Jarnvidr

by Fynn F Gunnarson

  ‘Did you see… ?’ breathed Aldaron and some of the men looked at one another, amazed.

  ‘So… ’ grunted Týr, as he continued to strangle the life out of Hródvitnir, ‘the mighty Fenrir finally decides to show himself!’ although Týr had no way of knowing whether or not the temporary transformations were intentional.

  Sharp Axe went cold. The creature before him being choked to death was one of the evil offspring of Loki and Angrboda: Sharp Axe could clearly remember Angrboda herself mentioning the name “Fenrir”. Suddenly, something came to Sharp Axe’s mind that Knut Cod Killer had once told him about a giant wolf, the “Monster of the River Ván”, which had bitten off the hand of Týr, God of War. Things finally began to fall into place for Sharp Axe: the warrior before him, he reasoned, must be Týr; somehow, Hródvitnir the man-wolf, Fenrir the son of Loki and Angrboda, and the giant wolf from Knut’s story must all be one and the same.

  Sharp Axe now recalled more of what Knut had told him of the Monster of the River Ván: there was an ancient prophesy foretelling that, at Ragnarøkkr, the twilight of the gods, it would escape the bonds which held it and eventually slay Odin, thus helping to bring about the downfall of the Aesir. Angrboda had spoken of a bond, Gleipnir and a chain, Gelgja, which were holding Fenrir. It all added up: Fenrir, the Monster of the River Ván, was loose!

  Sharp Axe’s temperature hit another low. Could I be witnessing, he asked himself as the panic in him began (in sharp contrast to his body temperature) to rise, the beginning of the end of the Nine Worlds? Am I actually watching Ragnarøkkr unfold before me? Although, to be honest, he reasoned in a slightly calmer fashion, Týr does seem to have it pretty well under control.

  Just as Sharp Axe was breathing a sigh of relief, Hródvitnir decided to change tactics on saving his own life. The man-wolf stopped clawing at Týr’s back, having realised the futility of this approach; instead, he lowered his arms and took hold of the back of the War God’s legs. Unconcerned, or perhaps unaware of Hródvitnir’s possible intentions, Týr simply maintained his windpipe-crushing strangle-hold on Hródvitnir.

  A moment later, Hródvitnir sank slightly; then, with a tremendous effort, he stood up rapidly, lifting Týr into the air and throwing him over his back. Týr, taken by surprise, managed to keep hold of his enemy only until he landed heavily on his back, at which point the sudden shock of hitting the hard, frozen ground under the man-wolf’s full weight winded him, causing him to release Hródvitnir who, taking his chance, rolled sideways along the ground, away from Týr and lay there, face down, gasping noisily for breath.

  Týr, Sharp Axe observed with growing concern, did not appear to be moving much, if at all; should Hródvitnir recover sufficiently quickly, he would have the War God at his mercy. Trembling, heart pounding and hardly daring to move, so great was his reluctance to become involved with something as monumentally important to the Nine Worlds as Ragnarøkkr, Sharp Axe forced his eyes left and right to look for something he could use to help Týr: something heavy; something he could lift and swing; something he could employ as a weapon but, since he was about to become embroiled in events in which he had no business to become embroiled, something non-lethal; something, in fact, just like the sturdy-looking, broken branch lying on the ground, not half a dozen paces away from Fynn’s left foot.

  In an instant, Sharp Axe’s mind was made up: he lunged past Fynn for the branch, picked it up, ran towards the spot where Hródvitnir was just beginning to think about dragging himself to his feet and finishing off Týr, then prepared to strike.

  [Nervous gasps from the watching men.]

  As he stood over the man-wolf, branch raised high above his head, Sharp Axe knew he might have only one opportunity to deliver the blow; if he failed with his first strike, there may be no chance to deliver a second. Hródvitnir, who was still facing the ground, had not yet realised Sharp Axe was there. Sharp Axe could still, if he were of a mind, replace the branch on the ground, turn and walk away, forgetting all about Týr, Hródvitnir, his alter-ego Fenrir and even Ragnarøkkr itself… at least until the end of the Nine Worlds began, shortly after Hródvitnir had picked himself up and despatched Týr, in a few moments’ time.

  It took Sharp Axe no more than a second to decide what he must do. He brought the branch down, with every bit of strength he had in his body, onto the back of the unsuspecting Hródvitnir’s head. There was an accompanying noise which sounded remarkably like a large skull being fractured in several places.

  [Sickened, but admiring, groans from the watching men.]

  Just as Sharp Axe was starting to wonder if he had, indeed, gone too far and killed the now completely-motionless Hródvitnir, there was another noise: a crescendo of thunder, which continued to swell to almost deafening proportions. It seemed to Sharp Axe that it was right behind him, but he did not turn around; he kept his gaze firmly fixed on the back of Hródvitnir’s blood-stained and rather badly-damaged head.

  There were renewed, louder gasps behind Sharp Axe, but he was not aware of them, because he was frantically searching for signs of movement in the huge, stubbornly-immobile body lying before him. Then, there was a hand on his shoulder: a mighty hand, powerful, huge and warm. Finally, Sharp Axe looked away from Hródvitnir’s prone frame and turned to look up at the face of the figure whose hand was resting on his shoulder.

  ‘Ah, Thor… ’ sighed Sharp Axe, with a half-smile, ‘… glad you could make it… ’ and, at that, he sank to his knees, shaking uncontrollably.

  *

  Loki’s face, not for the first time in the past day or two, wore a troubled expression; this particular troubled expression, however, was accompanied by a growing sense of alarm, the likes of which Loki had not felt for a very long time.

  ‘Did you hear that thunder?’ he asked Angrboda, his eyes now wide with rising fear and panic. ‘Thor! He’s here... in Jarnvidr!’

  Angrboda appeared equally perturbed.

  ‘He knows!’ she gasped, rather unnecessarily. ‘They all must know!’ She turned around towards the direction from which the sound of thunder had come.

  ‘It is finished!’ cried Angrboda, resignation and desperation evident in her voice. ‘Hródvitnir must have failed. We must – ’

  But when she turned around to tell Loki that they must leave Jarnvidr immediately, he had already vanished.

  Chapter Twenty

  The Escape

  Sharp Axe lifted himself slowly from his knees to his feet, the two huge and apparently-lifeless figures of Hródvitnir and Týr still lying on the ground before him. He assumed that Týr was merely unconscious, having been thrown to the iron-hard ground from the top of Hródvitnir’s shoulders – not an insignificant height – then having had the man-wolf’s full weight land on top of him. He was less certain, however, about the present condition of Hródvitnir and this was proving far more of a worry to Sharp Axe. The repercussions of killing the offspring of a god and an enchantress (neither of whom was likely to show much kindness, compassion or mercy in the light of the murder, and in whose good books he was already a notable absentee) could only be imagined. Sharp Axe preferred not to try; he merely hoped desperately that ‘normality’ (or what passed for it, in the Nine Worlds’ higher and lower places) might be restored: in other words, that Hródvitnir might live to be transformed back into Fenrir, so that he could be imprisoned once more, far beneath the ground, by means of his magical bonds… by someone… somehow or other… the details of how and by whom seemed of little importance at that moment.

  ‘Is he… dead?’ ventured Sharp Axe nervously, his eyes fixed on Hródvitnir.

  ‘You overestimate your own power, Sharp Axe,’ came a rather commanding voice, which he did not recognise, from somewhere behind him. The words were delivered with a trace of amusement, though not meant unkindly, it seemed.

  Sharp Axe reluctantly removed his gaze from Hródvitnir and turned around to look at the speaker; he was in the process of disembarking a too-small chariot with large stone wheels, which wa
s tethered to two extremely large, decidedly miserable-looking goats. This, Sharp Axe was convinced, had to be another god.

  The powerfully-built figure, of strikingly-noble looks, approached Sharp Axe slowly. He had long, fair hair and a short, neatly-kept beard. He was dressed in a dark-green woollen cloak, which was tied loosely around his neck, draped across his shoulders and belted around his waist. Sharp Axe also noted that he had remarkably lucid green eyes which, for some reason, made Sharp Axe think fondly of Light Elves.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ continued the stranger as he approached, the slightest indication of a regretful smile on his lips, ‘that no human can kill this accursed creature… nor, come to that, any god – more’s the pity,’ he added with a heavy sigh, as he came to a halt beside Hródvitnir’s unconscious form. He stooped, gave Hródvitnir the briefest of examinations, then turned to look at Sharp Axe and offered him an appreciative nod. ‘You have done well,’ he pronounced. ‘While he’s in this condition, we should be able to bind him well enough to get him back to his prison, where he belongs.’

  ‘Not before we’ve tracked down that viper, Loki!’ spat Thor who, having checked on Týr and satisfied himself that the War God would live to fight another day, now strode purposefully back towards his goat-drawn chariot.

  ‘You’d better bind him, Freyr,’ said Thor over his shoulder, ‘but, unless you want to carry him, or you can find Sleipnir, you’ll have to await my return, so that we can drag him to Ván. Let’s hope for all our sakes that he doesn’t assume the form of Fenrir before we get him back to his prison!’

  ‘You’re Freyr!’ announced Hodbrodd, to whom Freyr now turned his attention and nodded benignly.

  ‘We met your goat,’ offered Jormunrek. ‘Well… we didn’t actually meet it… but we got some of its milk.’

  ‘We were told the milk came from the goat,’ muttered Fearless, by way of correction. ‘That was never actually established beyond reasonable doubt.’

  ‘And we picked up your list from Helheimr,’ resumed Hodbrodd, with a certain air of (largely-groundless) satisfaction.

  ‘My list?’ responded Freyr, with a slightly puzzled incline of his head. ‘No… not my list.’

  ‘Yes, it was,’ persisted Hodbrodd, a little unwisely. ‘King Whatsisname told us… er… Harald Fair… something or other.’

  ‘There is no Harald Fairhair, idiot!’ scoffed Fearless, clearly determined to establish himself as the Champion of Truth amongst the group. ‘That was Loki! Haven’t you been following any of this?’

  ‘Actually,’ began Freyr, addressing Hodbrodd and apparently ignoring Fearless’s existence, ‘there is a Harald Fairhair… he is King of Norway… and a direct descendant of mine.’

  [Gasps of disbelief, accompanied by general noises of confusion from the men.]

  ‘But you are right,’ continued Freyr, now addressing Fearless, ‘the Harald Fairhair you met was, indeed, Loki.’

  Fearless could not have looked more pleased with himself if he had been practising non-stop for a month.

  ‘So… er… sorry… ’ said Sharp Axe, still looking confused, ‘... what was that you said just then, about the list not being yours?’

  ‘There isn’t time for this!’ intervened Thor from his chariot, as he took up the goats’ reins in his mighty fists. ‘Not now! Here, Freyr! Take Gleipnir and bind Fenrir – or whatever it is Angrboda calls him when he walks on his hind legs!’ and Thor reached down into the chariot, picked up something and threw it towards Freyr. As his eyes followed its brief flight through the air, Sharp Axe could see that Thor had thrown a substantial length of what appeared to be thick, braided material which seemed to emit some kind of unworldly glow. Freyr caught Gleipnir deftly in one hand, then immediately set about binding Hródvitnir’s wrists behind his back with roughly half its length. Once satisfied that the arms were securely bound, he tied Hródvitnir’s ankles together with the remaining half of Gleipnir.

  Impatient to depart, Thor lifted the reins of his chariot and the goats immediately cringed in anticipation of the imminent pain their hind-quarters were about to experience.

  ‘And try to bring Týr round,’ shouted Thor to Freyr. ‘We might need him, presently.’

  ‘Thor – wait!’ cried Sharp Axe. Thor made no attempt to disguise his irritation in the heavy sigh he released when he looked at Sharp Axe and he appeared to lower the reins only with reluctance; the collective sigh which the goats released contained only relief. ‘I want to go with you… ’ continued Sharp Axe, ‘… help you to capture Loki, if I can.’

  Thor’s initial expression suggested he was either about to tell Sharp Axe to stay out of events which did not concern him, or to burst out laughing. In the event, Thor merely stared in silence at what he regarded as the interfering little human standing before him.

  ‘This has to do with Ragnarøkkr, doesn’t it?’ went on Sharp Axe; Thor said nothing, but glanced at Freyr. ‘The list – or whatever it is – that Loki sent us to collect… it concerns Ragnarøkkr... that’s why he wants it!

  ‘He must not get his hands on the list!’ insisted Freyr, urgently. ‘Do you know where it is?’

  ‘It’s safe,’ Sharp Axe assured him and fervently hoped that he was right, ‘but Loki is desperate to get hold of it, isn’t he?’ he continued, looking now at Thor again. The Thunder God nodded curtly. ‘Well, Loki thinks we still have it,’ said Sharp Axe, excitedly, indicating himself and his men, ‘or, if he’s somehow worked out that we don’t… he must think we could lead him to it!’

  ‘And… ?’ said Thor, not fully following Sharp Axe’s line of thought.

  ‘And so… ’ replied Sharp Axe, ‘you can use us as bait to draw out Loki, wherever he is!’

  [Brief silence… followed by uproar amongst the men.]

  ‘No, no,’ insisted Sharp Axe, raising his hands and addressing his men, who gradually became quiet. ‘Loki won’t harm us – not while he thinks we have the list… well, probably not.’

  [Longer silence… then resumption of uproar amongst the men.]

  ‘Are you mad!?’ shouted Fearless, above the din of the men’s protestations. ‘We’ve just spent Odin-only-knows-how-long trying to avoid Loki and everything he keeps sending after us... and now you want to set us up as walking bait!?’

  ‘But he wants that list too much to – ’ began Sharp Axe.

  ‘And what about his lady friend?’ interrupted Fearless. ‘Miss Iron Wood 825! How harmless do you think she is? She’s an enchantress, for Asgard’s sake! A witch! And we’re not talking about a Kolfinna-Cat-Strangler-type-of-witch, with the herbs and the funny voices, talking to non-existent spirits! This one deals in the black arts… with real powers we can never understand… she could inflict unspeakable pain on me – er, I mean on us!’

  [Renewed uproar amongst the men.]

  ‘Loki must be stopped,’ cried Sharp Axe, ‘before he finds Mith – I mean, the list! Who’s with me?’

  [Silence.]

  ‘Well, if you won’t help,’ continued the leader, ‘then I’ll do it alone,’ and, with that, he strode over to Thor’s chariot, passing through the group of men as he did so.

  ‘If you go, I’m going with you,’ declared Fynn loyally, only a short later and he joined Sharp Axe by Thor’s side.

  ‘So will I,’ said Aldaron and followed Fynn.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s gods only, aboard this chariot,’ announced Thor, coldly. ‘You three will have to walk.’

  *

  Mithrén’s concern for her loved ones, confusion over what was happening in and around Jarnvidr and doubts about her own sanity had all increased somewhat, following recent events.

  Firstly, she had been passed at high speed by a huge, one-handed man in full battle gear, riding what appeared to be – she could hardly bring herself to recall the memory – an enormous, eight-legged horse.

  Secondly, not long afterwards, a stone-wheeled chariot making a sound like thunder and which, unusually, appeared to be fashioned from stone itself, draw
n by two enormous goats and travelling no less quickly than the eight-legged horse, had passed her. In the chariot were two more huge men: one of these was also dressed in full battle gear; the other resembled someone she could have sworn she had once met, possibly in a dream.

  Finally, there had been more of those dreadful howling-noises, followed by some rather ominous earth-shaking.

  Mithrén’s instincts were sending her a clear message: stay put and wait patiently. Her growing anxiety for Sharp Axe and Aldaron plus a burning curiosity to find out exactly what was going on, however, were now definitely getting the better of her. Eventually, Mithrén’s anxiety and curiosity beat her instincts into submission and, having managed to convince herself that she would be of more use to her loved ones inside the Iron Wood than outside it, she mounted her horse and, with an almost overwhelming sense of trepidation, rode it into Jarnvidr for a second time.

  *

  If Thor felt any gratitude at all for the voluntary assistance of Sharp Axe, Fynn and Aldaron to locate and, ideally, to incapacitate his one-time-bosom-buddy-turned-sworn-enemy, Loki, he managed to conceal it very effectively from the volunteers.

  ‘Could at least have looked grateful,’ grumbled Fynn quietly and uncharacteristically to Sharp Axe, as Thor lashed the unfortunate team of goats with the reins and drove his chariot off into the thick, assorted trees of Jarnvidr.

  ‘I’m not sure Thor could count sensitivity amongst his list of qualities,’ muttered Sharp Axe in reply.

  ‘Thor is the most renowned warrior of all the Aesir,’ came a voice; it was Freyr and he was approaching the three comrades. ‘Greater even than Týr. But he is not used to receiving help.’