by Vasich, Mike
“Release my servants,” Tyr said, taking one step forward.
Fenrir nodded slowly. He turned his head toward Unn and leaned in closer, as if to whisper something in his ear, as he had done before. Instead, as his face drew closer, his jaws opened wide, and he sank his teeth into the side of Unn's head.
Unn's hands flew up to his face in a reflexive gesture, but even if it had not been too late, he would have still been unable to counter the wolf's power. There was an audible crunch as Unn's skull was cracked, followed by the rending of meat as his head was torn in half. The boy dropped to the ground at Fenrir's feet.
Tyr's eyes went wide and he screamed out, “No!”
He charged, his sword flashing in the dull light of the hall, his eyes fixed on Fenrir. Balder was just behind him. But both were too far to prevent Fenrir from lashing out, eviscerating those servants who were closest to him. A few got to their feet and ran, escaping with their lives, but most were frozen in stark terror while the wolf gutted and slew those nearest him.
In the few seconds it took Tyr to reach Fenrir, the body parts of nearly a dozen servants lay scattered in front of the wolf. Tyr did not bother to slow his assault or level an attack with his sword, but instead plowed headlong into Fenrir. The two crashed to the ground, their limbs a flurry of movement.
Tyr smashed his sword hilt again and again into Fenrir's face as the two struggled on the stone floor. What his attacks lacked in precision, they made up for in brute strength, and Fenrir roared in fury while he attempted to throw the god off.
Balder herded the servants out of the way as a stream of Einherjar came in through the front doors.
“Get them away!” he screamed at the Einherjar. “Leave the wolf!” He held his sword out like a barrier, and the warriors scrambled to lead those servants who could still walk out of the hall. Those that lay bloodied at Balder's feet were carried out. Some might survive, but most that Fenrir had attacked were already beyond help.
Tyr and Fenrir rolled on the ground, and Balder could see that Fenrir had reverted to his wolf form, his slavering jaws snatching at Tyr's face while they struggled. Balder drew closer, ready to charge in with his blade. The two flailed so wildly that he feared he would skewer Tyr in an effort to stab the wolf.
Tyr had his arms around Fenrir's neck and was attempting to wrestle the wolf to the floor. Straining with the visible effort, he called out to Balder, “The fetter! Ready it!”
Balder cursed himself for not remembering it. His father had said to be ready, and even though he had it on his person, he had still forgotten about it. He sheathed his sword and pulled out Gleipnir just as Tyr lost his footing and was thrown to the stone floor.
Balder leaped at Fenrir, but the wolf was faster than he had anticipated. He ducked down underneath the attack and sunk his teeth into Balder's thigh. The god yelled in pain, but the cry was silenced as Fenrir whipped his neck and shoulder muscles and slammed Balder to the ground. He released his hold on Balder's leg and pounced onto his chest, bringing his jaws to Balder's throat.
He was able to grab the wolf's throat with one hand and stop the muzzle from getting any closer, but he could feel the hot breath and spittle on his face, could see the rows of teeth as the wolf snapped at him. The beast was strong, far stronger than he had thought, and he was not entirely sure that he could continue holding him off. Gleipnir was clutched in his other fist, all but useless as he felt the steady, crushing pressure of Fenrir's attack.
Tyr was suddenly there, grabbing the wolf's muzzle and wrenching him off Balder. He flipped Fenrir onto his back and pressed one knee down onto the beast's throat while the wolf scraped at him with four claw-tipped paws. He was gouged in multiple places, each claw drawing a long cut across his chest, but he leveraged his body onto the wolf and managed to avoid most of the worst attacks.
“Bind him! Now!” he yelled at Balder.
Balder tackled the lower half of the wolf, immobilizing his rear legs, and began wrapping Gleipnir around them. Fenrir's fury increased. He curled his body up and then flexed out with his rear paws, tossing Balder from him. Tyr shifted his body to keep the beast still, but his moved position gave Fenrir an opening. He twisted suddenly and Tyr lost his hold.
Fenrir turned back and lunged at Tyr. His jaws snapped in front of the god's face, but fell short as he was grabbed from behind. He turned back to see Balder holding onto his tail with both hands. He jerked it loose and sent Balder stumbling, before launching himself at the unprotected side of the young god.
Tyr saw that Balder was about to be gutted by the wolf. He charged in and grabbed for the snout once more. He clamped his hands around the muzzle and prepared to flip the wolf onto his back, as he had done before.
Fenrir pulled his head back quickly, and Tyr lost his grip for the briefest of seconds. It was long enough, however, for Fenrir to sink his teeth into the meaty flesh of Tyr's right arm. The jaws clamped down, Tyr's entire hand stuck inside the wolf's mouth.
Fenrir wrenched his head away from Tyr violently, the arm still clenched in his teeth. There was a tearing sound and then a snap, barely audible over Tyr's gasp of pain. And then the god was on the ground, his severed hand now in the wolf's mouth.
Fenrir turned back to Tyr and smiled before choking down the hand. But his momentary gloating gave Balder an opening. He brought his fists down on top of Fenrir's head with all the strength he could muster. Caught unprepared, Fenrir bore the entire brunt of the god's attack on his skull. He crashed down to the floor, dazed.
Balder did not hesitate. He began wrapping Gleipnir around the wolf quickly, binding neck and then front legs first. Fenrir was quick to recover, and he shrugged Balder off, although Gleipnir remained loosely coiled around him.
Nearby Einherjar joined the fray. Fenrir attacked them wildly, but was less effective now that Balder had him partially tied. His jaws closed onto some of the Einherjar, but others continued to grab and hold him. They slowed him down enough for Balder to wrap Gleipnir around him several more times, bringing him gasping to his forepaws. Balder continued to bind him with Gleipnir, the fetter almost taking on a life of its own as each loop confined Fenrir's movements more and more.
Tyr slowed the flow of blood from his severed wrist with torn cloth, looking more angry than hurt. Once Fenrir was almost completely bound, he approached. He snarled menacingly, but the dwarfs’ fetter had served its purpose, and he was now helpless.
“Tyr, your hand . . .”
“It will heal,” Tyr said simply, a trace of bitterness in his voice. “We have stopped him. That is all that matters.”
Fenrir growled at him. “I will take more than your hand! When I am free—”
Tyr cut him off. “You will never be free. You could have roamed these fields in peace, but you instead attacked those who sheltered you.”
Fenrir spat his disgust. “Peace? What do you know of peace, you who murder infants?”
Balder pressed Fenrir’s face into the stone floor roughly. “Enough. You will not speak to your betters like that.”
“Let him speak. He can do no harm now.”
Balder reluctantly removed his hand, Fenrir’s furious eyes on him as he withdrew.
“I will be free, and I will feast on your entrails. You will have to slay me.”
Tyr grimaced as he tightened the bloody cloth around his stump, the flow of blood lessening with each passing moment. “No, we will not slay you. The Allfather has forbidden it. But you will never run free again.” He turned to one of the nearby Einherjar. “Go and tell the High One what has happened here. Tell him we require his advice about what to do with the Fenris Wolf.” The mutilated warrior nodded, but as they turned the Allfather was there, clad in his gray traveler's cloak with Gungnir in hand, disguised as a walking stick.
“He is bound,” Odin said.
“Yes, Allfather,” Tyr said.
“For now.” His back to Tyr and Balder, Odin approached the wolf who could do nothing but wheeze through the tightening coils
of Gleipnir. Odin put his hood up and brought his face close.
Fenrir saw the old face shift and change, the wrinkles smooth out, the gray beard withdraw and lighten. The familiar face—the face of his father—smiled once before shifting back. Trussed up, Fenrir could do little but feel the rage roil inside him.
Odin dropped his hood and turned back to Balder and Tyr. “Have him brought to Gladsheim,” he said, before walking back out the door, leaving the two gods alone with the bound wolf, wondering what Odin had said to him to increase his fury.
Balder’s Dreams
The sleep of the most handsome god was most troubled. Balder tossed and turned in his bed, unable to shake off the creeping sleep demons that haunted him night after night. He would wake with a sheen of sweat covering his body, mistaking the shadows for the rapidly fleeing wraiths from his disturbed slumber. Moments later he could not remember them; there was only the persistent feeling of dread hanging over him like a funeral pall.
All the gods were dismayed when he told them about his visitors. Despite their concerns and hand-wringing, however, none could offer any solution to what could be done to banish these dreams. It was his own father who finally decided to visit Niflheim to find an answer.
The one-eyed god mounted Sleipnir and galloped off for the underworld, the home of Hel, the half-corpse creature who reigned over the dead. Sleipnir crossed nine backwards flowing rivers before he stood face to face with Garm, the huge hound that stood guard at the gates of Niflheim. With a sharp spurring of Sleipnir, Odin leapt past the jaws of the beast and rode past the cold fields of the dead, onward to Hel’s hall.
At the door, Odin found pathways strewn with gold, a welcoming for someone important.
He found Hel on her throne. Odin addressed the creature he had banished to this place so long ago. “Who is it that you plan to welcome into your realm?”
Hel did not answer at once, but instead let a sly smile spread across her face. “The tribute is for the one who will soon be joining me here.”
Odin felt a sharp pain at her words. “You do not mean Balder?”
“The handsomest of the gods will be my guest ere long.”
Odin’s brow was knit with distress. “Who is it that kills him? At least you can tell me that.”
“It will be a tragedy that will rend the hearts of all in Asgard, made the more tragic by the blind hand of he who slays his brother.”
Odin knew she meant Balder’s brother, Hod. “Why does brother slay brother?”
“It is Hod and not Hod who will lay his brother low.”
Odin said, “What can be done to prevent this from happening?”
Hel’s smile grew wider. “You of all should know that fate cannot be prevented. You set Balder on this path long ago.” With a gleam in her eye, she added, “Your own crimes will ever be your undoing, One Eye.” And with that she closed her mouth and refused to say another word.
Odin reluctantly turned and left. His ride back was somber and silent, although he imagined the faces of the dead laughing at him as he made his way back to Asgard . . .
Chapter Nineteen
It had been months since Fenrir was bound and his stain removed from Asgard. They had taken him, wrapped and immobilized in Gleipnir, to Nidavellir, and sought out the expertise of the dwarfs once more. Masters of underground spaces as well as masters of craftsmanship, the dwarfs led them deep underground, till the stinking rot of Niflheim seemed only a breath away. Tyr had come, as well as Frey, and their servants carried Fenrir on a litter that dragged behind them. It took ten servants to drag the beast over the rough and rocky ground of the cave.
The dwarfs led them down long, winding tunnels into the blackness of the underground till they came to an expansive cavern with a wide platform of rock in the center. They dragged Fenrir onto it, and Balder brought out a sword and chain he had brought with him. In the center of the platform was a metal ring embedded in the rock, and the dwarfs attached one end of Balder’s chain to it. He slid the other end around the blade of the sword and approached the silent beast.
Kicking him over onto his back, he put one foot on Fenrir’s throat to hold him in place. With two hands he rammed the sword into the bottom of Fenrir’s jaw and out the top of his muzzle to fully gag him and bind him to the boulder. He snarled savagely, but was unable to struggle because of Gleipnir’s tight coils.
It was thus that they had left him. Chained and muzzled, frozen in that place till he died of starvation, or perhaps stuck there for eternity. Balder had no idea if the beast was immortal or not, but if he was, all the better; his suffering would be never-ending, a fitting punishment for so foul a creature. Balder could feel Fenrir’s burning gaze on him, the anger thick and palpable. He could not keep a grim smile from his face as they left the wolf in the cavern to begin his endless agony.
Tyr ran his hand over the stump for the thousandth time. Despite the long months since the wolf had taken his hand, it had still not healed. It would never be healed. He could still feel the jagged teeth sinking in, ripping muscle and sinew from bone, separating flesh from flesh, and the memory of it made him sick.
It was not as if he had never suffered an injury before.There had been many over the course of his battles, and each time he had healed—sometimes quickly, other times more gradually—but all wounds had eventually closed, and he had been made whole again in time. But he had never been wounded like this before.
Never had a piece of him been so savagely ripped away, so effectively separated from his person. The loss went far deeper than simply a loss of a limb. It felt as if part of his identity had been ripped out, and in its place was a stinking abscess that refused to heal.
He paced his bedchambers, anger and frustration building in equal amounts, as they had each day since the injury. His servants stayed away from him, aware that he did not want to be bothered, and also fearful of his silent anger. They had never seen their master in such a state, and it worried them. His manner had ever been measured, rarely showing anger even when warranted. Perhaps those loyal to Thor were used to mercurial passions, but Tyr’s servants had come to expect balance in all things with their lord.
He was aware of their misgivings, but could not contain his feelings. Instead of roaming through his hall angrily, he chose to stay in his bedchambers and pace the floor to exhaust the bile inside him.
Despite the punishment Fenrir had received, he was not satisfied. In the moment he had not questioned the Allfather's dictate that the wolf not be killed, but as the months went by, he grew to resent it more and more.
He knew that the only thing that could sate him would be to meet the wolf in combat. Fenrir would not escape Gleipnir, however. The only possibility was that he might be freed at Ragnarok, although who knew when or if that would happen.
He found it curious that all his life he had felt dread at the thought of the end, but now he strangely looked forward to it. He was not patient, but he could wait. And while he did, he would anticipate the feel of his sword slicing Fenrir open.
Heimdall had seen the old woman crossing over Bifrost for leagues now, slowly and laboriously making her way to Asgard. It was not unusual for mortals to cross over onto Asgard for various reasons. The mason, to Heimdall’s shame, would never have been able to cross had it been irregular to request entry onto Asgard. Many village wise men and witches made their way there to request audience with one or another of the Aesir, and such audiences were granted often enough to make the long journey across Midgard worthwhile.
Occasionally, bereaved fathers and mothers would attempt to see sons who had been sped from a battlefield death by Valkyries. Some left satisfied that their sons were serving the High One, constantly preparing to defend Asgard at Ragnarok. They could see their son, now an immortal warrior, and feel a measure of peace upon learning that his death had meaning. Others left with different emotions, seeing instead a hollowed-out ghoul with missing limbs and scars from repeated injuries. They likely thought that their sons were r
estored, as if a blade had never even touched them when the Valkyries swept them up to Asgard. But Odin did not promise such things; he had no need for warriors that were fair of face and body, only those who could wield cold steel.
Heimdall scoffed at the notions of these mortals. How could they pay homage to the Aesir—gods of battle—and think that their sons would somehow become beautiful once taken to Valhalla? Those that valued such things would do better to worship the Vanir. Or better yet, they should stay where they belonged in the realm of mortals, where they would not have to see a dead son who still walked after having the top of his head shaved off by a blade, his ill-fitting helmet the only thing keeping his brains from spilling out onto the ground.
He did not know who this old crone was who so slowly made her way across Bifrost, but he knew that she was here either to beg audience with one of the gods, or to see a long-dead son. Whatever the reason, she was bound to leave disappointed, and Heimdall had little patience for the small concerns of those who dwelt below.
As she got closer, Heimdall marveled at how she had managed to make this entire journey, so slowly did she move. He had never seen such an old human before, and he wondered how she had survived the perils of her journey. Usually they came in groups. The dangers were too numerous to count: wolves, thieves, and murderers, not to mention giants and other evil creatures that preyed on humans. And yet here she was, alone and feeble, as old as Yggdrasil itself by her looks. And she was hideous. Her face was like an old, dirty sack that had been gnawed by goats. Her body was bent over so far that Heimdall wondered if her jaw might scrape the ground when she spoke, and her back bore a mountainous hump that could have carried a small child had it been hollow. Even her smell was foul, the stench of death and piss.