The Abomination of Asgard

by James Malcolm Elrick

  Phillius nodded, said: “I will need to consult with the king, but I believe he would be interested in that type of cooperation between our two lands.”

  “And I am confident my father, King Cormac, would be delighted to host your artisans, weavers, and craftspeople for as long as it takes. Our hospitality shall know no bounds. They shall see that the people of Aarlund are not all sheepherders and barbarians like some ballads of Dennland portray us.”

  Phillius smiled politely, said: “I am aware, as are many in the royal court of Dennland, that the people of Aarlund are not all sheep herders.”

  “I suggest you also send a delegation of minstrels and balladeers so that they may see for themselves the culture of Aarlund and write new songs to spread to the people of Dennland.”

  “A wise idea.”

  She put heels to her horse and rode ahead so that she was beside her father again.

  The guards at the front of the group sounded their trumpets in three short blasts. After which they would loudly proclaim: “Behold King Cormac and Princess Margret of Aarlund.”

  The villagers and farmers they passed stared in awe and disbelief. They had never seen Aarlunders before and never before during a time of peace.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Black Ship

  Phillius had just arrived in Trondheim. It was early afternoon as he stretched his weary legs out on the couch and poured himself a glass of wine, readying himself for a quick nap. While the trip to Aarlund and back had been mostly uneventful, it had still been many days riding a horse and he was not getting any younger.

  A sharp rap on his door roused him.

  Phillius sighed, said: “Come in.”

  One of his pages entered. “The port master of Trondheim begs for an audience.”

  “Send him in.”

  The page fidgeted, obviously uncomfortable, said: “He asks that you meet him down in his office at the port.”

  “This is most unusual. If the port master wishes to talk to me, he should take the time to haul his portly behind up the boulevard to the castle.”

  “He knew you would be upset and asked me to tell you that he needs to show you something in the port, that he cannot bring it to your room, and that you must see it for yourself. He offers his most humblest apology knowing that you have just returned from Aarlund, but that once you visit his office, you will understand the urgency of the situation.”

  “Fine, fine, fine, race ahead of me. Let him know I will be down in a bit.”

  Relief flooded the boy’s face as he raced from the room.

  Phillius chewed his lip. What could be so important that he must meet the port master down in his office? Any coins skimmed from the merchants usually were passed from the port master through unofficial channels so that it could not be traced to Phillius, so he knew that could not be it. He finished his drink, put on fresh clothes, ate some dried nuts and fruit, and headed down to the port.

  Once there, he realized something was wrong. Even as he made his way down the wide boulevard, he overheard people talking about a black ship that had entered the port during the night. That this ship was crewed by ghosts and had been sent by the gods as a message. But what message, none knew.

  At the main dock, Phillius looked out over the harbor. Where the docks were usually busy with sailors loading and unloading goods, it was now eerily silent. And in the middle of the water was the black ship.

  Looking at it, Phillius felt a slight shiver go through him, like he had felt when he had first seen the Aarlund druid. Could these events be related? He cast those ideas from his mind as he looked for the port master.

  He found him in his office just as his page had described. Phillius said: “Good day, port master.”

  “Good day, Phillius.” They shook hands in an official manner. “Come, let us go out onto the docks so that we can better see this black ship.”

  “What manner of ship is it?” asked Phillius.

  The port master cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable, said: “I do not recognize the ship’s lines. From what I can tell, and from what others have told me, it is an old ship.”

  “We have many old ships.”

  “No, Master Phillius, others think it may be old, older than Trondheim.”

  Phillius furrowed his brow and stared at the ship. He did not recognize it as being from any country. He questioned too that it was all black, as if it had been covered in tar. It bobbed slightly in the water, an anchor holding it firmly in place. He grunted, said: “Have you hailed it? What do the crew aboard say?”

  The port master went pale. “That is the thing, there does not appear to be any crew. It simply sailed into harbor last night and weighed anchor. I have sent people out in rowboats, telling them to board the ship. They can climb the sides with no worries. But as soon as their feet touch the deck, they say it is like ice travels up their legs and churns their guts in fear. And before they know it, they are diving over the side. They refuse to return to the ship and try to board again. I have threatened to lash them, but even that does not move them.”

  “This is most unfortunate. The King’s Tournament begins in a few days, and there is still much we must do with getting everything prepared. That includes unloading many goods from the ships that are needed for the tournament.”

  The port master went an even paler shade. “The ships have sent word that they are refusing to sail into the harbor and unload their cargo. You can see them all bunched up beyond the mouth of the harbor out on the ocean. They say their crews are afraid to come near the black ship and are ready to abandon ship or worse, mutiny, if they are made to come into harbor. Can you not feel the cold emanating from the ship?”

  Phillius could, but instead said: “No, there is nothing coming off that ship. Have you ordered your men to cut the anchor and set the ship adrift? Then, they could simply push it back out onto the sea and let the currents take it far away from Trondheim.”

  “Yes, Master Phillius, in fact I ordered the same. Their cutting tools shattered on the chain that holds the anchor. They tried smashing it with sledgehammers, but those too, simply broke apart in their hands.”

  Phillius was tired and knew that he could not think straight when he was in this type of mood. “Have you set a reward for anyone who can rid the harbor of this ship?”

  “A great idea, Master Phillius. The merchants guild has already proposed it. They are already feeling the loss of the charges they collect from the ship’s captains and the merchants. They are readying posters to place around Trondheim.”

  “No posters,” said Phillius sharply.

  “Of course,” mumbled the port master, afraid he had offended. “No posters.”

  “The reward shall be by word-of-mouth only. We do not want posters all over the city as we want to try and keep this as quiet as is possible before the King’s Tournament. I know word will travel but I do not want a paper trail.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The Paupers Temple

  The knife wound was deep and cruel.

  Orlough felt his life flowing slowly out of him and knew it would not stop. He had done his best to staunch the wound but knew that too much damage had already been done. He did not have much time left and knew what he must do before he died.

  He staggered around the Paupers Temple until he found the young priest named Sihr.

  Sihr’s eyes went wide, said: “What happened?” When Orlough lifted a hand, Sihr saw it was covered in bandages soaked in blood.

  Sihr let out a sharp whistle, said: “Let me see the wound.”

  With Sihr’s help, Orlough lay on the floor.

  Sihr tore open Orlough’s clothes and brought a candle close to the wound. He sucked air through his teeth sharply, then yelled: “Rickters!” An old man appeared. “Rickters, fetch my tools and herbs I use to bind wounds.”

  “Immediately, Master Sihr.”

  Orlough mumbled: “There is not much time.”

  “Save your breath, Orlough, you will be fine.
”

  “You, my young priest, are a horrible liar. I have lost blood before, this is not like other times. Listen, you must go to the Hive, find Bringon’s forge, and fetch me Farling Jordheim.”

  By this time, Rickters had returned with a box full of gauze and herbs. Sihr found the herbs he wanted, placed it on the open wound, and pressed the gauze against it.

  Orlough winced, said: “Hurry, Sihr, I beg you, I must talk to Farling before it is too late.”

  “No Orlough, I will stay here and bind your wounds.”

  Orlough’s hand gripped tightly on Sihr’s shoulder making Sihr wince in pain.

  Orlough’s voice was now clear and strong. “You must do as I ask, Sihr. The fate of the Norse realms hang in the balance.”

  Sihr looked into Orlough’s eyes and saw his conviction.

  Sihr nodded, said: “Hold here like I am doing, Rickters. I will be back shortly.”

  Then Sihr ran to the Hive as he had never run before.

  ***

  “Have you heard?” asked Grum.

  “What?” said Farling and Arastead as one.

  At this time of day, they had finished supper and were closing the forge for the night. It had been another hard day working in the forge, but the work had been gratifying as always.

  Grum continued, said: “The merchants guild will reward anyone who can rid the harbor of this black ship.”

  Farling arched an eyebrow, said: “How much? If I am to buy a farm back in Jordheim, I will need a lot of coin.”

  “They would not say but it is supposedly a goodly amount. It may not buy a big farm in Jordheim, but maybe a small one.”

  Farling sighed in relief, said: “Even if with my share of the reward, I can only get a few chickens, goats, and maybe one cow for my mother and brother, I would be happy.”

  They talked about what they would do if they earned the reward, when they all stopped, staring at the entrance of their forge.

  There, a young man dressed in the outfit of the Paupers Temple stood, panting with exertion.

  “Farling Jordheim,” said Sihr, between rasping gasps for air.

  “Yes,” said Farling.

  “I must bring you back to the Paupers Temple.”

  “Why?”

  “My name is Sihr, and I am priest of the Paupers Temple. Orlough is there and he is hurt most grievously. He is afraid he might die and needs to speak with you before that happens.”

  Farling dropped what he was doing, cried: “Take me there, now!”

  “We will come too,” said Grum and Arastead.

  “Then let us be off,” said Sihr with a weak smile and began to run back to the Paupers Temple. But before Sihr had taken even 10 steps, he pulled up and groaned: “I am exhausted. I ran here too quickly and I am spent.”

  Arastead said as he ran past: “We know where your temple is, priest. We will meet you there.”

  Sihr shouted at the receding figures: “Rickters is there with Orlough.” Then his voice dropped to a whisper: “Orlough is not alone. One should never die alone.”

  ***

  The Paupers Temple lay deep in the bowels of the great port of Trondheim. Surrounded by dives, brothels, penny room taverns, and the least respected guild houses, the Paupers Temple was an anachronism compared to its muddy surroundings.

  The sun started its lazy way down towards the horizon as Farling, Grum, and Arastead ran down the dirt streets. No cobblestones here; this area of town was known for its extreme mud during the wet season and for its choking dust during the heat of summer. As the three of them ran through the entrance of the Paupers Temple, they saw Orlough on the ground, an old man tending to him.

  Swiftly, Farling knelt beside Orlough and saw the bandages that bound his chest were soaked in dark crimson.

  Farling felt despair, said: “Orlough, it is Farling. Can you hear me?”

  Orlough’s eyes fluttered open. Relief flooded Farling’s face.

  Orlough mumbled: “Farling, Farling Jordheim. How good it is to see you.” Orlough tried a small laugh but only coughed blood. “I am afraid I am going to die. There is something I must tell you.”

  “What is it, Orlough?”

  “The black ship in the harbor.”

  “Yes.”

  “No one can board it.”

  “From what I hear, no, no one has boarded it.”

  “What happens when people stand on the ship’s deck?”

  “Fear floods their bodies and they dive overboard.”

  “What does that remind you of, Jordheimer?”

  “Orlough, we do not have time for this! Please tell me want you want me to know.”

  “Does that not remind you of a story?”

  It did sound familiar to Farling, but he could not find the memory. Then he exclaimed: “Of course, Loki, when he wanted to steal the dwarf king’s crown.”

  “And you remember what Loki poured in his boots?”

  “I remember. Salt.”

  “It was good I found you earlier, Farling, and that you know those old stories. One more thing.”

  “Yes.”

  “Aboard the ship, you must find a jeweled belt. Taking the belt makes the ship leave as its purpose will then be fulfilled. This I have been told.”

  “What am I to do with this belt?”

  “Ah, Farling Jordheim, I cannot tell you all the answers else where would the adventure lie? Farewell my young friend. I wish you well.”

  Sihr had just arrived and heard Orlough’s last few words. He watched as Orlough went limp and stopped breathing.

  Sihr said in a solemn voice: “Rickters and I will prepare Orlough for burial. He will be buried in the Paupers Temple cemetery tomorrow night. He will lie here in internment until then.”

  With a grim face, Farling said: “We will attend his burial.”

  As they left the Paupers Temple, Farling wiped away his tears on his sleeve, then said: “First, we need to get some weapons. Then we need to get some salt.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Freya, Norse Goddess of Wisdom

  Sihr and Rickters finished preparing Orlough’s body for burial. A thankless task, the Paupers Temple was where the poor and uncared came to be buried. Often, the burial preparation room, with its many tables, was filled with people that had passed: sailors, farmers, journeymen, wives, widows, widowers, spinsters, and children. All, Sihr committed to the old Norse gods and to the ground.

  Exhausted, Sihr said: “Rickters, I am just going to clean up the blood that was spilled on the ground. I cannot sleep right now. You go to bed, you look more exhausted than I feel.”

  Rickters nodded, said: “Thank you, Master Sihr as today has been unusually hard on my old bones. I will awaken you early tomorrow morning as is your wont.”

  “That is fine. I will see you in the morn.”

  Sihr found the mop and filled the bucket with water. He lit the torches in the room and started cleaning the floor. The blood drops were still damp on the ground and would glisten in the torchlight just enough for Sihr to notice.

  He started mopping towards the main door. He had been cleaning for several minutes, when he noticed there were no blood drops on the floor. He found this strange as he was quite positive Orlough had come through the front door. He grabbed a torch from the wall and held it aloft to see the floor more clearly. Yes, he had been cleaning where there was no blood. He walked towards the entrance but there were no blood drops there either. He retraced his steps and found where he had gone off the trail. Holding the torch, he followed the blood drops, then noticed they appeared to come from under the door that led to the basement. He opened the door and saw a bloody hand mark on the door. So, Orlough had been here. But why had he been in the basement?

  Sihr followed the drops of blood down the stairs. He could see the trail quite clearly. The drops led across the floor and headed towards a blank wall. And there they stopped! Sihr did not think Orlough was a wizard who could move through solid walls. He walked along the wall in either direc
tion, but there was no blood there. But there was one spot where the blood looked to be thicker. Orlough must have stepped in his own blood at this point. Why would Orlough have stood against a blank wall? Looking for clues as to Orlough’s strange behavior, Sihr looked around the wall and then his eyes caught a sparkle as if the light of the torch was reflecting off blood. Sihr looked closer, and yes, it appeared to be a bloody handprint, like the one on the door at the top of the stairs. It seemed Orlough had gripped a torch bracket on the wall. Imagining Orlough doing this, Sihr too grabbed the torch bracket and noticed a hidden catch. This he pulled and a tunnel entrance suddenly yawned open in front of him. A section of the wall had slid over silently on hidden greased wheels.

  Stale air greeted Sihr’s nostrils. He wet a finger and held it up towards the blackness, but no breeze cooled his finger.

  “Hello,” he hailed, wondering what to expect in return. But only silence greeted him, not even an echo. He found a small rock and threw it into the darkness. He heard it hit a wall, then bounce on the floor, then sounded like it bounced down some steps, then stopped.

  He walked a little into the blackness and held the torch to see the floor more clearly. Drops of blood lay on the floor. Orlough had been here!

  A thrill of excitement went down Sihr’s spine. He had worked his entire life in the Paupers Temple, but he had never known there were hidden catches that opened hidden doors. But Orlough had known about it. How had he known?

  Sihr thought to wake Rickters to keep him company. But then Sihr remembered he had sent Rickters to bed and knew that to wake him now would be hard on the old man. Sihr starred again into the inky blackness. No sound reached his ears, no smell assaulted his nose, and no breeze waved his hair. Evidently no animals or danger lived in the tunnel as Orlough had travelled it safely.