The Abomination of Asgard

by James Malcolm Elrick

  Arastead said: “It was in the wall of our forge, the one we purchased from the Hive, the one previously owned by Lanson.”

  Farling noticed Jakobus’s left eye twitched slightly.

  Pressan added: “There were other things in the wall too. Things that could not be moved, but then somehow were. You know of what I speak.”

  Jakobus stood. Then: “This book is not yours, nor was the war hammer.” His voice started to sound like it did in his stables.

  Farling stood, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He was about to say something, when he saw Pressan wave a hand, motioning him to sit, which he did reluctantly.

  In a calm voice, Pressan said: “The book is not yours, nor is the war hammer.”

  Jakobus still stood, but even then, he was not much taller than everyone that remained seated. He said: “Those both belong to my people. They were stolen from my people a long, long time ago. How they came into the wall of Lanson’s forge, I will never know. But they belong to me.”

  “There are others who would disagree with you,” responded Pressan. “The laws of the Hive for one.”

  Jakobus cried: “Blast the laws of the Hive! I have been waiting for these to reappear, just as my father waited, and his father before him. My people will not be denied.”

  Grum whispered to his friends: “What does he mean by ‘his people’?” Arastead raised a finger to his lips, but Grum simply ignored him and inaudibly muttered some more.

  “Then we will negotiate,” said Pressan.

  Jakobus clenched his jaw in stubbornness.

  “First,” began Pressan, “you may keep the Book of Princore.” Arastead cried aloud. “But,” continued Pressan, raising a finger in Arastead’s direction, “you will take this one under your apprenticeship.”

  “He is not of my people,” growled Jakobus.

  “No, he is not,” agreed Pressan. “But there is much more to this young blacksmith than meets the eye. That is the first term of agreement. What say you?”

  Jakobus chewed his lower lip in thought. Then: “Fine. I will teach him what I can learn from the book. But, this is my condition to this agreement: If he cannot keep up with me, I release him, and I will keep the book.”

  “Agreed,” said Pressan.

  Arastead cried aloud again in disbelief. Then: “I was told to bring the book to Jakobus, not give it to him. I did not realize it was to be a bargaining chip.”

  “Jakobus knows much and will be able to share with you a great deal,” said Pressan.

  “I already know how to take care of horses and muck stables,” grumbled Arastead, feeling as if the Norn’s gift was being taken from him.

  “As the story was told to me, you were asked to bring the book to Jakobus,” said Pressan. “Which we did. You were not told to keep the book. Besides, you cannot even read the writing inside the book, only Jakobus.”

  Jakobus looked pleased at the way the discussions were going, but then his face soured at what Pressan said next. “You will then give Grum the war hammer you took from his forge.”

  Jakobus’s face flushed pink in anger, said: “He cannot wield it, he is not my kin.”

  This time Pressan’s voice rose passionately as he said: “Neither can you, and you know that full well. You may have been able to carry it from their forge, but you cannot wield it.” Pressan’s voice quieted. “You do not have the belt.”

  The color drained from Jakobus’s face. Then: “No, I do not have the belt, but it is only a matter of time before that appears as well.”

  Pressan waved a hand at Grum, said: “Grum, if you would be so kind.”

  Grum stood and lifted his shirt so that his belt was clearly visible. Upon seeing the Belt of Strength, Jakobus’s face drained even more color, as he whispered: “No, I cannot believe it.”

  Pressan nodded, said: “There is a certain person, a person of incredible power, who wants Grum to wield the war hammer. Now, in the good faith of bargaining, we have given something, we expect something in return.”

  Jakobus stammered: “I do not have it here.”

  “Fine, then bring it to Grum’s forge within the fortnight.” Jakobus looked as if he was ready to chew a horseshoe. “And another thing, Jakobus; bring the gloves.”

  Jakobus’s shoulders slumped, defeated. Then: “This person of power had better be right. Grum had better make good use of the war hammer else I will demand its return.”

  Pressan clapped once, said: “Good, then it is settled. You keep the book, Arastead apprentices with you starting tomorrow morning, and Grum gets the war hammer and magical gloves.”

  Jakobus weighed the decisions, wrestling with what to say next. “Done,” he said. “My servants will see you out. Tomorrow is a busy day and I must have my rest.”

  ***

  Once his guests were gone, Jakobus sat in the chair by the fire, his feet on the footrest. He stared into the flames, the Book of Princore open on his lap. A big sigh escaped his lips, as he closed the book, and placed it on the ground beside him.

  One of his cats, noticing that no other cats were sitting on Jakobus’s lap, jumped up. Jakobus absentmindedly petted the cat, who purred loudly, enjoying both the attention from Jakobus and warmth from the fire.

  There was a knocking on his door. Expecting Pressan, one of Jakobus’s servants opened the door.

  It was then that the cat on Jakobus’s lap arched its back, its hair on end, and a loud hiss sounded deep in its throat.

  CHAPTER 33

  Queen Astrid

  Later that night, Astrid disguised herself and stole out of the castle with her handmaiden and bodyguard.

  The queen felt young again, doing thrilling things like this. But she also knew it was for a good reason. She knew her husband would never release her and marry another, but if Astrid herself did not give him an heir before she saw 40 summers, she knew there would be nothing in her power to stop him. She knew there was no dishonor in a king marrying again. He would choose wisely, as other kings had done in the past, someone healthy, someone young, so that she would have a better chance of surviving childbirth. But still, Astrid shuddered at the idea of her husband marrying another woman, and she was determined that would never happen.

  This time, many things were in her favor: the goddess Freya had returned, and a Salgarian Healer was in town. First, she would visit goddess Freya. Then tomorrow, she would arrange for a meeting with the healer.

  It had been a long walk out past the Paupers Cemetery and through the forest. As they approached the statue of Freya, all was quiet. Stories about the large hounds would not keep the queen away.

  Her bodyguard stood watch, while her maid prepared the offering of salt. Around the queen the maid drew a circle of salt, and pulled a parchment from her worn tunic. Reading the ritual, the maid began chanting in an ancient language the queen did not recognize. Her maid had warned her that it may take some time, and that the queen should wait until the maid was finished chanting. Then the blessing would be finished, and they could go home. It was to last for several weeks.

  The rhythm of the chanting was soothing to the queen. It was late, and she could feel herself swaying in time to her maid's voice. Suddenly her eyes opened wide as she looked around: Someone was talking to her, but she saw no one else around except her maid. But then she noticed her maid too was looking at her strangely.

  “Yes,” said the voice, “you can both hear me, and you are not imagining things. It is good to see someone performing the sacred ritual so well, I congratulate you. Your pronunciation of the old language is to be commended.”

  “Goddess,” started the queen, “I have come to humbly beg for a child. My husband the king and I are without an heir, and I love him so. I want our child to rule once we are finished, for I know our child will do all that is right and good for the kingdom, for Dennland.”

  Freya said: “I see your heart is strong and true for your king. This I admire. I see a child in your future.”

  The queen nearly
fainted at this welcome news and her maid steadied her.

  “But hark!” cried Freya. “You are in much danger, Queen Astrid. If you are to bear your child, you must be prepared for a great sacrifice, almost more than you can sustain. People are not who they seem to be. You must beware the Draugr, for his evil is most foul and most corrupt.”

  “What...” started the queen but she was interrupted by her bodyguard.

  He said: “Your Highness, my apologies, I did not hear or see them approach, else I would have warned you sooner. The Salgarian ambassador is here, with one of his delegation, a woman.”

  The queen looked up at Freya, but the link was broken. Freya's benevolent and frozen expression had returned.

  Astrid nodded, said: “Yes, you did right. I am glad that the Salgarian ambassador is here. I had wished to speak to him tomorrow, but tonight will do just fine.”

  The queen walked over to the Salgarian ambassador, her bodyguard close behind.

  The ambassador bowed, said: “My apologies for interrupting what obviously was a private moment. As you know, I cannot go out during the day due to my high sensitivity to the sun. So, I do most of my sightseeing and excursions at night. Again, I am sorry I interrupted, but then I am happy to see you. I thought I had recognized you walking by earlier.”

  “Really,” said the queen, arching an eyebrow. “Well then, I am glad to see you as well. Is this one of your famous Salgarian healers I have heard so much about?”

  “Yes, I find it best when I travel that she never leaves my side. I am prone to my weaknesses, which can greatly damage me. And usually when I travel, it is for important reasons, reasons that cannot be delayed due to an illness on my part. As important as I am to this delegation, she is even more important.”

  Astrid said: “I have heard that Salgarian healers are knowledgeable in the womanly arts. Is this true?”

  “It is,” said the healer. “When I saw first saw you, I could tell immediately your need. And I know how to help.”

  “Really?” said the queen. “But it must wait. I really must see my king as soon as possible.”

  The healer glanced over at the queen's maid and what she was holding in her hands, recognizing it. Then: “The Salgarian womanly ritual will not detract from the goddess’s blessing. In fact, it should add to it, making it even more potent.”

  The queen gasped silently at that thought, her tiredness evaporating instantly.

  “Please,” said the healer. “I keep my herbs back in our chamber where we are staying.”

  And the ambassador lent his arm to the queen.

  ***

  In the dead of the night, Ingrid ran into Princess Margret’s room.

  Margret sat in bed, her back ramrod straight, her eyes open but unseeing. At the top of her lungs, Margret was screaming incoherently about Queen Astrid.

  As Ingrid touched Margret’s hand, it was as if the spell was broken and Margret was released from the trance. Ingrid looked at the circlet that lay on Margret’s brow and noticed that the pearl in the circlet glowed an ominous red.

  In a shaky voice, Margret said: “Where am I?”

  “You have had a nightmare child,” answered Ingrid. “A most horrible one by your screams.”

  Tears streamed down Margret’s face as she choked on her emotions. Then: “No dream, but a vision. Queen Astrid has been attacked by a demon. I have seen it. She lies dying near Freya’s statue, out beyond the cemetery in the forest.”

  Margret ripped the circlet off her head and hurled it to the floor. It bounced on the floor, unharmed. The pearl stared back at Margret, a white unblinking eye.

  “Cursed thing,” said Margret as she leapt out of bed. She changed and was about to wake Nas when she looked at the circlet. Fighting every instinct, she bent over and put the circlet back upon her head. As the circlet settled into place she gagged as if she had swallowed something poisonous.

  ***

  As Margret left her room, the guards King Frederick had assigned to her fell in step behind her. As she was about to bang her fist on Nas’s door, it opened. Nas stood fully clothed ready to leave.

  “I sensed something was wrong,” he said. “What must we do?”

  Margret said: “Queen Astrid needs us. We must wake King Frederick, and ride to Freya’s temple.”

  In a moment, they were waking King Frederic. Alarmed, he ordered one of his guards to check Queen Astrid’s room, another guard to wake Phillius, and a third to ready horses in the stable. When the guard returned from the queen’s chamber, Frederick was fully dressed.

  “She is not in her bedchambers, your majesty,” said the guard.

  Frederick demanded: “What of her maid and bodyguard?”

  “I saw no sign of either.”

  Phillius arrived, asked: “What is the matter?”

  Frederick’s voice was brusque, said: “My queen is missing as is her maid and bodyguard. Princess Margret has had a vision that my queen is badly hurt by Freya’s temple ruins.”

  Phillius said: “I mean no disrespect, but are we to be worried by the dreams of an Aarlund princess?”

  Margret spoke calmly but with an edge to her voice: “Do not doubt my word. King Frederick, I beg of you, we must make haste. We are already wasting precious time arguing.”

  Frederick shot a warning look at Phillius. Then: “As the Aarlund princess says, we ride!”

  Phillius nodded. Then, they ran down the halls, stairs and out to the stables. Their horses had already been bridled and were ready.

  Everyone swiftly mounted their horses.

  “Now we fly!” cried Frederick and their horses leapt out of the stables, thundered through the castle gates, down the road, and out to Freya’s temple.

  ***

  “Freya, what happened?”

  The Master of the Hunt looked around the temple ruins. Three bodies lay strewn about the grounds: one man, two women. The man looked to be a warrior, a bodyguard perhaps. One of the women was old, a maid perhaps. The other woman was finely dressed, a noble. He bent over the man and saw that his neck had been savagely snapped. He noticed that the warrior had not even had time to draw a weapon. The maid had a caved-in skull, a quick death. But it was the noble that seemed most odd. On her chest he could faintly see a black handprint. He took off his helmet and placed it on the ground. He sniffed the air.

  “Demon, the Draugr,” he said: Something stirred, catching his eye. His hounds sniffed about the noble woman. He bent down and looked more closely at her. To his disbelief, he saw mist rise from her mouth.

  “She lives!” He picked her up. “We may have come in time and stopped the Draugr before he finished draining her of her energy. But it was close, so close. What must I do?”

  He looked at the statue of Freya for guidance.

  “I know what I must do: The boy with your staff. The princess with your circlet. They can heal this noble woman. I will take her to Trondheim and find the boy, find the girl.”

  With ease, he cradled the noble woman in his arms, and with his hounds behind him, strode so quickly towards Trondheim that it would have been a run for anyone else.

  ***

  Before King Frederick reached the edge of the Paupers Cemetery, he could see someone striding towards him, followed by two large hounds. In the warrior’s arms, he could see a woman. As they came close, Frederick reined in his horse, and dismounted.

  Phillius and several of the guards drew their swords.

  Frederick cried: “Put away your weapons! It is the Master of the Hunt and he carries my queen.”

  As the king drew near, the Master of the Hunt said: “She lies at death’s door. The princess with the red hair who bears Freya’s circlet, she may be able to heal your queen.”

  “I am here,” said Margret. She laid a hand on the queen’s forehead. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Beside her stood Nas who stood silently, waiting.

  Margret opened her eyes, said: “She lives, but she clings to life by the thinnest thread. The Norns st
and beside her with their scissors, but they are not yet ready to cut. We must cleanse her of the poison. But to cleanse her of the demon’s poison is beyond my power alone. I need Sihr, and I need his abilities.”

  “To the Paupers Temple!” cried Frederick. “I will take her from here. My thanks, I am in your debt,” he said to the Master of the Hunt.

  “The Paupers Temple,” spoke the Master of the Hunt, “I know where it is. I will carry your queen.”

  Frederick nodded, then said: “Then follow us and do not tarry.”

  “It is you who will fall behind.” And the Master of the Hunt, carrying Queen Astrid, ran faster than a horse towards the Paupers Temple.

  ***

  Meanog, Slofar, and Brascan were returning to the thieves guild of Trondheim.

  Even though it had been many months earlier, Meanog still smarted from his encounter with those blacksmith apprentices at the Paupers Temple. During those months, everything reminded him of those smithies, whether it was the way someone laughed, dressed, or manner of speaking. But then he remembered his training and his responsibilities. If was to rise to the next level at the thieves guild, he knew he had to shape up and make a more favorable impression.

  And as Meanog was thinking up ways to get back at those young blacksmiths, he found himself walking down a darkened alley that was not familiar.

  He stopped, and asked: “Where are we?”

  “I was going to ask you that,” said Brascan.

  “Let’s turn around,” suggested Slofar.

  But their way was suddenly blocked by a stranger, who said in a Salgarian accent: “You look lost.”

  Meanog loosened his short knives, said: “Stranger, I think you had better move out of our way.”

  “I think I will enjoy this,” rumbled the stranger and attacked.

  The stranger's speed was lightning fast. But Brascan still managed to drive one of his short knives deep into his attacker's stomach.

  “You are going to have to do better than that,” whispered the stranger, as he grabbed Brascan's hand and pulled the knife from his stomach.

  The moonlight caught the sheen of the knife and Brascan gasped aloud—the knife was clean.