Asgard

by Fynn F Gunnarson

  ‘This residence is called Valaskjálf… ’ Thor informed them, ‘… although quite why Odin needs to reside here, as well as in Gladsheimr and Valhalla, I don’t know,’ he added with what sounded like a touch of resentment or envy, perhaps in response to an expected question which was not forthcoming.

  ‘Why does it – ?’ began Mithrén, shielding her eyes from Valaskjálf’s almost blinding reflection.

  ‘Shine?’ anticipated Thor, correctly. ‘Solid silver,’ he replied, a little sniffily. ‘Cost an absolute fortune to build and you do not want to see the annual bill for polishing materials!’

  *

  The hooded crow had taken to the skies again. Surtr had been rather short on sympathy and Loki saw no reason to extend his stay needlessly in Muspelheimr – a place of which, now he came to think about it, he had never been particularly fond, at the best of times.

  No sense in crying over spilt milk, he had told himself. Loki was nothing, if not good at recovering from a setback and this setback was right up there amongst the most monumental of them. What had seemed like the beginning of the end and, with it, Loki’s greatest victory over the Aesir had, in fact, turned out to be a crushing humiliation for the Trickster God, but he was determined to bounce back. All it needed was a clever trick or two, to find out where Frygga had re-hidden the information he required, then a fiendishly-cunning idea of how to get his hands on it… and clever tricks and fiendishly-cunning ideas were most definitely amongst Loki’s specialities, so where was the problem, he demanded of himself, more cheerily?

  Anyone flying alongside the crow at that moment would have heard it makes a noise which sounded, for all the world, like the confident cackle of someone convinced he was about to recover from a monumental setback.

  *

  Thor pounded with Mjøllnir in the centre of two huge, solid silver doors, set in the solid silver walls of Valaskjálf, with such ferocity as to suggest he meant to re-shape them; his powerful blows, however, left no mark. Noticing the shocked expressions on the visitors’ faces, Thor decided a word of explanation was in order.

  ‘Servants are a bit deaf,’ said the God of Thunder.

  ‘They will be now,’ muttered Mithrén to herself.

  After an awkward moment’s silence, the gigantic doors slowly began to creep open. Thor did not wait for whoever might be behind the doors to open them fully, nor even for them to move out of the way; he stormed into the palace, pushing the doors wide with his immense, powerful arms and strode up the silver-walled entrance hall purposefully, leaving Sharp Axe and Mithrén to check on the state of the servants, whom they assumed to have been crushed between each door and the palace walls to which those doors were attached. With some relief and confusion, they discovered that the doors had, apparently, opened of their own accord, for no one was there.

  ‘Odin is waiting,’ called Thor down the entrance hall, without either slowing his pace or turning around. Instead, he continued his bold stride towards a set of internal doors, almost as large as the ones outside.

  Thor did not pound on these doors; he merely inclined his gait forwards and, without slowing down or knocking, pushed against their enormous weight. The doors creaked open, to reveal a long, silver-walled corridor, at the very far end of which appeared to be the beginning of a silver spiral-staircase. It was towards this that Thor continued to walk briskly.

  ‘He’ll be up here,’ announced Thor, again without looking back, as he reached the base of the staircase, ‘in Hlidskjálf… ’

  Sharp Axe and Mithrén, both struggling to keep up with the fierce pace Thor was setting as he ascended the first few steps of the spiral-staircase, did not reply.

  ‘… the name given to both his throne-room and the throne within it,’ continued Thor, calling downwards, ‘from which he can observe the worlds as he pleases.’

  The climb up the spiral staircase, which was illuminated at regular intervals by flaming torches set in its cylindrical, silver wall, continued for what seemed to Sharp Axe and Mithrén like a very long time. They had lost count of the number of steps they had had to negotiate by the time they arrived at the very top of Valaskjálf, but when they did eventually arrive there, they were both quite breathless.

  At the top of the spiral staircase and through yet another set of enormous doors was a vast room, completely empty, except for a majestic-looking, magnificently-carved wooden throne, which was set back a little from a large square hole in the solid silver wall, which allowed a breath-taking view of the world outside. On that majestic-looking, magnificently-carved wooden throne sat a most imposing figure: a veritable giant of a figure, in fact, with a long, chestnut-brown beard, flecked here and there with grey and white, wearing a black leather patch over one eye. With the other eye, he looked towards his visitors silently and impassively, as Thor, Sharp Axe and Mithrén made their approach.

  Sharp Axe immediately decided he must be in the presence of Odin, but Thor soon removed any doubt that might have been lingering in his mind.

  ‘Father!’ bellowed Thor. ‘The human known as Sharp Axe… oh and – ’

  ‘The elf maiden, Mithrén,’ concluded the Father God, on Thor’s behalf, in a rather calmer, more benign and altogether friendlier fashion than his son.

  Odin looked upon his guests and smiled at them, warmly. Then he looked at Thor and gave a nod, perhaps by way of thanking him for running the errand, perhaps to dismiss him; either way, the obviously-relieved God of Thunder departed swiftly and closed the mighty doors behind him.

  ‘So… ’ began Odin, now in a deep, rich voice, which reverberated around the great hall, '… at last we meet, Sharp Axe… and, of course,’ he added, his smile broadening as he turned his gaze towards his other guest, ‘Mithrén.’

  Sharp Axe did not reply; he was too busy trying to stop his legs from shaking.

  ‘It is rare that I find myself offering my thanks to a human – or, indeed, to an elf maiden, for that matter,’ continued Odin, pleasantly, ‘but you have done the Aesir a great service… and, for that, you have my heartfelt gratitude. You, Sharp Axe, showed the courage to thwart Loki, when you stood to gain far less than the Aesir by doing so… and I understand that it was you, Mithrén, who out-tricked the Trickster God himself.’

  Sharp Axe and Mithrén shrugged modestly, without replying.

  Odin chuckled. ‘Oh, how I wish I could have been there when Loki finally read the parchment you gave him,’ he mused. Then, the Chief God threw back his head and released a bellow of a laugh.

  Sharp Axe and Mithrén shuffled a little awkwardly, whilst they waited politely for Odin to finish enjoying Loki’s misfortune. This, it transpired, took quite some time.

  ‘Anyway… ’ said Odin, eventually, wiping the tears from his eyes and readjusting his sitting-position, his laughter finally under control, ‘… in view of your brave conduct and the great risks you both took in helping the Aesir, I have decided to grant you a favour… each of you,’ he added, now looking directly at Mithrén.

  Sharp Axe and Mithrén turned to each other, bewildered. Sharp Axe cleared his throat.

  ‘A… a favour?’ he ventured.

  Odin nodded in reply. ‘Yes. A “wish”, if you like,’ he replied.

  ‘What?’ blurted out Mithrén, almost with a laugh, so incredible was the situation in which she currently found herself. ‘Anything?’

  ‘Anything… provided, of course, that it is within my power,’ confirmed Odin.

  ‘Just for standing up to Loki?’ frowned Mithrén, with a sceptical smile. ‘No strings attached?’

  Odin was not used to explaining himself but, perhaps in the interests of maintaining cordial Asgard-Álfheimr relations, he decided to make an exception for Mithrén.

  ‘Strings? No, no,’ replied Odin, looking almost hurt. ‘Your courage and resourcefulness have served to thwart an enemy of Asgard. That is rare amongst the inhabitants of Álfheimr and Midgard. All I ask, is that… if called upon again to assist the Aesir again in the future, you wil
l give it your… careful consideration… nothing more.’

  ‘Hmmm… ’ said Mithrén with an undisguised air of scepticism and Sharp Axe suddenly felt extremely cold. His intended, it appeared, was about to question – or even refuse – Odin: Odin, the Chief God; Odin, the Allfather; Odin, the ultimate authority in all the Nine Worlds.

  ‘Would you mind,’ began Mithrén, addressing Odin, but gesturing towards Sharp Axe with a hand, ‘if we just discuss this, for a moment?’

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Odin, though the slight frown he was wearing hinted at the contrary.

  Mithrén grabbed the crook of Sharp Axe’s left arm and made to drag him across the hall.

  ‘Er… ’ began Sharp Axe, with an embarrassed half-smile, aimed at Odin, as Mithrén pulled him off balance, ‘… sorry about this… back in a moment,’ he continued, as he was dragged away.

  Mithrén stopped pulling only when she estimated she was out of Odin’s earshot.

  ‘What are you doing?’ hissed Sharp Axe in a not-terribly-quiet whisper. ‘You can’t just… just… ’

  ‘Just what?’ demanded Mithrén, in a whisper no quieter than Sharp Axe’s. ‘Say “no” to Odin?’

  ‘Well… yes, that’s right,’ nodded Sharp Axe. ‘That’s it exactly!’

  ‘Why not?’ retorted the elf maiden. ‘You don’t trust this lot, do you? You’ve seen what they’re like! They don’t care about you or me… they just care about themselves!’

  Though it pained Sharp Axe, he had to admit that Mithrén had a point. At no time, during any encounter he had had with the gods of Asgard (in which he included Loki), had he had the impression that any of them would really be likely to have his, Sharp Axe’s, interests at heart.

  ‘Except Freyr,’ added Mithrén, quickly. Sharp Axe raised a sceptical eyebrow, mindful that Freyr was the god the Light Elves worshipped. ‘Well… ’ began Mithrén, by way of clarification, ‘… he seems quite… nice… for a god.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ returned Sharp Axe, ‘this is Odin – and he is bestowing a great honour on us, by way of recognising that... we… did… whatever it was we did.’

  Mithrén was far from convinced.

  ‘Do you really believe that?’ she countered. ‘You heard what he said… we might be called upon again, to assist the gods… and that other thing… he would grant us anything within his power… that could be his way out of giving us what we ask for! All he has to do is to say that whatever request we make is beyond even him and we might find ourselves risking our lives again on behalf of the gods, all for nothing!’

  Sharp Axe heard Mithrén’s words, but by now he was not really listening: his thoughts were elsewhere.

  ‘What would you wish for?’ he said, distantly.

  ‘What?’ spat Mithrén, aghast. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Sharp Axe, half-truthfully, fixing his gaze on Mithrén’s pale-blue eyes, ‘but… well, just imagine for a moment that Odin really was offering us anything we wanted… what would you wish for?’

  Mithrén returned Sharp Axe’s gaze, having momentarily forgotten her anger; she thought for a moment.

  ‘I… don’t know… ’ was, along with an impatient shrug of her shoulders, all she could manage by way of a response.

  ‘Well, think about it,’ urged Sharp Axe. ‘I really believe he might be genuine,’ then he turned his attention back to Odin, who was looking towards them, intrigued, with his one remaining eye.

  ‘Shan’t be long,’ called Sharp Axe cheerfully and raised a hand to Odin, as if to reinforce the point that he was still very interested in the Chief God’s generous offer. ‘Just… er… discussing the wishes.’

  Odin gave the merest hint of a nod in reply, from the nature of which Sharp Axe inferred that a decision was required soon: the offer, generous though it undoubtedly was, would probably not stay open indefinitely. He looked once more at Mithrén.

  ‘Come on,’ he said gently and slowly made to set off, back towards Odin. Mithrén frowned, folded her arms and stood her ground. Sharp Axe thought for a moment about going back to her, to try to persuade her to change her mind – or, at least, to make it up quickly one way or the other – but decided against it, preferring, instead, to take his opportunity whilst it was still there.

  ‘Mithrén seems… mistrustful of me,’ observed Odin quietly, when Sharp Axe reached his throne.

  Sharp Axe looked back at his intended, who had not moved. ‘She… er… hasn’t really seen the best side of the Aesir,’ he explained to Odin, who muttered something under his breath which sounded suspiciously like, “I’m not sure we’ve got one”.

  ‘So,’ said Odin, this time quite audibly and inclined his head slightly, whilst he beheld the human before him. ‘Have you come to a decision?’

  Sharp Axe took a deep breath. ‘Yes,’ he said, as he released it, ‘I have... I’d… like… to visit Valhalla – whilst I’m still alive!’ he added as a sudden afterthought, just in case Odin misinterpreted his request and kill him on the spot. Odin raised an interested eyebrow, but did not speak for a long moment.

  ‘Valhalla?’ he repeated, eventually. ‘And why would that be?’

  Sharp Axe cleared his throat.

  ‘Well,’ he began nervously, wondering whether he might have overstepped the mark or, possibly, asked for something Odin could not deliver, ‘my grandfather is there… has been since I was a small child… I’d like to see him, if I may. I never really… said goodbye to him.’

  Odin looked surprised (having, perhaps, expected a wish more along the lines of fabulous wealth or a life-time’s supply of finest ale), though not unsympathetic.

  ‘I see,’ he said in a measured tone. ‘And if I grant this request… would you consider offering your services to the Aesir, at some time in the future – if called upon to do so, of course?’

  ‘Yes!’ affirmed Sharp Axe immediately and with some determination.

  Odin smiled and gave a single nod. ‘Very well,’ he said quietly, ‘you shall have your wish.’

  ‘Thank you,’ sighed Sharp Axe and turned, trembling slightly, to go to speak with Mithrén, who was still standing some distance away. Before he had the chance to take a single step in her direction, however, Mithrén set off, at a brisk march, towards him and the Father God. On reaching Sharp Axe’s side, she drew to a halt, looked Odin squarely in the eye and said, ‘How do I know I can trust you?’

  The feeling of extreme coldness returned suddenly to Sharp Axe; Odin looked as though someone had poked him in the chest rather hard with a sturdy stick. He appeared quite taken aback: mildly affronted, even.

  ‘Is my… word not enough?’ Odin asked Mithrén gently – so gently, in fact, that even Sharp Axe felt slightly offended, on Odin’s behalf, that Mithrén could doubt the Allfather.

  Mithrén did not reply, which did nothing to make Sharp Axe feel any warmer or less offended for Odin.

  ‘Hmm,’ went Odin, inclining his head once again, this time for an altogether different reason from the previous occasion. ‘The Light Elves’ reputation for knowing their own mind is, indeed, well-deserved,’ he said, which Mithrén, initially, did not take as a compliment. Nor did Sharp Axe; at that moment, he fully expected Odin to withdraw his visitor’s pass to Valhalla.

  ‘Very well,’ said the Father God, in resolute fashion. ‘I can understand your… reluctance to trust the Aesir… in view of what you have both had to endure.’

  At these words, Sharp Axe cast a slightly annoyed glance in Mithrén’s direction, for not being able to spot an honest, trustworthy deity when she saw one.

  ‘In which case… ’ continued Odin, slowly and a little dramatically.

  Here it comes, thought Sharp Axe. The deal’s off. If only she had trusted him.

  ‘… I think some introductions might be in order,’ concluded Odin.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Frygga and Baldr

  Back in Grimstad, Fynn the Fortunate and Aldaron the Light Elf both sense
d they had long since outstayed their welcome in the Wolf Wrestlers’ home. Even if they had not felt that their departure was long overdue, each would still have been more than grateful to bid farewell to Sharp Axe’s family.

  Since Sharp Axe and Mithrén had set off for Asgard with Thor, the atmosphere in the house had not improved in the slightest: Harald Wolf Wrestler was still sulking and maintaining a frosty silence; Fearless Wolf Slayer was still skulking around furtively, doing his best to avoid the silent yet, somehow, thunderous stare of his father; Gunnhildr was still coming to terms with the altogether uncomfortable realisation that she had humiliated the God of Thunder in her own home, a place in which she normally treated visitors with warmth and generous hospitality.

  Both Fynn and Aldaron were polite guests, but they had come to the point where they simply could not bear to prolong their own suffering. Fynn, it was, who took a deep breath, placed his hands on the dining-table, pushed out his chair from behind him and made to stand up, with every intention of thanking his hosts for their friendly welcome (one of them, at least) and making a prompt exit, with or without Aldaron. Fynn was half-way towards a standing-position when, to everyone’s surprise, Harald spoke.

  ‘Right!’ he announced so suddenly and so loudly that the whole house seemed to ring with the sound of his voice and a startled Fynn sat right back down again, abruptly.

  Harald rose determinedly from his own seat, fixed his gaze on his son and approached him in a manner befitting an oversized, flightless bird of prey, who had just selected its next unfortunate and helpless victim. In truth, Fynn, who was looking on with a kind of embarrassed intrigue, would not have been in the least surprised if Harald had skewered Fearless to the table with his sword; by now, nothing would have seemed too out-of-the-ordinary in the Wolf Wrestler home. Harald’s intentions, however, did not involve cold-blooded filicide: at least, not yet.

  ‘You!’ spat Harald at Fearless, in a tone completely devoid of paternal fondness. ‘Get up! We’re going hunting!’