Asgard

by Fynn F Gunnarson

  ‘So… I think Gunnhildr is vulnerable at the moment and I don’t want to spoil for her what must be quite a rare moment of happiness… plus I feel quite sorry for her… you know, what with – ’

  ‘Having a husband like Harald?’ suggested Aldaron. ‘And a son like Fearless?’

  ‘Yes, exactly!’ That’s it, exactly! I couldn’t have put it better myself!’ replied Fynn, more enthusiastically than he really needed to, in the hope that it might encourage Aldaron both to feel a little better about the situation in which he currently found himself and to feel a little less angry with Fynn for putting him in that situation. In fact, it did not help all that much on either count.

  Resigned to an extended stay in a place he really would rather not be, Aldaron grunted, hung his head and set off to look for the nearest source of Wolf-Wrestler mead – now the only thing likely to keep him sane in what he had come to regard, more with each passing day, as probably the least sane of the Nine Worlds.

  *

  Sharp Axe was rather surprised by the reception he, Mithrén and Thor had been given by the Frost Giants. True, it had not exactly been warm and, in fact, he had initially feared for Mithrén’s and his own safety, as Thor drove his chariot into Utgard: the stern – even fierce – looks on some of the Frost Giants’ faces had caused the alarm bells, which had already been ringing loudly in Sharp Axe’s head, to ring at maximum volume.

  Just when Sharp Axe thought the stay in Jøtunheimr might turn out to be much briefer than expected and end in tragedy, however, Thor had yelled something in the Frost Giants’ own tongue at ear-burstingly high volume – something which, to his amazement, Sharp Axe had understood: a greeting from Odin, the Father God, expressing respectful and peaceful greetings to his mighty, revered neighbours, the Frost Giants and promising a proposal which would benefit both them and the Aesir. Thor’s surprisingly-eloquent announcement had stopped the Frost Giants in their tracks and had gained Thor’s party an invitation into Utgard’s great dining-hall – an invitation which Thor had accepted in characteristic fashion: with an impolite silence and indecent haste. He hoisted himself out of the chariot, without word or signal to the other occupants and made for the great hall – a venue with which he was very familiar. By the time Sharp Axe and Mithrén had made their way inside the hall after him, the God of Thunder had already found himself a giant drinking-horn and was going about emptying its contents as if his life (or, more probably in Sharp Axe’s view, his reputation) depended on it.

  It was around this time that Sharp Axe became aware that he had been recognised by the Frost Giants and the general mood quickly darkened again.

  ‘It’s him!’ shouted one Frost Giant, from just outside the hall.

  ‘Yes, it’s him!’ confirmed another. ‘The one who married Rind, then deserted her on her wedding day!’

  Mithrén turned her head and gave Sharp Axe a piercing, quizzical look, with one eyebrow raised.

  ‘It wasn’t like that!’ protested Sharp Axe out of the corner of his mouth, as loudly as he dared.

  ‘Really?’ pressed Mithrén, the eyebrow still hoisted high.

  ‘Well, yes, it was like that… ’ conceded Sharp Axe, reluctantly, ‘… but I’ve told you a dozen times… I didn’t realise we were getting married until it was too late… and you’ve seen the size of this lot… I didn’t dare risk offending them – ’

  ‘Not until the moment when you jilted the bride, anyway,’ observed Mithrén drily and less than sympathetically.

  ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ muttered Sharp Axe, feeling that most of the Nine Worlds were now set pretty firmly against him.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ confirmed Mithrén, recalling that Sharp Axe’s greatest desire had, apparently, been to visit Valhalla.

  Thor, suddenly remembering why he had been sent to Jøtunheimr by his father, fortunately stopped drinking for just long enough to avert disaster. ‘I’ll be with you shortly with the proposal!’ he called to the Frost Giants, several of whom had arrived in the hall and were now berating Sharp Axe for daring to show his face in Jøtunheimr. ‘But you have to listen to him, first!’ continued Thor, pointing vaguely in Sharp Axe’s direction, then raised the horn to his lips again with the clear intent of draining it in the shortest possible time.

  Now finding himself centre stage, without having had anything approaching an adequate opportunity to gather his wits, Sharp Axe stood for a moment in silence. All Frost Giant eyes were upon him. He cleared his throat, nervously.

  ‘Er… well,’ he began, uncertainly, in an unfamiliar tongue which, inexplicably, he now seemed able to speak, as well as understand, ‘… I’d, er, just like to say… how… good it is… to, er, be back here… in Utgard… wonderful place… and how, er, terribly well you’re all… er, looking.’

  Mithrén groaned quietly, raised a hand to cover her eyes and took a couple of steps away from Sharp Axe, in an effort to disassociate herself from the inarticulate idiot who currently held the full, undivided and most definitely unwelcome attention of Jøtunheimr’s Frost Giants, inside their own great hall. Sharp Axe did not notice; he was preoccupied with the expressions of intrigue the giants were wearing, as they realised he could speak their tongue perfectly well, despite all the indications he had given during his last visit to their capital.

  ‘I have come to you today… to… to speak with Rind!’ managed Sharp Axe, after a lengthy pause. ‘One to one, as it were… man to, er… giantess.’

  Sharp Axe looked round hopefully, for some support and encouragement from Mithrén.

  Mithrén was nowhere to be seen.

  A Frost Giant, whom Sharp Axe recognised as Suttung, spoke up. ‘Rind is in mourning,’ he boomed.

  ‘Oh… ’ said Sharp Axe, suddenly disarmed, ‘... that’s... terrible… I’m sorry… who’s died?’

  ‘Her marriage has died!’ retorted Suttung furiously, which did nothing to improve Sharp Axe’s frame of mind, or the mood of his hosts.

  ‘Ah... yes,’ squirmed Sharp Axe feeling, if it were possible, even smaller, ‘of course… well… may I request an audience… a private audience… with Rind… please?’

  The Frost Giants did not at first appear inclined to grant this request and Sharp Axe’s words hung in the air self-consciously. After a few moments, to Sharp Axe’s relief, a few of the Frost Giants looked over to Thor who, reluctantly and briefly, removed the drinking-horn from his lips, to give a curt nod. This seemed to satisfy at least one of the giants, because he made a swift and grumpy exit in order, Sharp Axe presumed and hoped, to search for Rind.

  Minutes passed which, to Sharp Axe, started to feel like hours. All eyes were still upon him – and far-from-friendly eyes, at that. Thor was unconcerned and graciously accepted another giant horn of ale from one of his hosts. Mithrén seemed to have vaporised.

  Finally, mercifully, the silence and tension were suddenly broken when Rind, wearing a long, black dress and a veil (as she had done the first time they had met, although her veil, like the dress, was now black), made her entrance. Suttung pointed Sharp Axe out to her which, far from helping matters, caused Rind to let out a tearful and heart-rending cry. She then bowed her head, as if looking at her feet.

  ‘Rind,’ called Sharp Axe, as forcefully as he could and she looked up from her feet – as far as was necessary, at least – to look at Sharp Axe’s face. ‘I should like to speak to you… in private.’

  *

  All things considered, Sharp Axe told himself, his talk with Rind had gone reasonably well. The giantess, of whom Sharp Axe had come to think as emotionally fragile, had led him in silence out of the great dining-hall, into a freezing wind, which was showing promising signs of becoming a gale. She then listened calmly and attentively, whilst he told her about a number of things: his quest to find Mjøllnir; his genuine mistake in not recognising a Frost Giant wedding-ceremony sooner (he chose not to blame Jormunrek’s limited interpreting skills directly – though he had been sorely tempted – but, instead, merely po
inted out that he had not, at that time, been able to understand or speak Ancient Norse); his regret over his hasty and ungentlemanly departure (but he explained that he had feared for his life and the lives of his men, being unsure, as he had been, of how the Frost Giant community would react if he were to admit he could not marry Rind); then, of course, there was the importance of continuing with the quest, because he had believed then, with all his heart, that his beloved village and home to his dear family and friends, Grimstad, depended for its continued existence on his finding Thor’s hammer (Sharp Axe had embellished this part of his speech every bit as far as his sense of shame would allow him). As he finished speaking, Sharp Axe could not help but offer himself a large helping of self-congratulation on how utterly blameless he had made himself sound.

  Rind, however, seemed largely unmoved by the speech. ‘You could have come back,’ were the first words his Frost Giant wife said to him in a tongue he could understand. Rind was still wearing her black veil, but Sharp Axe could still have sworn he saw her eyes glisten with tears, through the veil, as she spoke.

  ‘Ye – es… ’ conceded Sharp Axe, a lump suddenly lodging in his throat, as he finally began to empathise with Rind: the sorrow and humiliation she must have experienced immediately following his departure and, from the looks of her now, every day since, ‘... I suppose a stronger man might have been able to come back... but I was in fear for my life and... and, if I’m absolutely honest, Rind, I think I always knew there was someone special in the Nine Worlds I was destined to meet … and… well, I was right… that someone turned out to be Mithrén, the Light Elf maiden… er, she came with me today, actually, but… ’

  ‘I saw her,’ sighed Rind, ‘standing in the hall… she’s very... small,’ observed the giantess pensively, though sounding marginally less sad.

  ‘Well, yes… ’ replied Sharp Axe wanting to laugh, though fighting the urge successfully; laughter still seemed inappropriate under the circumstances, ‘… but she’s just the right size for me.’

  ‘Hmm,’ murmured Rind with a nod, apparently starting to come round, ‘perhaps she is… do you love her?’ and the directness of the question took Sharp Axe by surprise.

  ‘Well… yes,’ he replied again, ‘yes… I do… of course, we have our ups and downs… ’ He wanted to say, As a matter of fact, we’re having one of those downs, right now, but thought better of it.

  Rind did not respond.

  ‘… Anyway… ’ he continued, taking a deep breath and seizing his chance, ‘that’s why I’m here… I need to ask for our marriage to be annulled… otherwise, the Elven Elders will never allow Mithrén to marry me.’

  ‘I see,’ said Rind, in a tone suggesting she was resigning herself to spinsterhood, once more.

  ‘Can you… ’ began Sharp Axe, tentatively and humbly, ‘… ever forgive me, Rind?’

  Rind hesitated for a moment – but only for a moment – before replying, ‘Yes, Erik Sharp Axe… I forgive you… I now believe that you did not mean to cause offence to me, nor to the race of Frost Giants; otherwise, you would never have come back to Utgard to speak with me directly. I shall instruct my father to send word to the Elven Elders that our marriage has been annulled.’

  ‘Thank you,’ breathed Sharp Axe, feeling hugely relieved, extremely grateful, more than a little undeserving and realising that Odin clearly knew what he was doing when he sold one of his eyes in exchange for wisdom. ‘Oh,’ he added, suddenly remembering the other reason he was in Jøtunheimr, ‘Thor has an announcement to make, which you might find interesting… I think perhaps we ought to go back inside, now,’ and to Sharp Axe’s further relief and gratitude, Rind nodded and led him out of the cruel, bitterly-cold, howling wind, back into the great hall.

  *

  The sight which met Sharp Axe’s eyes as he re-entered the great hall came as quite a shock to him. To describe it as ‘utter carnage’ might be a slight exaggeration but, on the other hand, ‘mayhem’ would be something of an understatement: the great dining table had been overturned; pieces of wood which had recently been chairs were scattered everywhere; in between the chair fragments, giant drinking-horns lay, smashed to smithereens, their precious, foaming contents spilled and wasted; loud, angry cries shook the walls. That wind must have been noisy; either that, or the great hall has excellent noise insulation! was Sharp Axe’s first reaction, followed swiftly by, How could I not have heard this, when I was standing just outside? What in Midgard is happening in here?

  Standing with his back to a corner of the hall, apparently trapped, stood Thor, girdle of might fastened firmly around his midriff, winged helmet slightly askew on his head; the God of Thunder was laughing tauntingly at his foes, gripping Mjøllnir by the leather strap at the base of its handle, whirling the weapon around his head furiously, swinging indiscriminately, but clearly with murderous intent, at the Frost Giants facing him who, not to be outdone, were attempting to beat their nemesis to death with their oversized wooden clubs. Thor merely deflected their blows, effortlessly and contemptuously, with his free arm.

  Concerned that the giants were in danger of getting the better of him if he stayed put, Thor decided to fight his way out of the corner and did this with, Sharp Axe grudgingly had to admit, more than a modest degree of Thunder-God-like style. Whilst continuing to rotate his beloved hammer rapidly and horizontally, just above his head, Thor suddenly swung Mjøllnir in a wide arc, as though about to strike one of the enraged giants who stood before him but, instead, threw the hammer away… except Thor did not actually throw it away, because he did not release his grip on the leather strap; he allowed Mjøllnir to take him with it, as it tore through the air.

  Thor literally flew out of the corner, through the group of giants, who all turned to watch his departure with some disappointment. Somehow, though, in mid-air, Thor changed his course and came flying back towards them, yelling something incomprehensible, which Sharp Axe correctly assumed to be the God of Thunder’s blood-chilling battle-cry.

  Mjøllnir, with Thor attached and close behind, buried itself into the ribs of the Frost Giant Sharp Axe recognised as Baugi, who cried out loudly and staggered sideways, bent double in pain. Thor rolled, head over heels, along the floor and crashed into the solid wall, legs in the air, but he might as well have hit a giant feather pillow, for all the harm the collision seemed to do him. He jumped to his feet, in the blinking of an eye and was amongst the Frost Giants again, landing mighty blows with Mjøllnir, receiving equally mighty blows from the giants’ clubs and, apparently, loving every minute of it.

  Another giant was struck by Mjøllnir on the outside of his knee and teetered backwards, swinging out with the hand holding his club. As he fell to the ground; one of the few remaining in-tact chairs, positioned just in front of Sharp Axe, disappeared in an explosion of splinters. The giant’s club had missed Sharp Axe by only a hair’s breadth – had he not anticipated the danger and leapt backwards, it would surely have finished him – missing him, in fact, by a small enough margin to bring a scream from someone who had, in fact, been hiding not very far away. Sharp Axe realised instantly that the scream had come from Mithrén, but did take his eyes off the felled giant before him, in case he swung the club again.

  Mithrén’s anguished cry distracted another of the giants from his battle with Thor; he looked around and saw Sharp Axe standing still in the middle of the hall. The giant promptly decided to abandon his assault on the God of Thunder in favour of this smaller, altogether less-challenging adversary. Slowly, deliberately and with chilling determination, the giant raised his club above his head and, just as slowly, started to advance, with the clear intention of annihilating Rind’s soon-to-be-former husband.

  Sharp Axe froze which, given the circumstances, was unfortunate but understandable, torn as he was between fighting for his life (which, considering the size of his adversary, seemed futile) and running for his life (which, considering his limited destination options and the number of giants he would eventually have to f
ace to win his freedom, seemed equally futile). With some effort, Sharp Axe managed to force his legs to take him backwards, though hesitantly, eyes darting left and right, as he desperately tried to think of a way to cheat what appeared to be certain death. Then, to his horror, he suddenly became aware again of Mithrén, standing directly and closely behind him, having just taken refuge herself in the corner into which Sharp Axe was now being forced by the advancing giant.

  ‘Stop,’ she said, but said it more in hope than as a command, almost as if she were making a polite request, fearing that she was about to be crushed, unwittingly, by her intended, as he tried to evade the Frost Giant in front of him.

  Presented with this new scenario, Sharp Axe felt there was now only one thing he could do, in order to have any chance of saving Mithrén’s life, if not his own: he took a step forward and resolved to stand his ground, in the hope that whilst the giant was pre-occupied (as he soon would be, concentrating on beating Sharp Axe to death), Mithrén would have enough time to slip out from the corner, to make good her escape, somehow. It was a slim hope, to say the least; he had already decided, in the little time available in which to form an opinion, that this was probably a seriously-flawed plan even though, as far as he knew, the Frost Giants had no quarrel with Mithrén. Had he had more time to spare, he could probably have listed several possible gaping holes in the plan, through any one of which Thor might have been able to drive his stone chariot blindfolded, but Sharp Axe’s time had now all but run out.

  Resigned to meeting his end inside Utgard’s great hall (where, he told himself comfortingly, at least it was warmer than it was outside), Sharp Axe’s hand went instinctively to the handle of his sword and he prepared himself to visit his grandfather for the second time in as many days – except on this occasion, it would be as a fully paid-up, bona fide, life member of the ultimate gentlemen’s club, Valhalla.

  There was no time to say goodbye to Mithrén; no time to thank her for spending the past two years of her life with him in Álfheimr and, every day, having to endure the discomfort of the Elven Elders’ disapproval; no time to say all the things he wished he had said to her during those two years, when he had had the opportunity; no time to tell her how he really felt for her. She could always ask Rind, was the final thought which Sharp Axe could not prevent coming into his mind.