Helheimr

by Fynn F Gunnarson

‘What are they doing here?’ breathed Fynn in surprise. Sharp Axe shook his head in silent reply.

  Some of the group, on seeing Sharp Axe’s approach, began to shout his name and wave at him. Two figures who looked, Sharp Axe decided, suspiciously like Jormunrek the Exaggerator and Ulric the Unwilling began pushing and shoving each other, clearly trying to make sure they could be at the front of the group and, therefore, the first to be noticed by their former leader. A third, standing a little way behind them, suddenly swung a thick, heavy-looking object in a wide, horizontal arc and caught each of the squabbling pair on the back of the head. They fell flat on their faces, to a rousing cheer from the rest of the group; the perpetrator of the blow hopped around, unsteadily – from which Sharp Axe deduced that it was Randver Woodenleg and that the weapon had been his wooden leg.

  ‘Who are those people?’ enquired a grinning Aldaron of Sharp Axe. ‘They’re funny. And they seem to know you.’

  Sharp Axe shuffled rather uncomfortably in the saddle. He agonised over whether he should lie to Aldaron, in order to preserve what he knew to be his prospective brother-in-law’s hopelessly-flawed memory for as long as possible but decided, reluctantly, that it would be kinder to come out with the truth and come out with it immediately, so as not to prolong any further the eventual and inevitable devastatingly-disappointing revelation of that truth.

  ‘Those are... my men... ’ said Sharp Axe quietly and without any hint of affection in his voice, ‘... or, at least, they used to be... Aldaron, these are the men who accompanied Fynn and me on the quest to find Mjøllnir.’

  ‘No!’ laughed Aldaron.

  [Silence.]

  ‘No!’ said Aldaron again, this time without the laughter, but with a fading smile.

  [Silence.]

  ‘What... really?’ Aldaron’s smile had now completely disappeared. ‘These... these... people... helped you to find the hammer of Thor?’

  ‘Er, well... ’ began Sharp Axe, momentarily considering whether the word “helped” was strictly appropriate, in this case.

  Aldaron looked from one companion to the other, hoping that one of them would tell him this was, in fact, a joke.

  ‘Yes… ’ said Sharp Axe finally, with a heavy and rather weary sigh, ‘… I’ll re-introduce you if you like.’

  Aldaron did not reply.

  High overhead, a solitary hooded crow flew, unseen, into the dense woods behind the men.

  *

  ‘Sharp Axe! Sharp Axe!’ rang the cry, as the former leader rode slowly and a little self-consciously up to the men, grasping the hands which were offered up to him. Jormunrek and Ulric had picked themselves up from the ground, rubbing the backs of their heads; Randver had replaced his prosthetic limb; Hodbrodd, scarcely recognisable, looked as though he had had a decent haircut and acquired some clothes that seemed to fit him properly, since the last time Sharp Axe had seen him in Røldal; that Alfgeir had managed to find the meeting-place at all came as something of a surprise to Sharp Axe; a short distance away from these five men stood Fearless, Hedin and Hamdir, all of whom looked sheepish.

  Sharp Axe, having exchanged greetings with the five, then turned his attention to his brother.

  ‘How are you, Fearless?’ he enquired, in an innocent, almost cordial tone, deciding this might be the best approach to a decidedly awkward situation.

  Fearless approached Sharp Axe but did not offer his hand. Instead, he spoke quietly, his upper lip set in an angry curl.

  ‘Three... days... I was up in that tree!’ he spat, emphasising the duration carefully.

  Sharp Axe raised his eyebrows, his expression one of total incomprehension. Behind him, Fynn cleared his throat, in the hope of disguising his amusement.

  ‘Don’t think,’ continued Fearless, still quietly, ‘that I don’t know it was you who rode by and left me there, on that first day.’

  ‘Left you?’ retorted his brother, just as quietly. ‘Would that be “left” as in the way you and your two friends here “left” the rest of us behind in Røldal, in the middle of the night, so that you could claim Mjøllnir for yourselves?’

  Fearless chose to ignore this observation.

  ‘I could have starved... or fallen out of the branches and got killed!’ he continued, slightly less quietly.

  ‘Fearless, Fearless,’ replied Sharp Axe, feigning a calm, conciliatory tone but now loud enough for all those present to hear, ‘if I’d thought the fall would have killed you, I’d have cut down the tree myself!’

  [Loud cheer, followed by raucous laughter, from most of the men.]

  ‘Anyway,’ went on Sharp Axe, in what was now a genuinely-conciliatory tone, having satisfied himself that his point had been made (at least for the time being), ‘how is everyone in Grimstad?’

  ‘They’re all right,’ grunted Fearless, reluctantly. ‘Mum and Dad send their best wishes... well... Mum does, anyway.’

  Not at all surprised to hear this news, Sharp Axe dismounted.

  ‘Well, it’s... er... really... good to see you all... ’ he said, looking around at his former comrades and hoping he sounded more sincere than he actually felt. ‘Why are you all here, anyway?’

  It was Alfgeir who answered first.

  ‘I received a visit from a messenger – ’ he began.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Sharp Axe, quickly, with a nod, ‘a crusty old man… terrible smell.’

  ‘No, no!’ insisted Alfgeir. ‘The man who sought me was young – maybe even younger than you, Sharp Axe.’

  ‘It was a woman who came to find me,’ announced Randver, looking quite pleased with himself.

  ‘I was visited by a... by a... dwarf!’ declared Jormunrek, but almost no-one believed him.

  It transpired that the rest of the men had also been visited by messengers, of various ages, gender, sizes and with varying degrees of personal-hygiene standards during the previous few days, all with the same story: the King of Norway needed help. The men had also been told, however, that Sharp Axe had agreed to lend his services to his monarch and this news, it seemed, had persuaded the men to volunteer for the job.

  Sharp Axe felt quite touched and now more than a little guilty that he had not intended to involve any of the men in whatever the mission might turn out to be. Then, Fearless spoke.

  ‘So, Sharp Axe,’ went on Fearless, a mischievous glint in his eye, underneath a raised eyebrow, ‘were you told that the rest of us would be here?’

  Sharp Axe cleared his throat awkwardly.

  ‘Well,’ he said with a shrug, ‘details were a little... er... sketchy, to say the least… ’

  Fearless sneered unattractively, then turned his attention to Aldaron, who had remained some way behind Sharp Axe, doing his level best to look inconspicuous and blend in with his surroundings.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ demanded Fearless, with an expression which made him look as though a rather unpleasant odour had been wafted into his nostrils. ‘All-for-one, or whatever his name is.’

  ‘It’s Aldaron,’ said Fynn, now dismounting and trying to diffuse the situation, ‘and what counts is not who is here, but what we are going to be asked to do. Now... I wonder where that king of ours is.’

  No sooner were the words out of Fynn’s mouth, than everyone’s attention was caught by rather a regal-looking figure who emerged gracefully from the woods: a figure wearing what appeared to be an elaborate band of gold, fashioned with several sharp points and encrusted with precious stones, placed around his noble head, a splendid-looking purple woollen cape around his shoulders and tan-coloured gloves and boots, made from what looked like comfortably-soft leather.

  ‘Ooh... ’ said Hodbrodd, excitedly, ‘… I wonder who this could be!’

  Chapter Four

  The King

  The regal figure – a tall, handsome, lean man with long, greying blond hair and neatly-braided beard of a similar colour – approached Sharp Axe and his companions, flanked on either side by two, menacing-looking, near-identical, over-sized Viking guard
s with chubby faces, turned up noses and lower-canine teeth which protruded, disconcertingly, out of their mouths. He stopped, a few paces short of his subjects and one of the guards bellowed a command at them.

  ‘Bow in the presence of your king!’ went the command and the men bent forward as one, just as suddenly as if they had all been hit on the back of the head with Randver’s wooden leg. ‘Harald Fairhair of Norway!’ continued the guard helpfully and at about the same level of decibels.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Harald Fairhair, although it was not exactly clear to Sharp Axe whether the king was thanking him and his men for their deference, or thanking the guard for his intimidating introduction.

  ‘Your... er... Majesty,’ offered Sharp Axe, because he could not think of anything else to say just then.

  ‘Ah… ’ said the king, ‘… you are – if I am not mistaken – the one known as Erik Sharp Axe.’

  ‘I am, my Liege,’ replied Sharp Axe, with another, slightly shallower, more relaxed bow.

  ‘Your heroic deeds... and, of course, those of your men,’ added the king generously, with a wave of his hand to indicate the others, ‘have become the stuff of legend. You are lauded the entire length and breadth of Norway.’

  Sharp Axe shrugged modestly and made to respond, ‘Well... I – ’

  ‘Could we just establish two things, here?’ interrupted Fearless, with a breath-taking lack of respect for his monarch. He made to approach Harald Fairhair, but the moment he did so, both armed guards reached for their swords. Fearless stepped back again. ‘Firstly,’ he continued, from a safe distance, ’we are no longer his “men” and, secondly, he – ’ and, at this juncture, Fearless pointed in a somewhat exaggerated manner at Aldaron, ‘ – didn’t have anything to do with any “heroic deeds”.’

  ‘Thank you, er... ?’ replied the king.

  ‘Fearless,’ said Fearless.

  ‘Thank you, Fearless,’ said the king with a kindly smile and, in return, Fearless smiled smugly. ‘Thank you,’ went on the king, ‘but I have requested the presence of all of you precisely because you are the men of Erik Sharp Axe!’

  Fearless’s smug smile vaporised rapidly.

  ‘And,’ continued the king, ‘the very fact that this young – if my eyes serve me correctly – Light Elf has joined you all here, suggests to me that he is ready, willing and more than able to perform his share of “heroic deeds”!’

  Sharp Axe wanted to say “Hear! Hear!”, but thought it might sound disrespectful if said to a king; he merely nodded and most of the rest of the men followed his example.

  ‘Let me explain,’ resumed Harald Fairhair, serenely, ‘exactly why I have asked you all here.’

  This immediately succeeded in securing the full attention of all the men.

  ‘As you will all know, I have been king of Norway for a little more than thirty years... ’

  [Comments from the men, such as ‘Finest king Norway’s ever had!’ ‘Thirty glorious years!’ and ‘Norway couldn’t be in safer hands!’]

  ‘... Thank you… thank you for your kind words... but you, young man – what is your name?’

  ‘Er... H – Hodbrodd, your Majesty,’ said Hodbrodd.

  ‘Well, Hodbrodd... you look troubled. Why so?’

  ‘Er... well, Mr Fairhair... sir... I didn’t know Norway had a king.’

  [Comments from the men, such as ‘Typical!’, ‘Hodbrodd’s back!’ and ‘Who invited Hodbrodd, anyway?’]

  ‘No, no,’ insisted Harald Fairhair, raising a regal hand to quell the protests, ‘the art of knowing precisely when to admit ignorance is a sign of genius in the making.’

  [Comments from the men, such as ‘Good old Hodbrodd!’, ‘Always said Hodbrodd was a genius in the making!’ and ‘Has Norway got a king, then?’]

  The king turned to the guard on his right and nodded curtly. The guard plunged a ham-sized fist into a leather pouch, tied around his waist, removed something from it and tossed it in Hodbrodd’s direction. Hodbrodd deftly caught the glinting object, briefly examined it in the palm of his hand, then looked around at the men with a broad smile on his face.

  ‘It’s a piece of silver!’ he announced delightedly to the men, whose pleasure for their comrade-in-arms’ sudden good fortune was tempered with visible indications of being slightly put out that Hodbrodd’s lack of current-affairs knowledge was apparently being rewarded.

  ‘It’s a coin,’ corrected Harald Fairhair, patiently. ‘A coin of the kingdom of Norway, to be precise. Now... look at it closely, Hodbrodd... tell me what you see.’

  ‘There’s some writing on it,’ said Hodbrodd, after further scrutiny.

  ‘And what,’ persisted the king, somehow retaining his patience, ‘does the writing say, Hodbrodd?’

  ‘Er… ’ said Hodbrodd, squinting at the coin in his hand, ‘… it says... “King… Harald… Fairhair”.’

  ‘Good. Excellent. And is there anything else on the coin, Hodbrodd?’

  ‘Er... there’s an image of somebody’s head on it,’ reported Hodbrodd.

  ‘Whose head?’ asked the king, benignly.

  Hodbrodd looked up at Harald Fairhair. Then he looked at the coin again and, finally, back at the king.’

  ‘It’s you!’ gasped Hodbrodd, excitedly. The king merely smiled again and nodded.

  Hodbrodd showed the coin to his colleagues.

  [Comments from the men, such as ‘It’s him, all right!’, ‘They’ve really captured that noble chin!’ and ‘Hardly does him justice!’]

  Having established his credentials, the king continued to address the men.

  ‘The throne of Norway is far from secure!’ he announced, turning his head slightly to one side and raising the back of his hand to his forehead, theatrically.

  [Gasps of disbelief from the men.]

  ‘There are those,’ continued Harald Fairhair, ‘who question my right to be king!’

  [More gasps of disbelief from the men.]

  ‘My own subjects, no less!’ declared the king, with heavy heart. ‘Those who have taken food and drink at my table; fought by my side in battle; been rewarded by me with land and gold!’

  ‘Why, your majesty,’ ventured Sharp Axe, ‘would they question your right to the throne of Norway, after thirty years?’

  ‘They say,’ replied Harald Fairhair, ‘that I am weak and that, if I remain on the throne, Norway will be at risk of invasion from its neighbours in Sweden and Iceland.’

  [Quiet mutterings from Randver, which sounded suspiciously like: ‘Oh… how I hate those Swedes!’]

  ‘But,’ went on the king, ‘it was decreed long ago, by the authority of Asgard itself, that Norway would descend into catastrophic civil war and be overrun by invaders from foreign shores… unless the country remained under the rule of the House of Yngling!’

  ‘What is this “House of… Yngling”?’ asked Fearless, emboldened by Hodbrodd’s earlier admission of ignorance and clearly hoping that the next compliment and silver coin would soon be coming his way.

  An explanation came, but no compliment or coin.

  ‘We – that is to say, the House of Yngling – are the direct descendants of Yngve,’ explained Harald Fairhair.

  [Puzzled looks from the men.]

  ‘I am Harald Fairhair,’ said Harald Fairhair, ‘the son of Halfdan the Black, who was the son of Gudrød the Hunter, who was the son of Halfdan the Mild, who was the son of Eystein Halfdansson, who was the son of Halfdan Hvitbeinn, who was the son of Olof Trätälja, who was the son of Ingjaldr illråde, King of Sweden, who was the son of Önundr the Land Clearer, King of Upsal, who was the son of Yngvar the Tall, who was the son of Eystein Adilsson, who was the son of Adils Ottarsson, who was the son of Ottar Vendilkraka, who was the son of Egil Tunnadolgi, who was the son of On the Old, who was the son of Jorund Yngvasson, who was the son of Yngve – ’

  ‘Well,’ interrupted Fearless irritably, deeply annoyed with the king for his lack of generosity, particularly when it came to silver coins, but even more ann
oyed with himself for having raised the subject in the first place, ‘that clears that up, thank y– ’

  ‘No, no… ’ insisted the king, ‘… wrong Yngve.’

  [Loud groan of disappointment from Fearless.]

  ‘This was Yngve Alricsson, King of Upsal, who was the son of Alric Agnasson, who was the son of Agne Dagsson, who was the son of Dag "The Wise" Dygvasson, who was the son of Dygve Domarsson, who was the son of Domar Donaldasson, who was the son of Donald Visbursson, who was the son of Visbur Vanlandasson, who was the son of Vanland Svegdasson, who was the son of Svegde Fjolnesson, who was the son of Fjolne Freysson, who was the son of Yngve – ’

  ‘Was he – ?’ dived in Fearless optimistically but somehow, at the same time, slightly desperately.

  ‘No,’ replied Harald Fairhair flatly and with little of his previous patience in evidence.

  [Wail of disappointment from Fearless, who now looked as though he might actually start to cry.]

  ‘He was Yngve Frey, who was the son of Njord the Rich who was, himself, the son of… Yngve, King of Turkey... who was the son of Odin – and also known as… Freyr – God of the Sun, the Rain, Harvests, Peace and Prosperity.

  [Gasps from the men]

  ‘And worshipped by the Light Elves,’ whispered Sharp Axe to himself wondering, optimistically, if there might yet be a way he could, somehow, turn the situation to his own advantage, by pleasing Freyr and using the god’s influence to persuade the Elven Elders to give their blessing to his intended marriage to Mithrén.

  ‘Now… ’ went on Harald Fairhair.

  ‘Oh good,’ muttered Fearless, ‘there’s more, then?’

  ‘… Freyr – or Yngve – wished his line – or the House of Yngling – to provide all the future Kings of Norway and sought the blessing of Odin and the other Aesir in Asgard. Once he had received their blessing, he wrote down the name of each man yet to come into the House of Yngling who would, one day, be Norway’s rightful king.’

  ‘All the future kings, your Majesty?’ enquired Sharp Axe, intrigued by Freyr’s predictive powers.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ confirmed Harald Fairhair. ‘All the kings... until the end of the Nine Worlds. And the list which was made by Freyr, a god of the Vanir, dwellers of Vanaheimr, was given for safekeeping to the goddess ruler of one of the Nine Worlds. She was instructed to keep it safe, far away in her realm, so that it could never fall into the wrong hands.’