Jarnvidr

by Fynn F Gunnarson

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ moaned Fynn, though not too loudly. Freyr heard him, anyway and allowed a brief chuckle to escape.

  ‘Are you absolutely sure that the list is safe?’ asked Freyr, now looking directly at Sharp Axe and speaking in an altogether more serious tone.

  ‘Yes… ’ replied Sharp Axe immediately and not completely truthfully, ‘… at least,’ he went on, ‘I hope she – I mean, it is!’

  Freyr’s sympathetic expression seemed to tell Sharp Axe that he understood. But how was that possible? wondered Sharp Axe. Could gods, perhaps, read the minds of humans?

  *

  Angrboda felt betrayed: there was no other word for it. She had given Loki the best centuries of her life; she had stood by him through thick and thin, throughout all those ambitious, vengeful, insane activities of his; she had borne him three fine, healthy, befittingly-evil children and none of those births had been painless, by any means. How would Loki have coped with the pain of childbirth? she fumed, staring towards the space which her lover had, until a few moments earlier, been occupying. As she thought about it, she recalled with some irritation that Loki had, himself, once given birth: he had borne a foal, during that strange period of his life when, for reasons she could not now remember, he had shifted his shape into that of a mare. What had the foal been called? Angrboda asked herself. Ah, yes – Sleipnir! A big, ugly, eight-legged brute... much like its ‘mother’... apart from the leg-count, obviously. It was a complicated and shameful story, in Angrboda’s opinion and she chose not to dwell on it any longer.

  Angrboda reflected on the events which had led her to the sorry situation in which she now found herself. She had supported Loki throughout his evil scheme to bring about Ragnarøkkr: she had plotted with him and helped to devise a brilliant, audacious plan; she had watched his progress from her home in Jarnvidr, as he had followed to Helheimr the fools whom she, herself, had helped him to choose; she had willingly allowed him to use her beloved Jarnvidjur, her sacred Varns and even her precious spirits to try to bring the plan to a triumphant conclusion. Finally, she had worked out a way for their son, the great Fenrir, to cheat the power of the enchanted bonds which had held him fast in his underground prison.

  In the end, all her efforts had been for nothing. The list was still not in their possession and, without the list, there seemed no hope of initiating Ragnarøkkr. Fenrir might as well be back in his prison and, as far as she could ascertain from where she stood, that was probably where he would shortly be going.

  Now, to add final insult to injury, Loki had deserted her. He had fled for his life. He had simply abandoned her: left her to face the combined wrath of the Aesir and Vanir alone.

  The great Hagia of the Iron Wood took a long look around her, turning slowly, taking in the moonlit surroundings which had been her home for longer than she could remember; never, in all that time, had she felt so alone and helpless as she did at that moment.

  Slowly, sadly, Angrboda sat down, cross-legged on the ground, put her face into her hands and allowed the bitter, stinging tears to flow.

  *

  Thor was not a happy Thunder God; far from it. True enough, Fenrir had been incapacitated and, for that, he was grateful; but it was a mere human whom he had to thank, not Týr, as it should have been. As he thundered through the Iron Wood in his stone-wheeled chariot, with Tanngnjóstr and Tanngrisnir in front, trying to outrun his anger, Thor was all too well aware that, for as long as the whereabouts of both Loki and the list were unknown, none of the gods of Asgard or Vanaheimr could rest.

  Loki, Thor reflected, could be anywhere by now; he could have adopted the form of almost any living thing. The human, noble though his gesture was to sacrifice himself, had to be underestimating Loki. Surely the Trickster God would never risk appearing now in Jarnvidr knowing, as he must, that Thor was looking for him in a fury.

  Even if Loki were still in the Iron Wood, the Iron Wood was a very big place in which to hide and it would be almost impossible to find someone in it who did not wish to be found, especially if that someone were as adept at disguising himself as Loki was.

  Come out, Loki! fumed Thor silently, as he brought down the painful leather reins again and again upon the hindquarters of his unfortunate team of goats. I defy you to show yourself!

  *

  ‘I think we should separate,’ said Sharp Axe to Fynn and Aldaron, as they wandered haphazardly between the dark trees of Jarnvidr. His comrades stopped and looked at him aghast, shocked by the suggestion.

  ‘But it’s risky enough as it is!’ pointed out Fynn. ‘If we were to separate – ’

  ‘ – We’d treble our chances of finding Loki… ’ interrupted Sharp Axe, ‘… or, at least, of being found by him.’

  ‘If,’ interjected Aldaron, ‘he’s still in the wood.’

  The possibility that Loki might no longer be within the boundaries of Jarnvidr was one which Sharp Axe did not want to consider, at least for the present time: the consequences of Loki’s having located Mithrén outside of the Iron Wood were too dreadful for Sharp Axe to begin to contemplate.

  ‘We have to separate,’ pressed Sharp Axe. ‘Time is against us… I’ll explain later,’ he added, aware that his two companions understood the situation – its huge significance for everyone and everything in the Nine Worlds – even less well than he currently understood it himself.

  ‘Well… ’ began Aldaron, uncertainly, ‘... what do we do if Loki finds one of us?’

  ‘I’m sure Thor will be right there, if Loki shows himself... ’ replied Sharp Axe, trying to sound as though he knew what he was talking about, ‘... but, just in case he doesn’t arrive immediately… then, call out Thor’s name as loudly as you can.’

  With that, the three friends reluctantly went their separate ways, in search of the Trickster God.

  *

  Mithrén rode slowly, cautiously into Jarnvidr, straining to see and hear every sight and sound with which the Iron Wood might threaten her. She heard thunder again; it was not far away. The night – what was left of it, for she thought it would soon be morning – was clear, without a cloud in the sky. She should be surprised, then, to hear thunder but, on reflection, she told herself that nothing would surprise her now, about this dreadful, forsaken place.

  The elf maiden reached down to check once more that the casket was still attached to her saddle, where she had secured it. It was still there, of course, as it had been the last time she had checked and all the times before that, but she felt she had to keep reassuring herself that her precious cargo had not somehow, inexplicably, been removed from her safekeeping without her knowledge. Again, she reflected that nothing would surprise her where Jarnvidr was concerned so, all things considered, it was probably best to keep checking.

  *

  Sharp Axe took careful, uncertain steps through the Iron Wood. To take his mind off the terror he was feeling at that moment, he thought back to how he had first become involved with this whole, sorry saga. It was suddenly difficult to remember, but Sharp Axe persisted, simply to distract himself from the intense fear: he recalled a visitor to Álfheimr – an old, bedraggled, rather pungent individual; then, there had been the king – Harald Fairhair; there had been a journey – to Helheimr, with Surtr, the Fire Giant; there had been a meeting with Hel – Goddess of the Dead; the journey back to Muspelheimr was now little more than a blur; from there, he had travelled directly to Jarnvidr.

  Jarnvidr…

  How long had he been in Jarnvidr, now? At that moment, it seemed as though he had been there for most of his life. As he wandered through the wood, Sharp Axe began to have the inescapable feeling that he was being watched. Probably just my imagination, he thought... but not for long.

  ‘So, Sharp Axe… ’ came a cold voice suddenly, out of the equally cold darkness, ‘… we meet again.’

  Sharp Axe froze, knowing he was in the presence of Loki and not particularly relishing the experience.

  ‘I think,’ continued the voice, �
�that we can dispense with the formalities and keep things simple… you have something I want… if you give it to me, I shall spare your life.’

  ‘How,’ began Sharp Axe, looking all around in the darkness and deciding it would be sensible to try to stall Loki, as far as possible, ‘do I know that I can trust you to spare my life... if I give you what you want?’

  ‘Good question,’ replied the voice in the darkness, still without a form. ‘You don’t know… but, then, again… you don’t really have a choice… do you?’

  At that moment and without warning, Sharp Axe’s whole world seemed suddenly turn on its head. He felt himself being grabbed from behind, spun around and forced, face down, to the ground. He wanted to resist the force, to cry out for help, but found himself unable to do either. Loki, in addition to all his other undoubted attributes, was turning out to be extremely strong; Sharp Axe could hardly breathe in Loki’s grip, let alone resist or call out.

  ‘Regrettably, I don’t have time to socialise,’ grunted the impatient voice from somewhere above Sharp Axe, ‘so I’ll get back to the point… where is the list?’

  Sharp Axe desperately wanted to buy himself some time; he wanted to give Thor the opportunity to come to rescue him. He was beginning to accept, however, with growing despondency, that Thor would not be coming – at least, not in time to save him. If Sharp Axe were, by some unlikely miracle, to get out of what was rapidly turning into a hopeless situation, he would have to do it alone.

  ‘I… don’t… have it,’ gasped Sharp Axe as best he could, with his face being pushed painfully into Jarnvidr’s frozen ground.

  ‘No… of course not,’ came the voice again, its owner clearly losing patience. ‘You would hardly have come looking for me alone, in the middle of Jarnvidr if you were carrying it. So… where… is it?

  Sharp Axe suddenly felt himself being turned over, rapidly and helplessly, onto his back, so that he was now looking up into Jarnvidr’s cloudless sky. Then the sky was quickly replaced by a far more sinister and unwelcome sight: the face of the Trickster God himself. Loki was staring into Sharp Axe’s eyes as he pinned him to the frozen earth with a stone-hard knee and shin across the midriff and rib cage, keeping his head still by means of a large, muscular hand around his throat.

  There was something about the way Loki was looking at him that made Sharp Axe start to believe it would do no harm to tell him who had the list. But no, he told himself, suddenly coming to his senses… he had to fight the temptation… he had to resist… Loki was trying to read his mind… Sharp Axe realised that he had to think of something… someone… anyone but Mithrén.

  Sharp Axe thought of his men… he thought of his father, back in Grimstad… he thought of his grandfather… of Kolfinna… of Thor… of Freyr… of Fenrir… of Angrboda… even of Loki himself.

  ‘All right,’ sighed Loki, ‘I can see your memory needs a little assistance… perfectly understandable... these situations are always a little... stressful, I find.’

  Loki released the choking grip around Sharp Axe’s throat and, for the moment, at least, the captive was able to breathe a little more comfortably; the knee and shin, however, remained very firmly in place. Sharp Axe became aware that Loki was reaching away from him, hurriedly busying himself with some task or other, but could not see what it was. Then, all too soon, Sharp Axe saw the light and began to feel the warmth of a fire, lighting up the darkness around him.

  ‘Hard to believe a fire could burn so easily here, isn’t it?’ said Loki, almost conversationally, admiring his own handiwork on the ground nearby. He scrutinised Sharp Axe’s face, tutted sympathetically and continued, ‘You know, you do look cold, lying there on the frozen ground, with your teeth chattering like that… ’ then added, in an altogether different, icy, decidedly-dangerous voice, ‘… allow me to help you… thaw out a little.’

  Again unable to resist, Sharp Axe found himself being manoeuvred with ease by the Trickster God onto his front; in an instant, his wrists had been bound behind his back and, to his horror, he realised that Loki was dragging him by the scruff of his neck towards the fire, a short distance away. A strong hand took Sharp Axe’s hair in an iron grip, lifted his torso some way off the ground and forced his face right over the flames.

  ‘Perhaps the warmth will help to refresh your memory,’ suggested Loki considerately. ‘Now, where… is… the list?’

  The intense heat and close proximity of the fire made it very difficult for Sharp Axe to breathe and was already starting to burn the skin on his face, but he remained silent.

  ‘I’m… wai – ting,’ sang Loki. ‘Just… try to remember… that’s all I’m asking… I’ll do the rest.’

  The pain of the fire was almost unbearable now and Sharp Axe convinced himself he could smell his own flesh burning. For the time being, he was somehow still able to force himself to think of anything, anyone but Mithrén but, as the agonising seconds passed, he began to realise, reluctantly, that he would not be able to hold out for much longer: either the pain would become too great and he would succumb to Loki’s will, or he would lose consciousness, perhaps even die by asphyxiation over the fire.

  ‘He doesn’t know where it is,’ said a voice from out of the night; it was a calmer, gentler, lighter voice than Loki’s; it was familiar, totally unexpected and, at that moment, the very last voice Sharp Axe had wanted to hear. ‘Let him go,’ it urged.

  Sharp Axe felt Loki suddenly release his hair, which caused him to drop like a stone towards the flames. Somehow, he managed to half turn in mid-air and shift his weight to his left as he fell, to avoid landing face-first in the fire. Once flat on the ground, he rolled and writhed around frantically, trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and the fire’s cruel heat, as best he could with his wrists still bound behind his back.

  Through watering eyes and with the burning pain in his face still fresh, but now in a slightly safer position, Sharp Axe looked across at Loki, who was on his knees, staring at something in the distance. Loki turned towards Sharp Axe with a delighted, amazed expression on his face, then he looked into the distance again, towards the voice. Sharp Axe closed his eyes briefly and sighed resignedly: Mithrén had come to sacrifice herself for him.

  ‘She has it!’ announced Loki, laughing triumphantly; he turned again to Sharp Axe. ‘Doesn’t she?’

  ‘No!’ cried Sharp Axe, into the night. ‘Run Mithrén! Get away from here! Don’t – ’

  ‘Oh… how noble!’ interrupted Loki with a sigh. ‘That really is very touching, I have to say.’ Now, he turned his attention to Mithrén. ‘Where is it?’ he enquired, almost affably.

  Sharp Axe scoured the darkness, frantically, for signs of Mithrén but, from his present position, could see none. At this point, Loki rose to his feet and walked slowly away from the fire, coming to a halt after only half a dozen or so steps. Mithrén, he’s going to kill you! Why don’t you run? thought Sharp Axe, desperately. Run, Mithrén! Save yourself!

  Then, by the light of the fire which had almost burned the skin off his face, Sharp Axe saw Mithrén, standing perfectly still, staring calmly up at Loki. She looked so vulnerable, so defenceless and, apparently, so unaware of the imminent fate which awaited her that, if he could have done so, Sharp Axe would have killed Loki there and then without a second thought, irrespective of any consequences his actions might bring upon him or, indeed, upon the Nine Worlds.

  ‘An elf maiden,’ observed Loki, sounding surprised at this turn of events. ‘Well... no point in trying to read an elf’s mind,’ and, with a movement as quick as thought itself, he had grasped Mithrén by the throat and pinned her against the nearest convenient tree.

  Sharp Axe rolled frantically from side to side, trying to find a position from which he could stand up but, with his wrists bound, this proved difficult. After several attempts, however, he managed to kneel and, from there, to struggle to his feet. Shouting wildly, he lunged towards Loki’s side with his shoulder, in the hope that the impact would caus
e him to release his hold on Mithrén and allow her to escape into the cover of Jarnvidr’s innumerable trees, but the Trickster God merely lashed out with his free hand, almost casually, before Sharp Axe had reached him; the hand struck Sharp Axe painfully on the side of the head and sent him spinning to the ground.

  Sharp Axe could hear Mithrén choking, but was powerless to help; he was barely conscious himself.

  ‘Where is it?’ Sharp Axe heard Loki demand again, though far less pleasantly and, this time, he saw Mithrén struggle to point a finger. Loki turned to follow the direction in which Mithrén’s finger was pointing; it led his eyes to her horse and, more specifically, to the casket attached to the horse’s saddle. Having no further use for Mithrén, the Trickster God immediately released the elf maiden, who fell gasping to her knees, holding her throat.

  Loki walked determinedly over to Mithrén’s horse, removed the casket from the saddle, opened it and pulled out the scroll of parchment it contained. He held it carefully in his fist, looked at it and hesitated, as if he were allowing himself a few more precious moments to consider the ramifications of possessing what he had finally made his own. Then he slowly raised the prized parchment in his hand and shook it above his head, his expression a combination of absolute triumph and total delight.

  ‘At… last!’ hissed Loki jubilantly, but at that same moment the sound of thunder, which had been quietly and constantly rumbling in the background almost unnoticed, underwent a sudden crescendo, until it reached an almost deafening volume. Loki knew immediately what this meant; he looked panic-stricken. The thunder grew even louder… then, if it were possible, louder still.

  ‘Thor!’ cried Sharp Axe groggily, from where he lay. ‘It’s Thor, Loki! Leave the list and run!’

  Loki turned to Sharp Axe, momentarily distracted from the thunder, looking bewildered by the feeble, interfering human’s proposition.

  ‘If you don’t read it, he may spare your life!’ cried Sharp Axe encouragingly and by way of clarification, hoping that the onset of Ragnarøkkr might yet be avoided, but hoping even more that Loki might be persuaded to leave there and then, just in case the Trickster God was harbouring any thoughts of exacting vengeance on Mithrén for causing the delay which had left him at Thor’s mercy.