The Accidental Archmage: Book One - Ragnarok Rising (MOBI EDITION)

by Edmund A. M. Batara

  He also had a personal guard and guide waiting for him outside, a fellow named Jorund. He was assured that Jorund can be trusted, the guy being a huskarl of the Gothi. Finally, Tyler was asked to press a small written runic symbol at the bottom of the scroll when he had finished reading. Pressing the symbol, the scroll started to disintegrate.

  “Freaking Mission Impossible!” cried out the startled Tyler. In his astonishment, his hands let go of the scroll. He watched as the scroll disappeared even before it reached the floor. At least it wasn’t fire, he thought, it may have burned my hands but then again, that was AMAZING!

  Putting on his cloak and tying on the money pouch, he made sure it was secure in his belt and covered by the cape. Outside, a man in light armor, leather with some iron plates on it, and armed with a large battleaxe strapped to his back, was waiting for him.

  “My lord Havard?” inquired the man.

  “Are you Jorund the huskarl?” inquired Tyler in turn.

  “Yes, my lord. Where do you want to go today?"

  “The merchant district, I think,” he replied.

  “It’s a bit early, my lord. Many shops may not yet be open.”

  “It’s fine. I just want to see the town. A tavern thereafter would be great.”

  Tyler absolutely wanted to see a tavern. Images of such establishments he had visited during his RPG gaming sessions went through his mind. Though excited about it, he tried not to let it show. But his voice may have shown his interest, he noted, it came out too fast and in an embarrassingly eager manner. All that was left was for him to scream his excitement like a 12-year old girl at a boyband concert. He really was disappointed with himself.

  “What tavern would that be, my lord.”

  “The Mended Horn and Lied’s Rest come recommended. Which would you choose?”

  “The Mended Horn attends to both merchants and wealthy warriors. Lied’s Rest is more expensive and finds favor among the nobles, wealthier merchants, and important persons.”

  “The Mended Horn it is,” choose Tyler. He didn’t care about the nobility and wealthy merchants. They usually proved to be brainless, conniving and greedy oafs. His presence there would also attract attention.

  Maljen, from what the Gothi told him, though an important town, had only around 8,000 permanent inhabitants in the town and its environs. From what he knew, the rich elites usually belong to an exclusive circle. He was sure he would stick out among the tavern’s guests. The Mended Horn appeared to be the one which catered to well-off travelers and traders. It promised a greater degree of anonymity. More importantly, he truly wanted to see what a real tavern, complete with warriors and adventurers, would look and feel like. He could feel his excitement at the prospect of visiting the Mended Horn.

  “I was informed that you may be interested in a visit to the… ladies?” asked Jorund. Tyler appreciated the discretion, calling out the word “brothel” didn’t feel right. But he was not interested. HIV might be non-existent in this world but the strong possibility of STDs turned him off. He was not even sure if bathing and general hygiene were the norms. He himself had not been offered the services of a bathhouse or even a bath since he arrived. He had been cleaned of course, but while unconscious and under medical treatment. Whoever saw his personal jewels better not make a joke out of it.

  As they walked, most of the shops were indeed still closed. Jorund told him they usually open an hour or two before the day-meal. Tyler guessed the current time to be around nine o’clock in the morning. He had to remember to ask Ivar about time and measurements here.

  But the town continued to surprise him. The streets were paved with public drainage at the sides of the road. All constructed with flat stones. The drainage system was covered with either wood or stone slabs in front of structures. So far, he couldn’t see garbage piled willy-nilly. Covered garbage cans in different forms and sizes were in front of houses. Some made of some thin metal while others of a woven material. Public cleanliness appeared to be the norm.

  Along the way to the merchant district and the tavern, he could see people going about their business. Most of them were walking and a few on horses. Wagons with covered contents were prevalent. Most must be merchants preparing for the day, thought Tyler. The people looked healthy and their attire well-made.

  Yet he could see some beggars and street children in rags milling about. Not to mention suspicious looking individuals leaning against the entrances to alleyways. But the presence of an armed and armored Jorund, a tall and massively built warrior, discouraged anybody thinking of making a mark out of him.

  The tavern was the typical Nordic longhouse in form with some significant changes. The roof was of wooden tiles and the outside walls of finished wooden planks had small windows. The entrance had a decorative balustrade. A pair of life-sized but stylized wooden statues of a warrior blowing a horn were on opposite sides of the main door. The tavern sign was a square wooden affair with the name of the establishment. But a carving of a horn hung below it, the wooden model having an obvious mended crack in the middle of the horn.

  There were only a few people in the tavern. Though it felt cozy and welcoming. Jorund steered Tyler to a corner table, with Jorund facing the tavern’s interior and Tyler on his right side. When a servant approached, Jorund asked for ale while Tyler also ordered the same. He paid with one of the large silver coins from his money pouch and got back some small silver coins as change. He planned to examine the coins when he got back to the house. He couldn’t ask Jorund about the currency as it would expose him as somebody new to Skaney, blowing his cover as an apprentice trader from Barholm.

  Tyler looked around the tavern, the atmosphere was everything he expected. Some of the few guests were warriors, armored and armed in a variety of ways. After a while, he noticed somebody looking at him. He didn’t appear to be a warrior, rather a young merchant. He wore a green cloak and his attire looked to be that of a rich trader. He did wear a circlet on his long black hair, making him look elvish. The guest winked at him and raised his mug in salute. Surprised, Tyler lifted his mug in reply.

  The man stood up and walked towards their table, mug in hand. He didn’t appear to be armed as his cape was gathered on his back. No weapons were visible and his belt only showed two pouches tied to it. Of course, a dagger or some weapon could be hanging from his belt at his back. Paranoid much? thought Tyler of himself. He tried to put himself at ease but as the man drew closer, he became uneasy. He could feel something was off about the man.

  Stealing a glance at Jorund, the huskarl was looking at the approaching guest. He had already placed both hands at the back of his head, giving easy access to the battleaxe. Tyler didn’t doubt that Jorund could quickly whip it out and slice the man in two, if he wished to.

  “Greetings, fellow guests? Traders?” said the man as he drew near, “I am Farman, a trader from Metwold. Would you be so kind to grant me the honor of joining you? It is still early and I find myself in a strange city with no one to talk to.”

  “You look like a trader,” Farman observed, nodding at Tyler, “Wouldn’t it advantageous for us to engage in discourse? We may be able to find a common ground for some business. Two rounds of ale on me if you would give me the privilege of joining your table.”

  Tyler looked at Jorund. The guard was still staring at Farman, unmistakably leaving the decision to Tyler. He groaned inwardly. Of course, Jorund would leave the decision to him. Yet to refuse may be seen as a cultural faux pas, as he remembered that courteous hospitality was a major matter in Nordic culture. Yet he was trying to keep a low profile while still trying to get his bearings.

  But more importantly, he had a feeling of unease about the man. As if something powerful hid behind the smiling facade. But he had to make a decision. So he went with one in consonance with cultural expectations.

  “We would be honored if you would join us,” Tyler answered, standing up. Jorund remained seated with his hands still at the back of the head position, his eyes never
leaving Farman. Farman extended his hand for a handshake, and Tyler reciprocated. Thank God, Andreas briefed me about the forearm handshake, Tyler thought.

  The priest said it was a common practice in Skaney. He explained that historical records on Earth, especially chronicles in the Faroe Islands, mentioned handshakes. It could have been the Greek right hand to right hand handshake but Skaney practice led him to believe that the Faroe chronicles actually referred to the forearm handshake. Chalk one up for Andreas, the ancient history geek, this world must be a goldmine of knowledge for him. But then again, it could just be a cultural adaption, and in that event, Andreas may throw a fit worthy of an academic with a disapproved grant request.

  As they did the handshake, Tyler felt a small burst of energy erupt between their connected forearms. It was like static electricity. He tried to pull away his arm but Farman’s hold was uncannily strong and firm.

  The world stopped. He saw Farman’s left hand quickly making a series of gestures in the air and the tavern vanished, replaced by a small but impressive room. It looked like a room fit for royalty. Gold filigree everywhere, even on the ceiling. Rosewood colored walls and furniture. Damask cushions on the chairs and the wide couch. Gold and glass pitcher and cups. Luxurious floor rugs which looked Persian, among other furnishings. The room gave a decadent feel.

  He could see that the room had very large bay windows. But there was nothing to be seen outside, only a thick white mist which was strangely illuminated in a way that the light extended to the room.

  Open-mouthed, Tyler looked at Farman. They both had dropped the handshake. Tyler noticed that Farman had a very amused grin on his face. It was the smile of somebody who saw his masterpiece of a practical joke being successfully carried out.

  “Hello Tyler,” said Farman. Then he gave a little bow. “Loki at your service.”

  All Tyler could think of was how screwed he was.

  “Oh, swipe that scared face off,” said Loki, “I don’t… uhm, wait… change that to “won’t” …. bite. Take a seat. Sit down. Relax. This is a mere meet and greet affair.”

  Tyler sat down. His mind was still frazzled by the fact that in front of him was Loki, a major league player in the Nordic pantheon. A deity whose interest can result in lethal consequences, one way or another. Loki remained standing but his attire suddenly changed to a dark blue suit, complete with a red tie. An ivory cane trimmed with gold completed the appearance. Tyler absently thought he needed a fedora to complete the look.

  “A tete-a-tete! A one-on-one! A palaver! A confabulation!”

  While he was sprouting off, Loki was walking back and forth in front of the petrified Tyler.

  “A date!” the god finally exclaimed who then reversed himself.

  “Nope…. Not a date. I don’t swing that way. Besides, Sigyn won’t approve,” murmured the god who now had changed his attire to a black tuxedo, complete with a top hat.

  ”Sweet, sweet Sigyn,” continued Loki. The god stopped and turned to Tyler.

  “Don’t mind me too much. Just dropped by to see what the fuss was all about. The All-Father seemed to be busy as of the moment to see me. Me! His son! Then as I was about to leave his hall, I heard him start cursing up a storm. In the figurative sense, Tyler, not a literal one,” said Loki as Tyler’s eyes went wide-open.

  “Something about ice drakes! And Ymir! The old man can really curse, I’ll tell you that. The last time I heard those swear words in such a profound and lovely manner was when I stole Idun’s apples. Which got me so curious that… here I am!” exclaimed Loki, arms spread wide.

  “Shouldn’t you be still in that prison?” stammeringly asked Tyler, remembering that bit of Nordic mythology.

  “Oh, you mean Skadi’s little love nest! Nope, no, nein, nyet. That traitorous bitch of a jotunn! We’re almost cousins! Or half-cousins! Didn’t even give me some slack! I mean, a millennium or five should have been enough for some loosening of the rules or at least the chains! But noooooooo… she had to be a stickler for the rules!”

  Tyler could see the mad gleam in Loki’s eyes. Shit, a worse case than Miss Psychotic, he thought, I am so totally screwed! Why did I have to ask that question?

  Just when Tyler thought Loki would continue in his tirade, the god abruptly calmed down.

  “You thought I was going postal, didn’t you?” remarked the god, all madness in his blue eyes gone in a heartbeat.

  “I was freed when the pantheon moved to Adar,” quietly continued Loki, “Some minor deities didn’t make the journey. That bitch among them. The belief sustaining them was not enough for a materialization.”

  Despite himself, Tyler was intrigued and realized that in front of him was a being who could fill important gaps in his lack of knowledge. He just needed to steer the discussion his way and avoid setting him off on a manic outburst.

  “That does mean Ragnarok is coming? You being free…” said Tyler.

  “Hah! Ragnarok has already happened, if you ask me. But not the way the Vanir and Aesir expected. We are here! On a different world! Lots of other competitors! We are even diminished in numbers compared to the lot which crossed over! And the old man still prepares for Ragnarok!”

  “Why diminished? Shouldn’t your numbers have grown?” asked Tyler, his curiosity getting the better of him.

  “The initial wars between pantheons was responsible for that. We reflect human emotions as you can see from all the Eddur and Sagas. We are what humanity believes us to be! So what happens when different divine pantheons find themselves in one place. War, of course! Even Hela got into the act. Hela, for Odin’s sake! It was a bloody tavern brawl! Sumerians against Egyptians against the Greeks against the Chaldeans against every other blasted group! Not to mention the independent lesser divines who also participated in those slug fests! And it continued from one war to the next! Imagine the damage! The senseless death and destruction! I am not averse to some bloodshed from time to time, but the scale of those wars was something else. If the Elders didn’t step in, Adar wouldn’t be here anymore!”

  “Elders?”

  “Oooppppsss. Said too much there,” remarked Loki, with a snicker.

  Tyler knew better than to ask. He knew when a bone was thrown his way.

  “I miss Tyr,” suddenly commented Loki who was now wearing a tennis player outfit, “He was fun to play with. All that honor and bravery made it sooooo much fun. Unlike that bearded brother of mine! All wine, women, and song. With a major dose of war thrown in of course. He wouldn’t be the god of thunder otherwise.”

  “Tyr died?”

  “Damn Incans ambushed him.”

  Shit, thought Tyler, Wrong line of discussion. Note to self, DO NOT agitate Loki by bringing up bad memories.

  “So, what do you do now? You’re free. With your wife and it looks like you’re on talking terms with your father again.”

  “The usual jaunts. I am a god of mischief after all. A god of change. Tricks here and there. It has been boring, I must confess,” said the god. Then his face brightened up.

  “Oh, except for the time Enki and I stole a visitor from his people. That was hilarious.”

  “Enki?”

  “The Sumerian god of mischief. Almost as brilliant as me. We got him out before the binding ritual. Enlil was furious when he found out. Enki became persona non-grata for a while. But we had fun taking him out and following his travels. Convincing the visitor was easy, he was bored and scared. Sumerian religious rituals tend to do that. It did help that he was required to attend lengthy ceremonies several times a day. To purify him they say. Purification, my ass. They were displaying him as a centerpiece though I guess he was lucky enough not to be sacrificed upon arrival.”

  Loki was laughing at the memory, his mirth quite infectious, though his attire again changed. He now looked like an Elvis impersonator.

  “He became your worshiper? Your champion? Agent?”