The Abomination of Asgard

by James Malcolm Elrick

  Farling followed Orlough as they made their way deeper into the Hive. Within all the twisting alleys and houses that looked identical, Farling worried he had gotten lost. He could see why it was called the Hive as it was busy with work like bees on a honeycomb.

  “The Hive is divided into different sections,” said Orlough. “The potters in one, the butchers in another, the garment makers have their own, the blacksmiths, and so on. Each has its own guild. There are four roads from outside that lead into the Hive so all goods and materials can flow in and out unabated. The only guards at these gates belong to the Hive. No king’s guards: The Hive patrols its own. Ah, here we are, home sweet home.”

  Farling looked at the building. They had arrived in the area where the bakers were congregated. Farling breathed deep of the rich aroma as it seemed capable of pushing the stink of the Hive away.

  “You stay here, Farling, I will fetch you a change of clothes.” And within just a few moments, Orlough appeared again with dry clothes that looked Orlough’s size. “You can get changed in this thin alley, no one goes down it.”

  “Much better,” said Orlough as Farling reappeared a few moments later in the clean clothes. “Now you are presentable.” Farling’s stomach grumbled loudly again. “Ah, yes, tack is good but does not last long as you would hope. Here is some dried meat and fresh bread you can eat.”

  “Why are you helping me so much, Orlough?” said Farling in between bites of food.

  “I saw how those guards treated you yesterday. Despicable, really. Especially during the King’s Tournament. The guards see how much coin everyone else is making and they want some extra coin themselves. Things were different during my time as—” and he caught himself before saying more. “Let us just say, it has not always been like this. Ah, here we go.”

  They crossed a busy street and Farling noticed the change in the buildings. He now looked at the most blacksmith forges he had ever seen. Chimneys lined the rooftops like a forest of trees. Farling inhaled deeply, a smile of contentment spread across his face at the familiar smell and sounds: hammers on anvils, a symphony of music that was most enjoyable.

  “My friend is over here.” Orlough led Farling to one of the older looking forges. Farling cast an appreciative eye over it. The tools looked worn but well maintained. The fumes and smoke were carried up efficiently in the well-designed chimney and the floor was clean. Farling looked at the blacksmith approaching them and noted the similarities between him and Mantock: bald, barrel-chested, and solidly built. His thick eyebrows looked like caterpillars ready for winter and his flowing black beard poured down the front of his leather apron like a waterfall of dark oil.

  “Well, well, Orlough,” said the blacksmith, “another street urchin for me to take in. I told you already that I am full up. I cannot take another.”

  Orlough shook his head and said: “Bringon, I think I may have found someone who will take much of the work off your shoulders as well as the burden of your worry. This is Farling Jordheim.”

  “What, Jordheim, you say. A young blacksmith, huh? What is the name of your master blacksmith, lad?”

  “Mantock, sir,” said Farling.

  “Yes, yes, Mantock, that is his name. Good man, I remember him from a long time ago. And you say you apprenticed under him?”

  “For five years.”

  “Five years,” mused Bringon as his bushy eyebrows arched, making it look like the caterpillars were going to start walking away. “Tell me how to make a good horseshoe.”

  And Farling found himself repeating what he had just told Orlough. Bringon smiled as Farling finished. Orlough saw the smile spread across Bringon’s face and smiled as well.

  Bringon laughed aloud, said: “Ah, Orlough, how could I have ever doubted you. You bring me gold when I would have settled for bronze, and bring me wine when I would have settled for vinegar.”

  He then slapped Orlough across the back so hard it made the old man wheeze.

  After some effort, Orlough caught his breath, and color returned to his cheeks, said: “I think this may be one of the most exciting and busiest King’s Tournament ever. I think you will need all the expert help you can find, what with the Knights Stable demanding so much of you. Now, I must be off. Places to see, mead to drink, and stories to tell.”

  Farling asked: “Orlough, will I see you again?”

  “Of that, I have no doubt,” said Orlough as they shook hands. And with a friendly wink, Orlough set off down the street, disappearing down a sharp alley.

  Farling clapped his hands, said: “So, Master Bringon, where is a leather apron for me?”

  Bringon roared in laughter. “A diamond in the rough, this one!” He laughed again at his own joke. “Thank Loki that Orlough’s eyes are better than mine, I daresay. Extra aprons are on the hooks over there. Find one your size, and I will get you to work on our order from the Knights Stable.”

  “The Knights Stable?” asked Farling, slipping the heavy leather apron on over his clothes.

  “You are new to Trondheim. Well, tomorrow, we will make our way over to the fabled Knights Stable early. King Frederick will be opening the King’s Tournament in a few days. Now, to work, as you need to earn your room and board before the sun falls from the sky. Ah, here are my other helpers.”

  Farling looked at the boys that entered the forge. They looked roughly the same age as him.

  Bringon said: “Lads, I decided to take on one more helper. This here is Farling. Farling, this is Grum and Arastead.”

  Faring shook hands with the other apprentices noting their appearance. Arastead was slightly taller than Farling, had dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and his eyes were a pale blue. Long wiry arms dangled from his slightly hunched shoulders. His face was dirty with soot and sweat. Grum was a fair bit shorter than Farling, but looked like he would develop a deep chest like Mantock when he was older. Short arms with muscles that bulged on his forearms at the slightest movement. His hair was dark and curly and his eyes black with dark eyebrows. His face too was stained with sweat and soot. The two of them made an odd-looking pair, but Farling could tell they got along well. And, while Grum’s dark eyes seemed to be permanently smiling and twinkling like little half-moons, Arastead’s piercing pale blue eyes looked like they could bore holes through solid rock.

  Bringon continued, said: “Farling has had some more years’ experience than you lads so you might be able to learn a thing or two from him.” Farling immediately wished Bringon had not said that but Grum and Arastead did not seem to mind.

  Once Bringon was out of earshot, Arastead quietly said to Farling: “I am glad Bringon hired you. Bringon took on a large order so it is best we have someone who knows what they are doing in the forge. We can always use an extra pair of hands for other things too.”

  Farling knew about the Knights Stable order but before he could ask what Arastead meant by ‘other things’, Bringon was clapping his hands, said: “Aprons on everyone. Fire up the forge, we have a lot of horseshoes to make.”

  ***

  Sweat streamed down Farling’s face, stinging his eyes. It was a welcome feeling, a sensation he was used to and enjoyed. With his sleeve he wiped his face. It felt good having a hammer in his hand again making the metal bend to his will. The sounds too were heartwarming, the clanging and the smashing reminding him of his village forge. The smells, the heat, the brightness of the forge, all made him feel welcome and comfortable. Farling was even impressed with the quality of the metal Bringon used.

  Grum spoke: “Thank Odin you have come on board, Farling. Arastead and I were worried we were going to have to work through the night. But with you here, it should be easier as I can see you are familiar with hammer and anvil.”

  As Farling was about to start hammering again, Bringon boomed: “Well lads, that about wraps it up for the day. That was a good solid few hours of work. Time to start shutting everything down, clean up, and get things ready for tomorrow. Then we will have us a nice fine meal, keep up your
strength. We have got a lot of work ahead of us and not much time.”

  Bringon’s living quarters was above his forge. A small space made smaller by the large chimney that dominated the room, but comfortable. A large bed for Bringon and his wife, a small kitchen, and a table at which to eat was all they needed.

  Bringon and the three boys jammed themselves around the small table.

  Mrs. Bringon, a plump woman with a large smile that showed her dimples, smiled and said: “I hope you boys washed your hands before coming up to sup.”

  As one, including Bringon, they said: “Yes, ma’am.”

  Looking at Mrs. Bringon, Farling at first thought her hair to be gray, but then realized it was the baking flour that still powdered her dark hair.

  She tsked, and said: “Well Bringon, are you not going to introduce me to the new helper?”

  Bringon looked slightly embarrassed, said: “Ah, yes, mum, of course, mum. This is Farling, Farling, this is my wife and the anvil of my life.”

  “Which means I weigh him down,” she said with a wink. “You may also call me by my name, Clara.” She ladled out generous helpings of lamb stew and tea biscuits to everyone. “And a good thing Orlough ran into me at the bakery where I work else I would not have found out in time about the additional chair at the table. Good thing he did tell me, else everyone would have gotten smaller portions.”

  Bringon nodded, said: “Good thing. I meant to tell you, mum, but you know how busy it is in the forge especially this time of year.”

  “I know that, sweetheart. Orlough said he should be a fine addition to the forge. Not that there was anything wrong with these other boys.”

  “All hard workers, these ones,” agreed Bringon, but none of the boys paid any attention as they were gobbling down their food.

  After all the food was gone, Clara said: “I will tidy up around here as you boys need to go back to the forge and make sure everything is ready for tomorrow.”

  “That is right,” said Bringon, “tomorrow is another day but one day soon it will be the first day of the King’s Tournament. Here are some blankets, find a nice dry place to sleep down in the forge.”

  All the boys nodded in agreement. Bringon gave each of them two blankets; one for underneath to keep them as clean as possible, the other on top to help them stay warm, especially at this time of year. The forge also still rippled waves of warmth, helping to keep the sleeping area warm.

  Farling found a dry spot and lay his blanket down, but had problems falling asleep. He listened to Grum and Arastead discussing who they thought were the best knights at the tournament and who would win which event.

  During a lull in their conversation, Farling said: “Did you hear that Aarlund warriors will be competing at this year’s King’s Tournament?”

  Both Grum and Arastead cried aloud at the news and begged Farling to tell them more.

  And Farling told them everything he had heard from Jagjord about the Aarlund contingent. Grum and Arastead peppered him with questions and wondered which warriors would represent Aarlund.

  Grum, his voice thick with excitement, said: “We will need to go out at night and discover the Aarlund warriors’ names, who their best contestants are in each event, so that we can lay some good and proper bets.”

  The three of them talked late into the night falling asleep only due to sheer exhaustion.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Master of the Hunt

  Hugin, a raven, pecked a rock making an awful racket. He would stop pecking and then caw, his cry echoing loudly off the cave walls where the Master of the Hunt slept. After several minutes, the Master of the Hunt opened his eyes. He drew in a deep breath that rattled as if he had not drawn a deep breath in a long time.

  The first thing the Master of the Hunt noticed was that the air smelled sweet, sweeter than before. How much had changed in the land he wondered since he had slept in his secluded cave high up in a mountain range, he could not tell. He had no idea how long he had slept, all he knew was that he had been summoned, that he was needed, and that the pack—his pack—would hunt.

  Hugin stopped his incessant cawing. The Master of the Hunt, tall by any means, rose gracefully from his resting place, stretched his long arms and legs. He was clean shaven with straight shoulder-length red hair. He strode over to Hugin as he hopped about eagerly on the ground.

  “Hello, Hugin.” The raven tipped his head in greeting. Then, using his beak, he drew a picture in the dirt of Freya’s necklace.

  “So, it is as we feared,” said the Master of the Hunt, a grim look on his face. “Still, we always knew this day would come. The Norns have woven our lives in the Tapestry of life. We are but strings of yarn in their hands.”

  From a large trunk on the floor, he pulled forth an ornate horn, placed it to his lips and blew. The ground reverberated with the sound. As the sound faded, two shaggy and immense hounds materialized in front of him whining anxiously, eager to hunt. He patted their heads affectionately.

  Hugin, seeing his task accomplished, hopped on top of a large rock, then launched himself gracefully into the air and flew away.

  The Master of the Hunt absently rubbed behind the ears of one of his hounds while he watched the raven fast became a speck over the snow-peaked mountains, his powerful wings lifting him higher and higher into the sky.

  He walked to an area of the cave where his dark green armor hung. He strapped it on, then slung his immense two-handed sword on his back. Last, he secured his helmet adorned with antlers on his head and got ready for the hunt.

  CHAPTER 7

  The Knights Stable

  During the early morning, before the sun rose, the Hive stirred. The bakers were always first awake and up before all the other trades, which meant Bringon’s wife was gone long before the sun rose.

  And as the rooster greeted the rising sun with a loud crow, the rest of the Hive woke.

  Farling opened his eyes, not remembering where he was. But then he smelled the familiar odors of the forge, and everything flooded back.

  Bringon, banging a wooden spoon on a pot, cried: “Wake up, wake up lazy bones. When you are done cleaning, come upstairs to break your fast.”

  Farling groaned, rose, and gathered around the tub of water with the other boys. Grum and Arastead talked about their favorite knights and who they thought would win.

  Bringon yelled: “Hey! You boys, hurry up! Stop talking like chickens and get up here and eat your breakfast. We have got work to do!”

  The boys quickly washed their hands and faces and raced upstairs to have a breakfast of heavy yoghurt and granola.

  “Right,” said Bringon, finishing off his breakfast, “I am off to the Knights Stable, and I am taking Farling with me.”

  Gum and Arastead moaned.

  “Now, now, lads. You have been to the Knights Stable many times. Nothing new for you to see. Farling here has never been, will be a bit of an eye opener for him.” Bringon and Farling grabbed some horseshoeing tools, their leather aprons, and set off.

  Bringon talked as he walked, said: “Pay attention, Farling. Good! The Knights Stable holds all the horses for the knights of Trondheim. While the King’s Tournament is on, the Knights Stable also adds all the horses of the knights entered in the tourney.”

  “During the King’s Tournament, the Knights Stable is close to capacity. It has two levels of stables. Regardless of how burdened it is, the Knights Stable is a system of efficiency: always clean, the straw fresh, the feed the highest quality. All horses are treated equally well as there is no favoritism during the King’s Tournament. The finest horse is treated just as well as the poorest knight’s. Every need and whim of the horses are met. Some knights have even been heard to complain that their horses did not want to leave the Knights Stable once the King’s Tournament was over.”

  “The Knights Stable has its own entrance in the great outer wall of Trondheim. An impressive gate, six fully armed horses can enter or leave easily side by each with room to spare. The entra
nce from the Knights Stable into the main street of Trondheim is also impressive but not as large. Ah, here we go.”

  Farling knew they were close as the wind had changed direction, blowing the sweet odor of horse manure towards him.

  Bringon continued, said: “The proprietor of the Knights Stable is Jakobus. A man of a fierce mind who does not suffer fools. His memory is extensive as he can recall each knight’s name, their horse’s name, and what the horse likes and needs. He can remember horses from tournaments years past, their likes, dislikes, and personalities, even if the knight riding the horse has changed. And he always seems to be yelling, so do not take it personally, Farling, it is just that his indoor voice does not seem to work.”

  And as they got closer to the entrance, Farling could hear someone yelling: “Sir Morgan’s horse, easy on the oats as that bloats him! Sir Eyfrod’s horse, extra straw. Sir Lagmann’s horse, careful pouring water in his trough as he likes to bite!”

  “Ah, yes,” said Bringon, “that would be Jakobus. We need to talk with him.”

  Off to one side of the street entrance was a smaller entrance for people. Through this door walked Bringon and Farling.

  The Knights Stable was a buzz of activity as it prepared for the King’s Tournament.

  “We just head towards the loudest voice, as Jakobus can sometimes be difficult to see,” said Bringon with a wink.

  “How is that?”