Asgard

by Fynn F Gunnarson

  *

  ‘So, how can I help?’ called Fynn above the rumble of the chariot wheels against the hard track along which they were tearing at high velocity, after Sharp Axe had relayed to him the story so far at the top of his voice. ‘I really don’t see what I can do!’

  ‘You, Fynn,’ explained Sharp Axe, patiently, but still at high volume, ‘are the luckiest man in the Nine Worlds! If anyone can find Loki and then prevent him from killing the two of us, then it’s you!’

  ‘But, isn’t it all too late?’ protested Fynn, gripping the wall of the chariot doggedly, as he was thrown violently from side to side. ‘I mean… now Baldr’s dead… hasn’t Ragnarøkkr… well… sort of started?’ and he glanced upwards, furtively, towards the skies, as if expecting to see evidence of the gods doing battle with various forms of giant enemy, in amongst the clouds.

  ‘I’m acting on orders from Odin,’ replied Sharp Axe, with an uncomfortable shrug of the shoulders, feeling slightly embarrassed that he did not fully understand why Odin had issued those orders. ‘Maybe there is still a way to prevent Ragnarøkkr from happening… or, at least, to delay it… or maybe Odin just wants to capture Loki to punish him… but, unless we can find Loki, we’ll never know!’

  ‘Right... so... where are we actually going?’ shouted Fynn. The question rang out and hung on the air, even above the din of the stone wheels upon the track.

  Sharp Axe steadfastly resisted the growing temptation to panic. ‘That’s... a good question!’ he conceded. ‘Where do you think we should go?’

  It was Fynn’s turn to shrug and he shook his head. ‘How should I know?’ he replied. ‘I’m lucky, not... not psychic!’

  ‘All right, all right… ’ said Sharp Axe, breathing deeply, finally beginning to lose the courageous fight against the onset of panic, ‘… let’s think about this logically… if you were an evil, crazed, shape-shifting god, who had just initiated the process of ending the Nine Worlds as we know them… where would you go? Where would you celebrate... or where would you... feel safe from vengeful Aesir and Vanir?’

  There was a long silence (apart, that is, from the near-deafening noise of the stone wheels on the hard, dry track beneath them).

  ‘You don’t want to say, do you?’ said Sharp Axe, sensing Fynn’s conclusion was the same as his own.

  ‘No,’ replied Fynn flatly and unhesitatingly.

  ‘You think he’s in Helheimr, don’t you?’ shouted Sharp Axe, resignedly, as he struggled with the reins.

  ‘Yes,’ said Fynn, as flatly as before. ‘Or... with Surtr in Muspelheimr… or, as an outside possibility, with the Frost Giants in Jøtunheimr.’

  ‘All right… ’ called Sharp Axe again, ‘... let’s try to think this through... Loki is on the run… he could shape-shift to hide himself away, more or less anywhere... but where?’

  ‘In a place where... no one would expect to find him… ’ offered Fynn, ‘… somewhere he could blend in... without drawing attention to himself… somewhere he could gloat at those who sought him… somewhere he could be… ’

  ‘His favourite ‘other self’?’ suggested Sharp Axe.

  ‘Exactly!’ concurred Fynn, with a sharp nod.

  ‘A hooded crow!’ they suggested together.

  ‘Yes!’ they both confirmed.

  ‘But he could be hiding anywhere, in any one of the Nine Worlds, couldn’t he?’ cried Sharp Axe, despondently. ‘Disguised as a hooded crow!’

  ‘Yes, he could – just like that one over there, coming this way!’ called Fynn abruptly, pointing into the distance. ‘See? Up ahead, there!’

  As Fynn said these words, the goats seemed to sense that something was coming towards them from above which they would really rather not encounter; they looked up and, as they had done in Asgard under similar circumstances, began to decelerate. Sharp Axe, however, was having none of it: with all the confidence of a man carrying out the Chief God’s orders, he pulled hard on the left-hand reins, forcing the goats to make an unsteady and rather unsafe turning manoeuvre. Fynn grabbed hold of the top of Sharp Axe’s tunic with one hand and grabbed hold of Sharp Axe’s sleeve with the other, in an attempt to remain with him in the chariot which appeared, for one terrible moment, to be about to overturn.

  As the chariot was righting itself and beginning to follow its new course, the crow flew over the heads of the charioteers and past them; Sharp Axe then brought down the leather straps rapidly and repeatedly across the goats’ hind-quarters, in the style of a deranged Thunder God, until they had picked up their speed to his satisfaction. The pursuit was on.

  ‘I have another question,’ called Fynn and, from the tone of his friend’s voice, Sharp Axe was sure he would not like it. Fynn realised this, but asked the question, anyway. ‘What are we going to do… if we ever catch him?’ he yelled.

  *

  Far from Midgard, on the lonely and desolate road from Asgard to Jøtunheimr, Odin pressed himself down, closer to his eight-legged steed, Sleipnir, in an attempt to give the pair of them a slightly more aerodynamic form and, thus, gain a little extra speed. He knew, as he had always known, that he could not prevent Ragnarøkkr from taking place: all he could hope for was to delay Loki from spreading news of Baldr’s death and mustering the enemy forces, until the Aesir and Vanir had properly readied themselves for the terrible and, ultimately, catastrophic battle ahead.

  If Loki could be captured, imprisoned and, of course, punished for the crime he had committed, Odin could buy some time; he could also delay, at least for a while, his own death – the death he had foreseen long ago – a prolonged, horrific and agonising death, destined to be inflicted upon him by the wolf, Fenrir.

  The first steps in the process of capturing Loki had already begun: the human had been sent in pursuit of the Trickster God; if he were successful in locating him, Huginn and Muninn, following at a safe distance, would report to Odin where Loki had been found; Odin himself was on his way to collect Thor from Jøtunheimr; Týr had been despatched to Muspelheimr, with instructions to intercept Loki, should he go there; Freyr was travelling to Helheimr, having been issued with similar orders. Realistically, Loki’s options were few and Odin was as satisfied as he could be that he had covered all of them.

  *

  Loki the hooded crow was flying at as leisurely a pace as he dared through his least favourite world, Midgard, looking for a suitable place to hide until word of his great deed of courage, deception and cunning could be passed safely on to his allies. He had reasoned that Midgard was the least likely world in which the Aesir and Vanir would expect him to seek refuge, so hoped that being there would buy him some time against those who must, by now, be pursuing him with furious vengeance in their hearts. Although events were now, to some extent, running along a pre-destined path, Loki was still in very real danger of being captured and if that were to happen, he knew the Aesir and Vanir would be more than ready, able and willing to fill his life with the most terrible pain and misery for a very long time.

  Loki had already examined, considered and dismissed several potential hiding-places as unsuitable (lack of comfort, too visible from the track, wrong ambient temperature, uninspiring view and so on) but, although time was in short supply, he still felt he had earned the right to allow himself the luxury of being fastidious. He needed to find just the right place: somewhere inspirational, where he could consider carefully how best to recount the story of his triumphant assassination of the incomprehensibly-popular Baldr to Surtr, Angrboda, their children and the rest of the assorted beings and creatures upon whom he could count to do battle with Odin’s allies when the time eventually came.

  As he flew along, quietly cursing Midgard for the inadequate selection of comfortable emergency hiding-places it had to offer, Loki became aware of a persistent, familiar and most unwelcome noise gradually becoming louder behind him. Owing to his emotionally-unstable condition – a mixture of anticipation, anxiety and fear – whilst flying to Asgard armed with a mistletoe dart a little while ear
lier, he had not even noticed the noise when he had overtaken the very object which was responsible for creating it. Now, though, he was most definitely being pursued by it and, if memory served him correctly, there was only one object in all the Nine Worlds which made that particular noise: Thor’s stone-wheeled chariot. As the chariot drew ever closer to him, Loki realised that his earlier anxiety and fear levels were rapidly being restored, at the expense of the self-congratulation, elation and triumph which had immediately replaced them, following Baldr’s demise.

  Uncertain as to whether he had any realistic hope of outrunning his pursuer, Loki risked a downward glance, in order to assess the imminent probability of his being knocked out of the air by a flying, heavy, short-handled, stone hammer.

  Crows, whether of the hooded variety or otherwise, are not renowned for their laughter, but laugh is precisely what Loki the hooded crow did, as he looked down at his pursuers and realised who was chasing him in Thor’s chariot. Despite the fact that he really ought to be searching for a safe place to hide Loki, being Loki, could not resist taking the opportunity to gloat over the human who, despite recent experiences from which he could and should have learned a valuable lesson, appeared to think he could present the Trickster God with some kind of worthy challenge. The crow suddenly swooped downwards and backwards, in a neat, graceful and self-satisfyingly intricate flying-manoeuvre, so that he was now following the chariot from a short distance, at roughly the same altitude as the heads of its driver and his passenger.

  Sharp Axe hit the brakes, pulling on the goats’ reins for all he was worth. As the vehicle slowed down and drew to a noisy, clattering halt, Loki landed delicately on the ground behind it and transformed immediately into his most familiar form, dressed exactly as he had been when Sharp Axe had last seen him in the Iron Wood: in the rather fetching outfit comprising a dark green woollen tunic and trousers, tan leather gloves and matching knee-length leather boots. Sharp Axe and Fynn turned to face the Trickster God, who looked unbearably pleased with himself.

  ‘Well... well!’ declared Loki, green eyes flashing and teeth bared, in a dangerous-looking grin. ‘A pair of chariot thieves! Not looking for me, were you? No, I think not... you haven’t brought the elf maiden with you for protection, this time.’

  ‘Disappointed not to have a girl to fight, Loki?’ retorted Sharp Axe with more bravado than he actually felt; Loki merely laughed, dismissively.

  ‘Oh – you mean to fight?’ countered the Trickster God, sounding surprised. ‘Strange, but I don’t seem to remember your faring too well, the last time we met, Sharp Axe!’

  No, thought Sharp Axe to himself, but I didn’t have Fynn the Fortunate with me on that occasion.

  ‘I’m here at Odin’s command,’ announced Sharp Axe grandly, trying his best to sound authoritative, as he stepped down from the chariot, relieved to be on terra firma again and choosing his words carefully, in the hope of detaining Loki long enough to enable Odin, Thor or, indeed, any of the Aesir or Vanir to find them. ‘It’s... all over, Loki... ’ went on Sharp Axe, as slowly as he dared, ‘… the Aesir will not tolerate your existence any more... they mean to execute you.’

  ‘Oh, really? See how I... tremble!’ bellowed Loki mockingly, with a lengthy pause just prior to completing the sentence, in a largely-unnecessary attempt to heighten the sense of drama even further. ‘The Aesir have to catch me first!’ continued the Trickster God. ‘Oh... unless... ’ and, here, Loki threw back his head and released one of his sudden, loud, unnatural howls of laughter, ‘... unless Odin has sent you to stall me until they arrive! Is... is that it, Sharp Axe?’

  A word suddenly flashed into Sharp Axe’s mind which, he thought, described his predicament rather succinctly and accurately: ‘Futile’. It was joined almost immediately by another, equally-appropriate word, given the situation in which he had somehow allowed himself to be placed by Odin: ‘Gullible’. Now, feeling rather small and powerless, Sharp Axe’s face darkened and he could not prevent himself from shuffling awkwardly on the spot.

  ‘I see that it is,’ concluded Loki perceptively, almost sympathetically and, if it were possible, even more smugly. ‘Well... ’ he said, now trying to look resigned to the inevitable, bowing his head insincerely and holding out his hands theatrically, palms downwards, towards Sharp Axe, ‘… I surrender... bind my wrists… take me away,’ and he laughed again, this time in a more controlled fashion.

  At this point, Fynn stepped down from the chariot, walked quickly over to Sharp Axe and whispered, ‘How are we going to keep him here until the Aesir catch up with us? If we try to fight, he’ll kill us both!’

  ‘Probably... ’ muttered Sharp Axe emotionlessly in reply, as he carefully lowered his right hand to the hilt of his sword, ‘... but a fight is the only chance we have of detaining him,’ and, with that, in a single, smooth, swift movement, he took a step to his right, drew his sword, wheeled it through the air and drove its edge vertically downwards into Loki’s outstretched wrists, in an audacious attempt to sever the Trickster God’s hands.

  The sword’s blade rang, sickeningly, as it hacked through Loki’s gloves and flesh, then hit bone; Loki cried out loudly in pain but, to Sharp Axe’s considerable disappointment, the Trickster God’s hands remained firmly attached to the end of his arms.

  Sharp Axe had, in the split second it took him to hatch the plan, reckoned on detaching Loki’s hands – even just one hand – in order to limit the god’s ability and will to fight. Despite the force of the strike, the pain it brought the recipient and the blood which had started to flow from Loki’s wounds into the soft leather of his gloves, however, the Trickster God was still in possession of both hands. Sharp Axe now had to decide immediately whether to withdraw – to try to escape in the chariot, before Loki recovered his wits and composure – or to attempt to press home some kind of advantage, by continuing the attack he had started. Either way, he rated his chances of survival as very slim at best but, he reasoned, it was better to go out fighting than running, so he chose the latter option and struck Loki in the midriff with a powerful, back-handed sweep of his sword.

  As the blade struck its target, Sharp Axe felt as though he had hit a thick leather sack filled with wet sand. The shock of the blow ran painfully up his arms and he saw, with some dismay, that the resulting long, narrow wound running across Loki’s abdomen looked rather superficial and seemed to be discharging little blood. Loki was now bent double and undoubtedly in pain, but neither sword strike had succeeded in incapacitating him.

  Fynn then took a decision, having quickly calculated that, whatever the eventual repercussions of the attack on Loki might be, that attack would be more successful if he, himself, were to make some kind of contribution to it. Without dwelling any further on the likely ramifications of what he was about to do, Fynn swiftly drew his own sword and lunged forward, using his body weight to help drive the weapon’s tip deep into the middle of Loki’s right thigh, then withdrew it in a reverse movement which rounded off the strike perfectly. Again, Loki cried out in pain; he looked up at Fynn with murder in his eyes and staggered backwards, to try to avoid receiving another painful wound. Sharp Axe, seeking to capitalise on Fynn’s surprise attack, swung wildly at Loki’s body once more, but the Trickster God anticipated the strike and evaded it with a neat, though painful, side-step. The momentum of his heavy, swinging sword as it missed its target unexpectedly caused Sharp Axe to overbalance and he staggered forward, falling onto his knees after a couple of unsteady steps. Loki quickly seized his unexpected chance, drew back his uninjured left leg then, clenching his teeth and, growling with the agony that supporting himself on his wounded leg was bringing him, kicked Sharp Axe’s prone body as hard as he could.

  Loki’s foot met Sharp Axe’s side a little way below his right armpit. As far as the victim was concerned, it might have been Thor’s hammer which had struck him: the sudden pain was indescribable. The kick lifted Sharp Axe clean off the ground and he felt the side of his rib-cage yield to Loki
’s boot of soft leather. which appeared to contain a foot of stone.

  Somehow managing to keep a one-handed grip on his sword, just in case the unlikely opportunity to use it again on Loki should present itself, Sharp Axe continued to roll in the direction that the kick had driven him, desperately trying to remove himself from any immediate further danger.

  Seeing his friend badly hurt and scrambling in the dust for his life, Fynn acted again, though more in the hope of distracting Loki’s attention away from Sharp Axe than of causing him any serious injury, for he had already concluded from what had gone before that he would not be able to inflict a life-threatening wound on the Trickster God.

  The luckiest man in all the Nine Worlds leapt towards Loki, swinging the sword’s blade at his intended victim’s neck, decapitation his clear and rather optimistic objective. For once, though, Fynn’s luck did not help him: Loki again anticipated the attack, evaded it and struck his assailant on the forearm with a fist as the sword swept past, knocking the weapon out of Fynn’s grip and sending him sprawling to the ground.

  Blood-soaked, in severe discomfort and weary of being attacked by mere humans, Loki now decided it was time to bring proceedings to a swift and satisfactory conclusion, by killing the two Midgard residents before him who were proving to be such an irritation. Standing a little unsteadily, Loki closed his eyes, took a deep breath and concentrated; a moment later, his body was trembling, transforming, growing to several times its previous size. When the transformation was complete, Loki had assumed dimensions greater than any giant in the Nine Worlds: he now stood head and shoulders taller than the tallest of the Frost Giants and would have dwarfed the mighty Surtr, had the Fire Giant been present at that moment, standing next to his adopted son.

  If Sharp Axe had been clinging to even the faintest glimmer of hope that he and Fynn might still, somehow, have been able to detain Loki just long enough for an Asgard rescue party to arrive, that hope was finally extinguished, as he witnessed Loki’s soul-destroying transformation, from his helpless position, lying some little distance away in the dirt. Nobody needs to be that tall, was the first, insuppressible thought which came into Sharp Axe’s pain-ravaged mind; he’s just showing off.