The Abomination of Asgard

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The Abomination of Asgard Page 25

by James Malcolm Elrick


  Farling smiled, said: “I think there is an air of magic about you.”

  Arastead scoffed at the idea but his eyes betrayed him. “I have no idea how to cast any spells. Besides it looks like it is Jakobus that the Princore book is intended, not me.”

  “Do not be so sure,” said Farling.

  “Jakobus!” said Arastead with a cry, “that is who Peg was talking about.” Arastead stood and paced the room. “It is difficult understanding the language of cats. They do not use words so much as images. And when they do use words to say something, they describe it. So, when Peg described the second thief, who we suspect is Ostend, she called him ‘the one who smells of sweat and wine.’ While, the first thief, she described him as ‘the short one with much hair who smells of horses’. That can only be Jakobus, not very tall, a big long beard, and practically is a horse.”

  “More of a pony,” said Grum, “but a big pony. And a very loud one I might add.”

  “Well, shall we find Jakobus tonight?” asked Farling.

  “The night is late, and I am exhausted,” said Arastead. “Besides, he would not be very accepting of visitors at this hour, even if he is awake.”

  “I would like my war hammer back,” said Grum.

  “I do not think Jakobus will be selling it or melting it down,” said Farling. “He came with a purpose. He too must have sensed it. And he has the gloves that allow him to pick it up and carry it, but he can barely wield it as he does not have the magical belt.”

  “There is more to him than meets the eye,” said Arastead.

  Farling nodded in agreement, then said: “I have an idea. We will use the Princore parchment as a way of introduction. We will see what else he will divulge from there.”

  Grum and Arastead agreed, then Arastead said: “There is one more person that Peg saw, but he did not enter our forge. It is not a person Peg saw, but a demon in the guise of human form.”

  Grum snapped his fingers. Then: “Did not Princess Margret and Nas say they have felt an evil presence in the Trondheim?”

  “They did,” agreed Farling. “Perhaps it is this demon. What else did Peg say about the demon?”

  “She calls him ‘night walker’ as he is pale and shuns the light of the sun. He also seemed afraid of Peg.”

  Grum shivered visibly, said: “Too many people are interested in our little forge. I can handle Jakobus and Ostend, but a demon of the night, this is too much for me. I do not know if I will be able to easily fall asleep tonight.”

  “Do not worry, Grum, I will place a protective charm on our forge, one that the demon cannot pass,” said Arastead.

  “What magical charm is this?” asked Grum.

  Arastead answered: “A line of salt across our entrance will do the trick, and I will whisper a charm of protection.”

  And with a sly grin Farling said to Arastead: “And you said you did not know any magic.”

  Arastead merely shrugged, not knowing how to answer.

  “If this demon is afraid of Peg, then she is sleeping on my bed tonight,” added Grum.

  ***

  Ostend was furious.

  He had finally discovered where that wretched Jordheimer lived in the Hive, but still could not find that sword. That Jordheimer had been trouble ever since they had met. He had been planning on selling the stolen sword, that was how he had discovered it was fake. How had the Jordheimer broken into his guardroom and made the switch? How had the Jordheimer even made such a good replica? He must have made it in the forge where he now worked.

  Lanson’s old forge, even Ostend saw the irony in that situation. The Jordheimer had asked about Lanson’s forge when he first met Ostend. And now he worked there with some other young blacksmiths. Where had they found the coin to buy the forge and repair it? He had planned on taking something of value from the forge but had found nothing. He had even found out the Jordheimer’s name: Farling. And his friends, Grum and Arastead.

  He had taken a chance going to their forge tonight, risking that he would be caught. But he owed money to some very large men who did not like that he was missing payments. Ostend knew those dice had been fixed, that no matter how he had thrown, he would still have lost.

  It was because he was muttering and grumbling to himself that he did not hear the person come up behind him who laid a hand on the back of his neck.

  Ostend made a grab for his short daggers, perfect for such close fighting. But the grip on the back of his neck was like iron and his attacker’s other hand stopped him from reaching his daggers.

  Then, Ostend realized he was fighting for his life. But his attacker suddenly let go, and Ostend was free, and his daggers appeared.

  But when Ostend’s eyes looked at his attacker’s, all the fight went out of him and Ostend went limp. All he saw were these dark eyes that held him like a moth to a flame, draining him of all will.

  The stranger asked: “Tell me of the people who live in the forge you just visited.”

  And Ostend told him everything.

  CHAPTER 30

  The Story of the Chosen

  The next day, after they had finished their work and cleaned the forge, Farling, Grum, and Arastead left for the thieves guild bringing the items of magic they had found in the wall. They had decided they needed more advice before visiting Jakobus and they hoped Pressan would be able to provide it. As well, they wanted to make sure Einar had nothing to do with the thieves that had visited in the night.

  After passing through the fake antique shop, signing in at the entrance with Horund the bookkeeper, they made their way to the library.

  Pressan, a smile on his face, said: “Well, if it is not my three favorite blacksmiths. Welcome back, Farling. I trust you enjoyed yourself in Jordheim?”

  “Jordheim was good,” replied Farling. “The farm is in good working order. My mother and brother are happy.”

  “But you were not happy there, else you would not have returned to Trondheim.”

  “On that, I must agree. Compared to the busy Trondheim, Jordheim is downright boring.”

  “Now, how can I help you three?”

  “We had quite the night last night,” started Farling as he, Arastead, and Grum took turns telling everything they could remember from the night before.

  After they finished, Pressan removed his glasses and slowly cleaned them. Then: “That is quite a night. A Norn, a talking dead goat, magical gifts, and many thieves interested in your forge.”

  “In the war hammer we believe,” said Grum.

  “Yes, we must help you find your war hammer as the Norn seems most keen on you possessing it. Are you sure it was Jakobus who stole it?”

  Arastead shook his head, said: “Not sure, but we strongly believe it. Jakobus is the one who most closely fits the description given to me by Peg.”

  Pressan nodded, said: “That too is another interesting part of your night’s adventure. It is not many who share the ability to speak with cats. In fact, no one I know.”

  “Why would a cat want to talk to a person?” asked Arastead.

  Pressan gazed up at the library ceiling for a few moments. Then: “Only a few can speak to cats.” He leveled his gaze on Arastead. “And those few were all wizards.”

  “But I do not know magic,” stammered Arastead.

  “No,” said Pressan, “you do not know magic—yet.” Pressan explained how the wizards of old worked with cats to enhance the wizard’s abilities and skills. It was the cats who could channel the essence of the magic and flow it through the wizard with whom they had bonded.

  “All wizards had cats?” asked Arastead.

  “No, just the more powerful ones,” answered Pressan.

  Arastead merely shook his head in disbelief.

  Farling drummed his fingers upon the table, staring at them as if in a trance. Then: “What of our other visitor last night, the one Peg described as a ‘night walker.’”

  Pressan grunted. “A demon of some sort, one who fears cats, and rightly so,” he said. �
��I will see what I can find in my books, but it may take a while as it is not much to go on.”

  “The Norn also spoke of an impending war,” said Grum. “One with the Chosen.”

  Pressan sighed and said: “There are many worlds out there. Dimensions some call them. Different realms I say. It is as if you board a ship and sail across the water and come across a new land, with people of different colored skin, and animals you have never seen before. Dwarves have their own realm, the frost giants, elves, and of course, the Norse gods. It sounds as if it is this barrier hiding a gateway between our realm and another is under attack.”

  The boys nodded.

  Pressan looked silently at the three boys as if weighing something in his thoughts. Then, having decided, said: “Let me show you something,” as he got up and walked away.

  They followed Pressan as he walked past the stacks of old books, scrolls, and tomes, and then down a hall which ended at a door they had never seen before. Pressan opened it and walked out onto the landing, then descended the stairs.

  At the bottom of the stairs was a large room. At the far end of the room were two large doors. These doors were guarded by two men, their short razor-sharp spears at ready.

  The guards recognized Pressan and unlocked the door, each using a unique ring.

  “What is that red glow…” started Farling then went quiet as the doors creaked open. The red glow, now uncontained, spread out and bathed the antechamber.

  Before them in the room was a suit of armor hung on a wooden mannequin that glowed and pulsed red. The plated, blood-red armor was buffed to a fine mirror-like shine while large vulture wings crowned the helmet.

  But it was not the sight of the armor that sent chills down their spines, making the hair raise on the back of their necks: It was the feeling that emanated from armor.

  Pressan broke the silence, said: “Spurned by Odin, cast out, the warriors of the gods, the Chosen, bred a black sorcery—the Graydons, the wizard hunters. Known as the Gray Death, they struck fear in the hearts of the wizards of Midgard. What stands before you, few have ever seen. And those few who did, never lived. This, my young friends, is the suit of armor a Graydon wore when he battled Midgard wizards. Three suits of armor were made by the Chosen, two were destroyed. This is the only one known to have survived.”

  “The first two suits were destroyed a long time ago,” he continued. “A host of Midgard wizards made a final stand in the great temple of Galdr, where their powers were greatest. But legions of the Chosen struck hard, aided by the Graydons. The battle raged all day and night. No quarter was asked, none given. Both armies suffered massive losses, and the land was scorched as far as the eye could see. The great temple of Galdr, patron of Midgard wizards, was razed to the ground. Two wizard hunters were captured, and they and their suits of armor destroyed.”

  “The last Graydon suit, this one before you, belonged to the fiercest of all the wizard hunters. This suit was worn by Tiliji, a more terrifying warrior the Chosen could not have found. He had been their fiercest warrior, a general in some of their worst atrocities. Tiliji, untouchable in his blood-red suit of armor, took tremendous pleasure hunting down the wizards who survived the battle at the great temple of Galdr. But he met his end one night on the plains of Aashloff. He died, his body burned to ashes inside this armor.”

  Farling cleared his throat, said: “How did the Trondheim thieves guild gain possession of the armor?”

  Pressan said: “The thieves guild of Trondheim managed to secure Tiliji's Graydon armor for they believed there was much profit to be made by selling it to the highest bidder. In the end, they decided—and decided wisely—to never sell or barter the suit, even though the profit would have been great. Over the centuries, all memory of this armor passed from people's minds, except this guild. To ensure none found it, it was placed here, deep in the ground, beyond magic detection or any other means of divination.”

  “Why not just destroy it?” asked Grum.

  “Destroying Graydon armor is not as simple as it sounds, as the art of destroying it was lost a long time ago. Old magic made a Graydon suit of armor; old magic must destroy it. And while the wizards were able to destroy two suits a long time ago, this one escaped them, for better or for worse, for reasons unknown.”

  Grum was about to add more but was interrupted by Arastead, who asked: “Could we please carry on this conversation somewhere else? My head feels as if it is splitting in two.”

  “Of course,” said Pressan. As they left the room, the guards used their rings to lock the doors. As the doors closed Arastead immediately felt better.

  “Come,” said Pressan, “you have seen enough. Let us retire to my private quarters where I will make you some of the best coffee you have ever tasted.”

  ***

  The boys looked around Pressan’s small room, wondering where to sit. It did not look like he entertained in his private room often, if ever. A thick layer of dust covered everything: books, chairs, the corners of the room. Years and years of candle wax was built up on a plate where a large candle burned. A small window let in some light and some air, but Farling wished it could let in more. A woodstove used for both heating the room and cooking was tucked away in the corner with a fire burning merrily in its belly.

  Pressan said to Arastead: “I see your nose has stopped bleeding.”

  Arastead voiced agreement holding a bloody rag to his nose.

  “The trick to good coffee, you see,” continued Pressan, “is to make sure the beans have been roasted for just the right amount of time. Feed the fire some more, would you please, Grum. And add enough cold water to the bottom of that coffee maker for the four of us.”

  Grum opened the door in the small wood stove in the corner, poked the burning wood a little to move it around, put some small pieces of wood inside, then closed the door, feeling the heat radiating out, grateful for its warmth. Using the ladle, he added more cold water to the bottom part of the coffee maker.

  Pressan finished grinding the coffee beans. He opened the drawer that caught the ground coffee, wetted a finger, pressed it to the ground coffee, and tasted. He grunted his approval, poured the ground coffee beans into the filter part of the coffee maker, and then moved it to the top of the wood stove.

  “Good,” said Pressan, “we will just let that percolate.”

  “Smells delicious,” said Farling.

  “Coffee is usually like that,” said Pressan. “It smells better than it tastes. But this is a highly rated coffee, I know you will all enjoy it. It is from the Lakshmir merchant down in the port. You know the one? No? I will take you there some time.”

  They made small talk until the coffee was ready. Pressan surprisingly had four dust-free mugs and poured equal amounts into each.

  Pressan sat in his chair, letting the warmth from his coffee mug seep into his hands.

  After a few restive minutes of everyone sipping their coffee, Arastead said: “About Odin’s warriors, the Chosen, where they are now?”

  Pressan nodded, said: “Of course, where to start? Ah yes, the wizards of Midgard knew it was impossible to destroy the Chosen, they were simply too powerful. There had been many, many battles, usually ending in some form of stalemate, with large numbers of casualties on both sides, neither side gaining the decisive edge. But what the Chosen never suspected was for the wizards to make the ultimate sacrifice, the Final Spell. The Chosen never suspected the spell would be used as it was something they would never had done. It never entered their minds. And the spell was successful, effectively transporting the Chosen to another land, another realm, with a gateway still to this land. A magical barrier prevents the Chosen from ever returning to Midgard through the gateway.”

  Arastead said: “So, the Chosen were not killed.”

  “No,” replied Pressan, “they were not destroyed. They still live. The Final Spell would not allow for that. Magic has rules, sometimes many, sometimes few. Often, the more powerful the spell, the fewer the rules that bind it.
As for the Final Spell, it cannot be used to kill.”

  “To what realm were they banished?” asked Arastead.

  Pressan looked surprised by the question. Then: “To Alfheim of course.”

  “But they were not elves,” said Arastead, confused.

  Pressan peered at the boys over the rims of his glasses, then slowly said: “You were not aware the Chosen were elves?”

  The boys shook their heads, their faces now pale.

  “Ah,” sighed Pressan, “of course, time has smothered many a truth and many a memory. I forget at times how much I know, and how much has been forgotten beyond the confines of my library. Yes, the Chosen, the warriors of Odin, were elves. Beautiful, handsome, fierce, they became too proud which was their ultimate downfall.”

  “But elves cannot hurt us, can they?” asked Arastead. “They cannot return to this land?”

  Pressan shook his head, said: “No, they live behind the Unbreakable Barrier, which was forged from the blood of the wizards that sacrificed themselves. For the Final Spell required blood, wizards’ blood, freely given. The wizards knew what had to be done to save the people of Midgard. They knew if the battles were to rage for years, there would be no one left on either side. They had to do something to rid the land of the elves and protect the people of Midgard.”

  “But the elves, they are behind a barrier,” said Arastead as a statement, not a question. “This sounds like a door. Where is this door?”

  “From what I understand,” said Pressan, “it is not a door. There is a pond up north, under which the elves are trapped. Nothing grows around it.”

  Farling asked: “Why does nothing grow near this pond?”

  “For one reason and one reason only,” answered Pressan. “It contains the blood of all the wizards needed for the Final Spell to be successful. The people who live near the pond forgot ages ago the reason for the pond’s unique color and why nothing grows close to it. They avoid the pond like the plague, telling everyone it is cursed. And in many ways, it is. But there is one thing that grows near it, a tree with the blackest bark and whitest leaves, a Heart Tree.”

 

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