by Vasich, Mike
Spread out across the front rank were the other Aesir: Frigg, mother of Balder and wife of Odin; Magni and Modi, sons of Thor and Sif, along with Sif herself; Ull the archer, with expertly crafted yew bow and arrows with shafts of bone; Vali and Vidar, sons of Odin; Forseti, son of Balder; Bragi the poet; Honir, released from his war-bond by the Vanir, further strengthening the ties between the Vanir and the Aesir; along with hundreds of other Asgardians, each skilled and fierce in battle, each longing to draw giant blood.
Behind the front ranks of the gods were the Einherjar. These grotesque warriors were even more eager for blood than their masters. Since the moment each of them arrived at Valhalla, they had done little but fight. Each day was a litany of battle where they bloodied each other in anticipation of Ragnarok. Each night was a feast where those who had survived the day raised cups and bowls to the fallen. And each morning, all would rise—those who had survived and those who had died—to fight again. The cycle repeated each day, with Ragnarok always in the forefront of their minds. This was what they had been brought to Valhalla for, and they savored the thought of finally slaking their thirst for the blood of the enemies of the gods.
The Valkyries were everywhere; ghostly, translucent battle maidens astride similarly ghost-like steeds. They did not stay in one spot for long, but would disappear and reappear among the massed armies. Each was armed with a sword and bow, and they could engage in vicious melee or skewer the enemy from afar with spectral arrows.
The Aesir were joined by the armies of the Vanir, the mystical gods from Vanaheim who had at one point been their bitter adversaries. Now the two groups, long uneasy allies, tossed aside all thought of old injuries and banded together to face the common enemy that threatened them both. They brought with them their spells and sorcery, their mastery of all living things. They had made fearsome enemies; now they would be equally devastating as allies.
And yet all of these armies together only constituted a fraction of the armies of Jotunheim. They could hear the giants even now, stomping on Bifrost, row upon row of massive, towering creatures of chaos, intent on destroying any and all in their path. A quiet unease went through the armies briefly, only to be quelled by the calm and focused ferocity of the Aesir at the forefront. These gods were the anchors upon which all others depended. Their steadfastness lent strength to those around them.
The armies were silent. The time for noise and battle and death would come soon enough. For now, they stood their ground and waited.
The marching of massive feet on Bifrost was all Heimdall could hear as he stood at the edge of Bifrost with his few dozen retainers, awaiting the giants. Swords were out, faces were grim and determined, as they formed a wall separating the end of Bifrost from the plain that led to Asgard. The giants would have to smash that wall to gain access, and Heimdall would not allow that to happen so long as he had breath left in his body.
Heimdall had seen them for leagues before they even set foot on Bifrost, but as the legion upon legion of giants marched inexorably forward, he realized how much bigger they were as they closed the distance. And even more daunting were the numbers. As the first ranks came into view of Heimdall’s retainers, he could hear gasps from the brave warriors. The snake-like procession of enemies encompassed the whole of the bridge and the land leading up to it. Heimdall had not known that so many giants existed, and the thought of them marching on Asgard was intimidating, despite his dauntless nature.
As the first wave drew closer, he gripped his sword tighter. Whatever the outcome, this would at least prove to be a battle for the skalds to sing of.
There was space enough on Bifrost for the giants to march about ten abreast. Since Heimdall’s small band was spread out as they were, shoulder to shoulder in four ranks, it would be difficult for the giants to flank them unless they actually crashed through the lines. While they would probably be able to do it, it would cost them dearly when his men dug steel into giant flesh.
He wondered if he might be able to halt all of the armies here, at Bifrost, and lay waste to the entirety of Jotunheim in a glorious battle that would earn him the envy of all the Aesir. He smiled at the thought. To stir up Thor’s innards with jealousy and deny him a role in this battle would be supremely satisfying, for ever was there competition between the Aesir for the title of strongest, boldest, most fierce warrior. Heimdall had seen Thor’s fury at being denied battle, and he and the others had made good sport of it. If that could be done today . . .
He ended the thought, amusing as it was. If he were to maintain this position and keep the giants off the sacred ground of Asgard, it would require his full attention.
The first line of giants was nearing. They were mostly the same size—tree height, at least—but there were several who were more than twice that size and far more bestial looking. Heimdall saw the danger and scanned the faces of his men.
“Stay firm on the line!” he called out. “Keep your ranks tight! Leave the big ones to me!” He noted their grim and determined nods, and turned back to the giants. They had halted, taking full measure of the small force that stood between them and Asgard. They were armed primitively—clubs, hammers, bare fists—trusting their massive size to overwhelm their enemies. Heimdall noted the looks of overconfidence; they smirked, laughed, and even pointed derisively at the small opposing force. It was clear they considered this to be an easy battle and a foregone conclusion.
Without warning they let loose with battle cries that shook the sky and charged forward, weapons and fists brandished high. Heimdall’s band stood firm and awaited the onslaught.
The first wave of giants met the steel fury of the Asgardians, and blood sprayed out and above, coming down again like thick, red rain. The line was pushed back as the giants pummeled with fist and club, and several of the men fell, but the ranks behind quickly stepped up and filled the holes, and the line held. The men, though hopelessly outmatched in both strength and number, made up for their deficiencies with fury and skill.
Giant legs were hacked off with broad swings from the front ranks, guts were stabbed through with short, quick thrusts from the back ranks, hands and fingers were lopped off as they sought to grab and crush these annoying insects that defied them. Their initial momentum had carried them forward strongly and had moved the Asgardian line back. But where it held it had become an assemblage of stabbing and biting steel, drawing blood wherever its dozens of stingers struck.
The giants tried to pull back, but the force of the bodies behind pushed them into the line, and swords and axes continued to hack and slash at anything they could touch. As the giants fell, some of them roaring and screaming in agony and bitter frustration, they created a wall to those behind them, and the Asgardians were able to use these giant corpses as barriers from which to strike behind. As giant upon giant fell, the fervor of the Asgardians increased, and their blades bit deeper, hit harder, slashed faster. This furor enraged those giants who could not yet reach them, but who could see these tiny creatures laying waste to their brethren. They doubled their efforts to reach them, thus pushing those in front ever more into the biting teeth of the Asgardians.
While Heimdall felled giant after giant he watched for the larger ones. They would move forward and toss the fallen bodies aside, making holes for the others. He had killed two of the larger ones already, but there were many more behind, and they were able to reach or even step over those on the front line to wade into the Asgardian ranks.
He slashed off the arm of one giant at the elbow and then plunged his sword into its side all the way to the hilt. Blood and gore sprayed as he pulled the sword out and the creature crashed onto the pile of dead giants. Heimdall felt the ground rumble near him and he whirled to face the threat, but he was too late. The giant picked him up in his hand roughly—he felt and heard ribs crack—and then he brought Heimdall to his gaping mouth, intent on either eating him or simply biting him in half.
He struggled to free his sword arm, and when the giant brought him close he sta
bbed out with his suddenly free sword, directly into the giant’s eye. The creature screamed and reflexively let Heimdall go, but he held onto the sword with one hand while he swung around and grabbed it with his other. The giant flailed wildly and stumbled over the bodies of the slain at his feet, Heimdall dangling from the sword still sticking into his eye.
The giant crashed down face first, the impact driving the sword deep into his brain, and he died instantly. Heimdall, however, had been caught underneath and slammed to the ground, bearing the full weight of the massive giant. After long minutes, he still did not rise.
The Asgardian line held, most unaware that their leader had fallen, oblivious to all but the need to hack, slash, and stab at any giant flesh that pressed near them. Several larger giants moved forth, however, and bodies were cleared away to create an opening. As a massive giant stepped into a hole created in the barrier, several warriors rushed to fill it, their swords flashing. They cut deep into the giant’s leg and were rewarded with a roar of pain and anger, which was shortly followed by the other foot stomping down and crushing them into the ground.
Back ranks moved forward and attacked the large giant, but enough of a gap had been created that some of the smaller giants were able to break through and engage the men. As the men fought off the smaller giants—who still nonetheless towered over them—the massive giant reached down and scooped up man after man; crushing some in his hands, blood and guts spilling over his tightened fist, ripping off the legs of others, biting off the heads of still more.
The line was eventually broken and the warriors swarmed upon those giants who tried to go through it. But they were now forced to fight on two fronts since the line of giants continued to press forward. They fought valiantly, desperately, and many, many giants were slaughtered. But slowly, one by one, the men were crushed, beaten, stomped on, pulled apart, or even eaten, and with each death, every warrior had that many more of the enemy to contend with.
As the streaming legions of giants walked through and over the bloody battlegrounds, eager for more death, none even paused to witness the hundreds of dead giants or the few dozen Asgardian warriors who were now nothing more than broken, littered bodies and bloodstains on the once lush field. Not a man survived, and as the giants continued to stream unrelentingly over the field, their numbers interminable, Heimdall never stirred from the spot where he had been crushed under the massive weight of the giant.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The two armies faced each other across a flat emerald plain, the one vastly outnumbering the other. Tyr could not believe that so many giants existed; they stretched as far as the eye could see, mass upon mass of giant, each at least twice as tall as Thor, and many so large that Thor himself scarcely equaled their thumbs.
The armies of Asgard were silent and brooding. They stared at their enemies across the field with resignation and quiet rage. Once the battle was on they would let fly with battle cries and shouts of fury, but for now, silence reigned. The armies of Jotunheim, by contrast, were eagerly engaged in noisy, mocking behavior, like the savages they were. They did not move forward yet—this was a prelude, an attempt to intimidate—but they would soon, and the field would run scarlet with blood.
Tyr knew it was impossible but he searched the ranks for any sign of Fenrir. He did not see him, but that did not mean he was not there. Still, he did not feel the beast’s presence, and he was fairly certain that he would if the wolf was near. He needed to meet this one enemy on the battlefield, and he would slay the entirety of Jotunheim to get to him if need be. He could no longer rest knowing that Fenrir was out there, mocking him, taunting him with the old injury.
The giants grew suddenly quiet for a few brief moments before beginning the charge towards the armies of Asgard. The gods and their allies held their ground firmly, steel at the ready, knowing that these initial few ranks of giants would be the first of many to die at their hands. They may have bested Heimdall’s retainers, but now they faced gods of battle, and they would soon enough find out what that meant.
As the giant army came closer Tyr noticed something overhead, just above the tree line in the distance. It drew part of his attention despite the imminent threat of the giants. It was a shimmering of the air, followed by a materializing of the largest ship he had ever seen, floating on the breeze. All those assembled paused for a brief moment, even the giants, as the ship became more fully corporeal, and Tyr felt a mixture of rage and anguish wash over him. Standing at the helm was Loki—although he looked different—and next to him was a large wolf.
He had grown much since Tyr had seen him, but it was undeniably the same beast who had chewed off his hand. Tyr felt his grip grow tighter, his teeth clench. In the final seconds before the clash of these massive armies, his lust for blood increased tenfold.
The brief respite from the appearance of the ship ended quickly as the giants resumed their charge. A ripple of trepidation ran through the armies of the gods, however, as the ship moved over them. All the collected dead of Niflheim streamed downward into their midst, just as the wave of giants crashed into the front ranks.
The downward streaming line of ghost-like dead seemed endless, but they were met by the combined forces of the Einherjar and the Valkyries. The shades swarmed over every opponent they could see, their lack of skill outweighed by the crushing force of their unending numbers. Einherjar were each beset upon by ten or more of these dead souls, clawing, biting, striking with whatever weapons they had—knives, clubs, axes, even bare finger bones. They fought back viciously, each of these hand-picked warriors trained for pain and battle from a relentless routine of fighting, dying, and resurrecting to fight and die again. They cleaved heads with their swords, smashed skulls and bones with heavy two-handed axes, ripped out whatever guts remained with long daggers.
Valkyries danced in and out on their pale steeds, appearing here with flashing blade to lop off arm, leg, or head, and then just as quickly appearing elsewhere to stab an enemy in an empty, gaping eye socket. They were able to keep mostly free of injury due to their speed, but they could not always avoid the constantly questing hands and claws of the dead. Valkyries, once made corporeal to strike, were found to be vulnerable to counterattack, and some were swarmed in mid-strike, their sword arms immobilized by the weight of twenty or more ghouls dragging them down, pulling them from their horses and piling upon them with flailing arms and biting teeth. Those who fell thus did not rise again. Their horses, deprived of the direction of their warrior maidens, were also dragged down and mauled mercilessly.
The gods were pressed hard by the onrushing multitude of giants, and could not even see the havoc that was happening behind them. Each of the gods was already surrounded by scores of giants they had slain, but those remaining were endless. They held their line fiercely, supported by the Einherjar behind them, who stabbed and slashed with viciousness born of an eternity of bloody fighting, and the Valkyries, who appeared suddenly to send their swords screaming into giant flesh and then disappeared just as quickly to attack another.
Tyr’s sword hacked mercilessly, slicing through the thick, trunk-like legs of one giant, sending him tumbling to the ground to join dozens of his kin in the blood and muck. With lightning speed and precise movements, his sword danced in and out of the bodies of any giants who came near, while he dodged their clumsy attacks with ease. A larger giant swung a tree trunk at him; he positioned himself to his right and ducked at exactly the right instant. The cudgel struck a smaller giant directly in the chest, breaking ribs and sending him crashing backwards to the ground. Tyr swung high and sliced off the giant’s left hand. A scream of pain and anger was followed by a shower of blood and the dropping of the tree trunk. The giant had reflexively stood up straighter, making his vital areas an open target. Tyr stabbed the creature in the groin. He bent double and fell to the ground, bleeding and mortally wounded.
He heard a growling behind him, a sound more bestial than those made by the giants. He whirled just in time to du
ck the lunging of a feral beast with a mouth full of jagged teeth, while at the same time slashing out with his sword, drawing a shallow wound on the underbelly of the creature. He was rewarded with a howl of pain, and he pivoted once more, facing the beast squarely, eager to continue the fight that he had anticipated for so long.
Ardor was quickly replaced with disappointment. It was a massive wolf-like creature with slavering jaws and tightly-bound muscle under slick, black fur, but it was not Fenrir.
He had heard tales of this creature. It was a foul beast that guarded the entrance—and exit—to Niflheim. It was Hel’s servant, and it would attack anything that it thought it could kill, whether that be god or ghoul. As he faced it the beast’s jaws opened, hot spittle spilling to the ground. He wondered if there was any intelligence behind those red eyes or nothing but spite and malice.
He did not have long to ponder before it launched itself at him. He stepped to the side easily and scored another shallow hit on the hound. From behind a giant tried to grab him and was rewarded with Tyr’s sword in his throat, but his attention had been diverted just long enough for Garm to sink his jaws into the back of his leg, sending white-hot streaks of pain through his body. Using his massive shoulder muscles, Garm wrenched his head to the right and ripped out a bloody chunk of Tyr’s leg.
Tyr screamed, more in rage than pain, although it hurt nearly as much as when Fenrir had taken his hand. He swung, his normal precise and calculated movements thrown off by his anger. The blade missed, but the hilt struck the hound’s snout and broken teeth fell to the ground. Garm did not react to the pain. Instead, his jaw up against the arm of his attacker, he clamped down on it hard, hearing and feeling the crack of bone as his teeth dug into the meat of Tyr’s arm.