Asgard

by Fynn F Gunnarson

  ‘Can we go home now, Fynn?’ came an enquiring, distant voice from above their heads.

  *

  ‘Can you really believe it? smiled Mithrén as, arm in arm with Sharp Axe, she followed one of Odin’s servants down the enormously-long silver spiral staircase leading down from Hlidskjálf to ground level. Her intended was pale and, when he replied, it was with a quiet, almost distant voice.

  ‘What? That Odin has found a way for me to obtain a divorce from Rind… or that I have to go to ask for it in person to Jøtunheimr – where, I imagine, there’s a substantial reward being offered for my capture or death… or that we have to spend some more time with Thor in his deathtrap of a chariot?’

  There was a protracted silence as the two of them, still arm in arm, negotiated the stairs together behind Odin’s servant. Mithrén used this quiet time to reflect on the perilous journey ahead and what additional perils might await them at the end of it, in the land of the Frost Giants.

  ‘Hmmm… good point,’ she replied eventually, minus the smile this time. ‘I was thinking more of the first one, really… ’

  *

  In a chair by the fire inside a cosy longhouse sat a proud Viking father, wearing a make-shift bandage around a couple of rather painful-looking bite-wounds in his neck which, thankfully for him, were not deep enough to be considered life-threatening.

  ‘My son… ’ he kept muttering to himself, with a satisfied smile, ‘... my... son… the Wolf Slayer… Wolf Slayer!’

  A little way across the room stood two men and a Light Elf, deep in quiet conversation.

  ‘Here,’ said Fynn, handing a swollen, rather heavy leather pouch containing exactly one hundred pieces of silver to Fearless Wolf Slayer, ‘you keep it. You earned it.’

  ‘Oh… thank you, Fynn,’ replied a surprised Fearless, humbly. ‘I’ll… probably give it back to him… but… one thing still puzzles me,’ he added with a frown.

  ‘What’s that?’ enquired Fynn.

  ‘Ten pieces of silver would have been a lot of money for you. How did you know I wouldn’t be killed by a wolf when you accepted the wager?’ asked Fearless.

  ‘Oh... actually, I didn’t… ’ replied Fynn, realising that this must have been the longest conversation the two of them had ever had, ‘… but, well... I was willing to take the risk.’

  Fearless gave Fynn a crooked smile and nodded, understanding that Fynn could hardly be blamed for having felt the way he did. He offered Fynn his hand in friendship and it was accepted warmly.

  ‘Can we go home now, Fynn?’ asked Aldaron, again.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Jøtunheimr

  Of all the places Sharp Axe had visited in his life, he could bring to mind only a few to which he would gladly never have returned.

  There was Muspelheimr, for instance, with its scorched landscape, inhospitably-high temperatures and potentially-dangerous inhabitants, the Fire Giants. Helheimr and, within it, Hel’s Realm of the Dead were never likely to offer visitors a very friendly reception and not even the prospect of a second viewing of the World Tree, the great ash standing in the heart of Niflheimr, would have persuaded Sharp Axe to venture willingly into those regions again. Nidavellir’s impressive network of underground caves, housing a host of smiths’ workshops might, with the right marketing-approach, have made an interesting tourist attraction, but Sharp Axe still felt a keen sense of embarrassment that the dwarves who lived there held him in high regard, even though he had travelled to their home with the sole intention of slitting the throat and stealing the blood of one of their number.

  In view, however, of Jøtunheimr’s bitingly-cold climate, its vast, blindingly-white, frozen wastelands and the fact that in it lived Sharp Axe’s jilted giantess wife, Rind and all her friends and relatives (the welcome from none of whom would have even begun to thaw the chill of their surroundings), the home of the Frost Giants won hands down when it came Sharp Axe’s list of destinations to avoid at all costs.

  Given the choice, Sharp Axe would have been delighted to allow Thor, or some other designated ambassador of Odin’s, to go to Jøtunheimr on his behalf, in order to request a marriage annulment. Unfortunately, Odin was not going to give Sharp Axe that choice: Sharp Axe had to journey to Jøtunheimr himself, on a point of Asgard-Jøtunheimr etiquette, to do the job in person – something which he simply could not understand, given that the Frost Giants were universally recognised as the Aesir’s number one enemy. Worse by far than this, though, was the prospect of having to travel to see the Frost Giants with Thor who, Sharp Axe was absolutely certain, would be just as unhappy about the arrangement as he and Mithrén were. On this occasion, however, Sharp Axe had totally misjudged the God of Thunder.

  Thor was many things, both good and bad: he was strong, volatile, courageous, abrupt, loyal, rude, ruggedly handsome, inconsiderate and, at times, unnecessarily violent and even cruel. There was one thing, though, of which he could never be accused and that was being complicated. Thor was, at heart, a simple god: one who was largely incapable of experiencing more than one strong emotion at a time. This was about to work to the advantage of Sharp Axe and Mithrén, because there were few things to which Thor looked forward more than a decent booze-up, followed by a good, old-fashioned punch-up and, in Thor’s mind, a visit to Jøtunheimr, irrespective of the reason behind it, presented an excellent and unmissable opportunity to do both.

  Thor was, then, in an uncharacteristically good mood when Sharp Axe and Mithrén joined him, to begin their journey to Jøtunheimr. He was putting the finishing touches to his preparations – securing the reins of Tanngnjóstr and Tanngrisnir, his overly-large and perpetually-terrified goats, to his undersized and eternally-uncomfortable stone-wheeled chariot.

  ‘Ah!’ shouted a new, near-unrecognisable, strangely-cheerful Thor, as he looked around at his wards from the kneeling position he had adopted to ensure the goats’ reins were knotted tightly in place. ‘We shall soon be ready to depart – is that not right, Tanngnjóstr? Tanngrisnir?

  The two goats looked back rather uneasily at their master, clearly not relishing the prospect of the trip in anything approaching the same measure as he appeared to be. Perhaps it was that they knew full well they would be thrashed constantly and driven to the point of death-through-exhaustion along the way; or that they would be made to stand around in a freezing blizzard, without shelter, while their master drank himself almost senseless, only to have any remaining sense knocked out of him by the Frost Giants; or that one of them would inevitably be slaughtered and eaten at the end of the day; or, perhaps, they just did not like their master very much.

  Whatever the goats were thinking, Thor could not have cared less. He had just been given licence by his father, Odin, to visit Jøtunheimr on his behalf and this meant that Thor had a pretty good idea of what the next couple of days had in store for him: firstly, protocol dictated that the Frost Giants would have to greet him graciously, as he was an envoy sent by Odin; secondly, that same protocol ensured Thor a generous helping of Frost Giant hospitality – and the Frost Giants, as Sharp Axe would readily testify, could be exceptionally open-handed and attentive hosts; thirdly, Thor knew only too well that, after a day or so of consuming vast quantities of Frost Giant beer, renowned throughout the Nine Worlds for its quality and strength, there could be no outcome other than a prolonged and heated argument between hosts and guest (over what, it mattered little), culminating in a fierce exchange of hostilities which would result in no victor, but serve merely to deepen Thor’s already profound dislike of the Frost Giant race and, perhaps more understandably, deepen the Frost Giants’ dislike of Thor.

  Marvellous! thought Thor to himself, cheerily, as he secured the final knot with a sudden and unnecessarily enthusiastic tug. A short winter break in Jøtunheimr! What could be better? There was, in fact, only one season in Jøtunheimr: winter – and a severe one, at that. Thor’s knowledge of weather systems, however, was every bit as limited as his patience and his powers of diplo
macy.

  Not wishing to risk spoiling Thor’s unexpectedly-jovial mood, Sharp Axe and Mithrén waited in silence until instructed by the God of Thunder to ease themselves into his chariot, which they did gingerly, at the appointed moment, still in silence.

  Despite the reservations of his passengers, Thor’s excellent mood remained very much intact, whilst he readied himself to commence the journey; he wore a grin almost as wide as Bifrost itself, as he secured Mjøllnir into his narrow leather belt, tightened it a notch and donned his winged helmet. Then, without warning, he thrust out a mighty fist, right in front of Sharp Axe’s nose.

  ‘Here!’ bellowed Thor, pleasantly. ‘You take care of this!’

  Sharp Axe took from Thor’s grip a long, wide, deceptively-heavy, stiff strip of dark-coloured leather, which appeared to be a rather robust belt; as Thor was already wearing one, Sharp Axe adopted a puzzled expression, which Thor immediately assumed to be a request for an explanation.

  ‘Megingjardr!’ announced Thor with a hearty laugh.

  Sharp Axe’s expression did not change.

  ‘My girdle of might!’ explained the God of Thunder, this time without the laugh.

  Still not a flicker from the intended guardian.

  ‘My belt of prowess!’ persisted Thor, whose mood now definitely seemed to be at risk of turning sour; Sharp Axe detected this and decided it was time to try to humour God of Thunder.

  ‘Oh, yes – right!’ cried Sharp Axe, trying to look and sound impressed. ‘Of course! You’re... girdle of... er... ’

  ‘Might,’ frowned Thor, sceptically.

  ‘Yes, yes!’ nodded Sharp Axe vigorously, in an attempt to restore Thor’s earlier convivial humour. ‘Good idea to take it with us to Jøtunheimr... in case... er... ’

  ‘In case I need to double my strength,’ said Thor, absently, as he hauled himself into the woefully insufficient space remaining in the chariot, his meticulous preparations having finally been completed to his full satisfaction.

  ‘Do you, er… think you might need to?’ ventured Sharp Axe, a little anxiously; around his waist, he felt Mithrén’s arm go tense.

  ‘I never trust a Frost Giant!’ answered Thor, which did nothing to ease his passengers’ anxiety but, without elaborating, the God of Thunder took up the reigns, raised his hands high and whipped Tanngnjóstr and Tanngrisnir painfully into action. The stone chariot lurched forward and the long, noisy, uncomfortable, journey began.

  *

  Whilst Sharp Axe was far from looking forward to making a return to Jøtunheimr, at least he knew he would enjoy one distinct advantage during his second visit compared with his first, courtesy of Frygga’s magic: knowledge of the Frost Giants’ language.

  Odin, in his wisdom, had decided that it would be better not to force Sharp Axe to rely on Thor’s interpreting skills, in order to conduct a conversation with the Rind. Thor knew the language, but Odin knew his son: Thor was liable, in mid-translation and at a delicate point during the proceedings, to break off in order to engage in furious hand-to-hand combat with one of the more aggressive giants or, possibly, giantesses. This, Odin knew, would hardly help Sharp Axe’s cause (or his own), so he asked Frygga to assist the process by applying a rather useful spell: one which would render Sharp Axe and Mithrén fluent in Ancient Norse for the entire duration of their stay in Jøtunheimr.

  Whilst being able to understand and speak the language would make communication with the Frost Giants easier, Sharp Axe knew that it would also mean that he could not count on Thor’s involvement in the discussion to secure an annulment from Rind: he would probably be very much on his own, where those particular negotiations were concerned. The more Sharp Axe mulled this over in his mind during the journey, the more he came to realise that, all in all, this was probably for the best.

  *

  The ride in Thor’s chariot to Jøtunheimr was no less unpleasant than any of the previous ones had been, although when the temperature started to fall suddenly and snow-covered mountains eventually came into view, Sharp Axe could at least be grateful that this journey to the Realm of the Frost Giants had taken considerably less time than his first.

  ‘Jøtunheimr,’ sighed Sharp Axe to Mithrén with a brief, resigned nod in the direction of the mountains; the chill Mithrén suddenly felt run through her made her appreciate the warm, fur clothing which the ever-considerate Frygga had given to them both to wear during their excursion. Mithrén looked ahead in the direction of her intended’s nod and pulled her fur-lined coat around herself more tightly. The fur hood which was attached to the coat, Mithrén decided, was more functional than flattering to her appearance; nonetheless, she was grateful for Frygga’s thoughtfulness and she dreaded to think how she would have coped in Jøtunheimr without the additional clothing her favourite goddess had provided.

  As the mountains drew nearer, Thor pulled hard on the reins without warning, causing the chariot to veer suddenly to the left. Sharp Axe and Mithrén, crushed together with the Thunder God on their right, were forced to lean hard into him and, fleetingly, each feared that the chariot would overturn, as a result of the shift in weight. The chariot, however, constructed according to the very highest of Asgard’s vehicular-design standards, was stable enough to remain upright and easily withstood the severe change in direction.

  ‘Aha!’ cried Thor, ecstatically. ‘Jøtunheimr!’ and he released a whoop of joy, clearly feeling, for some reason Sharp Axe could not imagine, that the occasion called for it. ‘You still have Megingjardr?’ added Thor, glancing sideways suspiciously.

  ‘Yes,’ shouted Sharp Axe in reply, not trying too hard to sound as if Thor’s apparent need for Megingjardr concerned him, ‘and we’re fine, too, thanks.’

  ‘Good! Good!’ bellowed Thor, though his passengers suspected he was referring to Sharp Axe’s confirmation of Megingjardr’s safety, rather than theirs.

  Sharp Axe could see that, following the recent change in direction, the chariot was now headed towards a bridge which appeared to be made from ice, just visible some way ahead in the distance.

  ‘I didn’t enter Jøtunheimr this way, the last time I was here,’ called Sharp Axe, over the noise of the chariot’s stone wheels. ‘I didn’t even see this bridge.’

  ‘No,’ shouted Thor, above the noise, which now included a rapidly-strengthening, bitingly-cold wind, ‘you wouldn’t have! This bridge is reserved for the Aesir and Frost Giants! Without a god or a giant, you would never have found it!’

  Mithrén, especially, was relieved to note that the bridge ahead looked more or less horizontal in form, unlike the arc-shaped Bifrost, at the entrance to Asgard. The probability of the chariot taking off and ejecting her and Sharp Axe on its return to the ground, she estimated, was therefore reassuringly low.

  Once across the bridge, the chariot thundered on at high speed and into the Realm of the Frost Giants. The thick snow, which covered the track along which the chariot was hurtling, did not seem to hamper the progress of its wheels, neither slowing them down nor reducing their traction. Similarly, Tanngnjóstr and Tanngrisnir, lashed repeatedly by the leather reins, found the snow no burden as they raced on, determinedly, towards their destination.

  In the distance, Sharp Axe could now make out vaguely familiar, sturdy wooden structures, which caused his already-rapid heart rate to increase still further. Sooner or later, he realised, Rind, her family and her friends would have to be confronted, although not in the way Thor usually confronted a group of Frost Giants: tact and diplomacy would be the order of the day, at least on this day. Sharp Axe wished that Mithrén had not come with him or, alternatively, that Frygga had not bestowed upon her the gift of fluency in Ancient Norse. The conversation he anticipated with Rind would be embarrassing enough, without the presence of the woman whose very existence necessitated the initiation of divorce proceedings.

  As the chariot came still closer to the wooden buildings, Sharp Axe could make out figures – extremely large figures – looking in the direction of the cha
riot and, apparently, making themselves ready for its arrival. What kind of reception they would receive in Utgard, capital of the Frost Giants’ homeland, Sharp Axe could only guess; given his own, brief historical connections with Jøtunheimr, however and Thor’s past record there, he expected only the very worst.

  *

  ‘What do you mean, you want to stay a little longer?’ hissed Aldaron aghast, eyes wide and mouth agape.

  ‘Well… ’ began Fynn, shifting awkwardly, from one foot to the other, all too aware that he had allowed Aldaron to form the impression that, as soon as the issue of Fearless’s name had been cleared up one way or the other, once and for all, Fynn would be travelling with him, back to Álfheimr, ‘… I know I said we’d be going back after… well, actually, I thought it would be after Fearless had been killed by a wolf but, anyway, the thing is… Harald is in such a good mood… and Fearless seems like a different person since that last incident… and… well… they don’t seem to get many visitors… and Gunnhildr’s asked us to stay… ’

  ‘Until?’ replied Aldaron, making a concerted effort to breathe calmly and deeply, in order to stave off what he feared might be the onset of hyperventilation. Fynn’s answered, but too quietly even for Aldaron’s acute hearing to register. ‘Un… til?’ persisted the Light Elf, breathing more rapidly now and feeling he was starting to lose what little still remained of his will to live.

  ‘Until… er… Sharp Axe and Mithrén get back from Asgard,’ repeated Fynn, again quietly but, this time, just about audibly.

  ‘Oh… ’ whined Aldaron, ‘… that could be… actually, how long could that be?’

  Fynn shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied, ‘but Gunnhildr’s delighted about Harald and Fearless finally patching up their differences… she’s worried, though, about Sharp Axe – and Mithrén, obviously.’

  ‘So?’ groaned Aldaron, his rapidly-growing despair clearly causing him to miss Fynn’s point entirely.