a proud mother reserves for a dear, beloved son, so he turned his attention, probably as a last resort, to his father for help.

  ‘That’s your name,’ Loki informed his son, without much sign of affection, interest or patience.

  Hródvitnir nodded slowly, to indicate his understanding. That point having been clarified, Angrboda continued.

  ‘Hródvitnir,’ she began, ‘there are some horrible, naughty men here, in our beautiful forest... Do you like the forest, Hródvitnir? Do you recognise it? This is Jarnvidr! Can you remember, Hródvitnir… ? Jarn… vidr… ’

  ‘Get on with it!’ sang Loki in the background impatiently and with no attempt at musicality.

  ‘Oh, never mind him,’ said Angrboda, wrinkling her nose and addressing Hródvitnir. ‘Daddy’s very grumpy, today.’

  Loki turned on his heel and walked away briskly, leaving Angrboda to pass on her instructions to their son. He wanted some time alone to consider what his next move would be, once Hródvitnir had retrieved the list. The list, itself – however much he wanted to get his hands on it – was merely the key with which to unlock the door of his master plan; there would still be much work to do, even when it was finally in his clutches.

  ‘Then go, my precious!’ Loki heard Angrboda cry, her instructions now clearly at an end. He turned to see Hródvitnir lurch, unsteadily, away from his mother, powerful shoulders hunched, over-long arms dangling loosely by his sides, toes dragging along the ground with every step.

  What in Helheimr, Loki wondered, has Angrboda created?

  *

  ‘The howling’s stopped!’ panted a breathless Randver, who had been experiencing his usual difficulty in keeping up with the rest. Gradually, as word was passed on, all the men came to a standstill and stood around in a circle.

  ‘Perhaps it’s stopped howling because it’s given up and gone home,’ suggested Ulric, optimistically.

  ‘Perhaps it’s stopped howling because it’s coming after us,’ replied Aldaron, rather less optimistically.

  ‘Oh, come back, Fearless!’ called Sharp Axe, then felt his throat carefully. ‘Look,’ he croaked to the remaining men, ‘whatever it is, there is only one of it. Can it be any more fearsome than Kraken? Can it be any more frightening than a herd of fire-breathing dragons? Harder to fight than a band of battle-hardened dwarves? More terrifying than... than... ?’

  ‘The Light Elves’ sacred goat?’ offered Fearless, who was now walking back towards the group and starting to show signs of becoming his old, cynical self. ‘Oh, no… sorry,’ he continued, ‘we never actually got to see that, did we… on account of the fact that you failed the tests?’

  ‘One test,’ retorted Sharp Axe, the recollection of it still painful, ‘just the one, remember... anyway, the point is, I’m sure we’ve faced worse, before... and... there are eleven of us!’

  ‘Effectively nine, if you’re counting Fearless,’ pointed out Randver, not too quietly, ‘taking into account the drag factor.’

  [Mutterings of agreement from the men.]

  Fearless said nothing, but curled his upper lip and gave Randver a dark look.

  ‘I say we stand and fight!’ persisted Sharp Axe, clenching his fist close to eye level and confidently adopting what he hoped would be an encouragingly-aggressive posture.

  [Mutterings of uncertainty from the men.]

  ‘Because,’ went on the leader, feeling some further encouragement was probably necessary, given the disappointing lack of enthusiasm his suggestion had received, ‘if we run and it eventually catches us, we may be too exhausted to put up much of a struggle.’

  ‘I say we stand and fight, too,’ said Fynn, moving to take his place at his leader’s side.

  ‘And I,’ added Aldaron, doing likewise.

  Fairly soon, ten men had pledged their support for Sharp Axe’s proposal. All eyes turned to Fearless.

  ‘Why,’ he said, folding his arms and turning his back on the rest but, apparently, conceding defeat, ‘does it never have to be a unanimous vote?’

  ‘Good,’ said Sharp Axe, satisfied that the matter was now settled. ‘Weapons at the ready.’

  The men drew swords and axes, then took their places in an untidy semi-circle, facing the direction from which they had run, waiting for the arrival of the unknown, howling creature. As the men stared straight ahead into the semi-darkness which the full moon’s light provided, the trees ahead of them began to shake worryingly.

  *

  ‘Not… much… further… ’ groaned Týr, as he hugged the neck of his mount, Sleipnir, with his one complete arm, though not in anything approaching an affectionate way; reins, he had come to realise during the course of their journey from Asgard, were useless where trying to control the abomination of a creature beneath him was concerned. Týr’s observation was actually intended more for his own benefit than to encourage Odin’s wild, eight-legged steed, who hardly needed to be urged to continue his high-speed gallop. Persuading Sleipnir to stop, when the time came, was currently of far greater concern to Týr.

  ‘That’s Jarnvidr... up ahead, there,’ announced Týr, with an awkward nod of his head to indicate Jarnvidr’s direction; the last thing he intended to do was to release the grip he had on Sleipnir’s neck, just to point out the Iron Wood to him. ‘When we get there... I want you to stop... do you understa
nd?’

  The horse gave no indication of having heard or understood Týr’s request. Sleipnir simply kept running.

  ‘I think,’ muttered Týr to himself, ‘I shall be walking back to Asgard.’

  *

  ‘What… is it?’ gasped Alfgeir.

  ‘It looks like... a man-wolf!’ proposed Hodbrodd.

  ‘Or... a wolf-man!’ suggested Ulric.

  ‘It’s too big for either!’ offered Jormunrek.

  ‘It’s from another world!’ insisted Aldaron by way of explanation, with an awe-laden gasp.

  Hródvitnir staggered slowly, but determinedly, through the trees towards the men who, having run out of ideas on the creature’s biological and geographical origins, watched it approach them in silence. Then, without warning, it threw back its head and let out another screaming howl. There was not a man standing in front of it who did not want to turn his back on the creature and run for his life; despite this, none of them did.

  The men started to shuffle a little uneasily where they stood, each wondering how and when he would be attacked by the creature before him, for an attack now seemed inevitable: the menacing, hateful look in Hródvitnir’s unworldly, amber eyes left them in no doubt about that.

  Suddenly Aldaron spoke.

  ‘What’s that noise?’ he muttered surreptitiously, not wanting the approaching, murderous-looking creature to hear.

  ‘What noise?’ muttered several men in response, surprised both that Aldaron could hear a noise they could not hear at all but, mostly, that he should choose this particular, rather inconvenient moment to draw their attention to it.

  ‘It sounds… ’ said Aldaron, ‘… like two horses... two large horses... approaching at high speed.’

  ‘Is this actually relevant, given the circumstances?’ demanded Fearless irritably.

  *

  Týr was rapidly nearing his intended destination; in fact, he was nearing his intended destination rather too rapidly for his liking. He had entered the Iron Wood passing, at its border, what had looked to him like an elf maiden trying to read a scroll of parchment by the combined light of the moon and a small fire, somehow managed not to collide with any of Jarnvidr’s trees (more, he suspected, by luck than by Sleipnir’s judgment) and could now see, ahead of him in the gloom, a huge, hairy, two-legged, long-armed, long-toothed, amber-eyed monster of a man-wolf, half-surrounded by a dozen or so men (plus one male light elf), who clearly thought their feeble bodies and useless weapons might, in some pathetically-naïve way, be a match for it. Humans! thought Týr, with an almost complete absence of affection: will they never learn!?

  Hródvitnir had, by this point, stopped howling and had turned his attention to the peculiar-looking duo, which was hurtling towards him at an alarming speed. Cocking his head to one side, quizzically, Hródvitnir studied the situation: did this high-velocity, multi-legged missile intend to attack him? This seemed to be its most likely intention; it certainly was showing no signs of slowing down or of diverting from its present course which, if it continued, would result in a rather spectacular collision with him.

  The sudden and unexpected appearance of Týr and Sleipnir had also served to distract the men from their imminent fate at the hands of Hródvitnir.

  ‘What the... ?’ gasped Sharp Axe, lowering his weapons, safe in the knowledge that they would not now be needed for a little while yet.

  ‘Ah... that explains it!’ said Aldaron to himself, with a brief, satisfied nod of his head. ‘One horse... eight legs!’

  The collision, when it came, was very loud and not terribly pleasant to witness. Whether Týr had deliberately guided Sleipnir into the stationary Hródvitnir was not immediately apparent to those watching but, ultimately, it was of no consequence: deliberate or accidental, the result would have been much the same.

  Sleipnir’s head struck Hródvitnir in the midriff and the two of them, now welded together, crashed into a tree, whilst the horse’s abrupt deceleration, resulting from its sudden and unexpected introduction to Hródvitnir’s abdomen, caused Týr to dismount – which to him, under any other circumstances, would probably have come as a huge relief.

  Týr hurtled through the air, leaving his mount way behind him, landed, skidded, then rolled along the ground in what, for a deity, was a rather undignified manner, eventually coming to rest some distance away from the point at which he and Sleipnir had parted company. Clearly shaken, he dragged himself to his feet, looked around for a moment, located Hródvitnir (who was still trying to disengage himself from an eight-legged horse) and started to move purposefully towards him. After a few, fraught moments, Sleipnir and Hródvitnir finally succeeded in separating themselves and the startled horse took his leave of the scene, galloping off into the refuge of the wood. Hródvitnir slowly got to his feet and eyed his approaching nemesis disdainfully.

  Sharp Axe and his men looked on, each with the feeling that some cataclysmic battle was about to take place, right before their eyes – a battle, the significance of which they could not possibly know or understand: perhaps the climax of some long-running, hate-ridden quarrel, a bitter feud amongst beings who had no place in the world most familiar to humans; perhaps the very struggle of good versus evil. In any event, every man in attendance felt a similar shiver of fear and anticipation run through his body, as he watched and awaited the outcome of the inevitable confrontation.

  ‘What’s going on?’ muttered Fynn to Sharp Axe, nervously. ‘Who are these… these… ?’

  Sharp Axe could not have answered, even if he had known who they were. He was too absorbed by the tense drama which was unfolding before him: a spectacularly huge warrior with a missing hand – quite possibly a god but, if he were, Sharp Axe could not remember which one – was facing a hideous, equally-huge man-wolf of a monstrosity, which must have been sent by Loki and Angrboda. Fynn’s voice was merely a distant, irrelevant sound to which Sharp Axe felt he could not afford to pay any attention at that moment.

  When Týr was still five or six of his own paces away from Hródvitnir, he came to a halt, breathing heavily, clenching and unclenching his solitary fist, clearly spoiling for the fight, looking directly into the eyes of his enemy. The look on the warrior’s face – one of pure, undiluted hatred – suggested to Sharp Axe that he might have been recalling encounters with this creature from a previous time.

  ‘So… ’ growled Týr, at length, squinting disdainfully at Hródvitnir. ‘... it doesn’t matter how many legs you’ve got… I know it’s you… I know evil when I smell it… and I’d know your smell anywhere!’ There was a moment’s pause, before Týr continued, ‘We have an old score to settle!’ and he held up his handless arm to clarify the situation for Hródvitnir. Throughout his short speech, Týr’s eyes never left those of his enemy.

  For a few moments, Hródvitnir appeared to consider Týr’s words, possibly trying to work out whether anything the God of War had just said should make him feel insulted. In the end, he merely responded with a short, incoherent grunt, followed by a low, threatening growl, after which the stand-off resumed in a tense, breathless silence.

  ‘I think they’re going to have a fight,’ said Hodbrodd, suddenly and far more loudly than seemed wise.

  [Immediate ‘Shhhhh!’ aimed at Hodbrodd from almost all of the men.]

  ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong… ’ continued Týr, apparently unaware of Hodbrodd’s observation, ‘... I like you on your hind legs… makes it easier to ki – !’

  Before Týr could finish, however, Hródvitnir leapt towards him. In turn, Týr, who had evidently been expecting such a strike from his enemy, also sprang forward. The two met with a loud thud which rang out painfully and seemed to shake the trees in the Iron Wood to their very roots; Sharp Axe and his men winced at the force of the impact; somewhere in the distance, a galloping, eight-legged horse whinnied into the night.

  As Sharp Axe and the men watched, awe-struck by the spectacle of strength and power before them, Týr and Hródvitnir wrestled noisily, locked tog
ether, twisting and turning each other, each trying to force the other to the ground, apply a headlock or kick the legs from under his adversary. Týr shouted insults and general profanities, fuelled by a long-standing contempt for Hródvitnir’s alter-ego and by angry frustration that the man-wolf was refusing to yield, matching Týr in strength and determination. All the time, Hródvitnir merely grunted loudly with the effort he was exerting.

  ‘My money’s on the two-handed one,’ announced an excited Hodbrodd, above the noise of the fight.

  ‘Will you shut up!’ snapped Fearless, taking an open-handed swipe at his comrade, who ducked deftly to avoid it.

  ‘I just hope you’re wrong,’ observed Sharp Axe, ‘because I’d say the one with the missing hand is the good guy!’

  ‘Oh… right… ’ replied Hodbrodd, slightly disappointed by the news, ‘… come on, then… er… One Hand!’

  Despite Hodbrodd’s change of loyalty, the first combatant to strike a clean blow was Hródvitnir. He managed to loosen Týr’s one-armed grip on his body, pull himself free and strike the War God on the side of the head with a huge, swinging fist, the power of which might easily have felled Jarnvidr’s sturdiest tree.

  Groggily, Týr staggered sideways, the force of the blow having apparently robbed him of at least some of his senses. Hródvitnir, seeking to press home his advantage, made to strike Týr again, lurching forward slowly, drawing back his fist to his shoulder. Before he had time to throw the punch, however, Týr punished Hródvitnir’s hesitation; the War God, who was clearly not as badly hurt has he had intended Hródvitnir to believe, sprang at his foe and manoeuvred him into a crushing head-lock with his handless arm, whilst forcing the clenched fist of the other into the wolf-man’s windpipe.

  Hródvitnir gasped and choked, fighting for breath, desperately flailing his arms, striking Týr’s back in what appeared, to all onlookers, to be a rather optimistic and doomed attempt to free himself from the War God’s powerful and, in all probability, soon-to-be lethal hold.

  At this point, something very odd happened and, when he saw it, the first thought which struck Sharp Axe was that he was hallucinating (perhaps due to lack of sleep over the past few nights, or to some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder, following his recent brush with death at the hands of his brother): Hródvitnir’s form seemed to change momentarily from a humanesque creature to a wolf – an extremely large wolf – and back again. Sharp Axe rubbed his eyes; Týr readjusted his head-lock and tightened his grip; the wolf re-appeared, though again only fleetingly.