The Reckoning of Asgard

by James Malcolm Elrick

  Without warning, Trant swung his war hammer. The elf captain, caught unaware, was struck directly in his chest and was hurled against the far wall as if he was a child’s rag doll. The elf captain collapsed, not moving, dead.

  Trant smiled his first smile in many years. Said: “Now, for you, elf queen.”

  Trant swung his war hammer at Amalaja. From his vantage point, Mage saw that the war hammer had missed but by only a fraction of a hair, but he had missed just the same. Thrown off-balance, Trant stumbled. Seizing the opportunity, Amalaja rushed in close. Trant raised his war hammer to defend himself, but Amalaja was too fast. For his immense size, the ogre was nimble, trained as he was in battle. But he had underestimated Amalaja. He was too used to fighting monsters, beasts larger than himself, and slower. Amalaja’s agility and dexterity was something Trant had forgotten and as her sword sliced through his side, his blood splattered the ground.

  Mage knew in an instant the wound was fatal. Trant though just seemed dazed by the cut, confused at Amalaja’s speed. He stood still, rooted to the spot, his breath now coming in raspy gulps.

  With a shudder of breath, Trant leapt towards Amalaja, using the war hammer like a spear, the head striking forward like a snake lunging towards its prey.

  But once again, Amalaja sidestepped the blow just enough, twisting and spinning her body so that the head of the war hammer passed by her harmlessly. She spun on the spot her sword slicing in a great arc striking the ogre in his shoulder. Mage almost gasped as he saw that the cut nearly separated Trant’s arm from his shoulder.

  Blood gushed from the wound and the ogre fell like a struck bull. His fingers opened, letting go of the war hammer and as he fell to his knees, his life drained from his body.

  “The ogres will be free,” he whispered, more to himself than to Amalaja. “One day, one day soon.”

  And with that, he slumped to the ground, dead.

  The ogres had not moved a muscle during the fight, all had stood at rigid attention. But with the death of Trant, a great keening rose from their throats as they threw their heads back, their faces towards the night sky as if in some grim invocation to their ogre gods.

  Ignoring the sound, Amalaja walked over to the dead elf guard and wiped her sword clean on his clothes. She sheathed her sword and walked near the bonfire.

  She raised her arms for attention and began to say something, but the sound of the ogres’ keening drowned her out. Disgusted at the ogres’ behavior, she motioned towards the guards as she made her way back to the top of the pit. Soon, all the guards were in the pit and began whipping the ogres, great welts appearing with every fresh lick.

  But for all the whipping, the keening of the ogres did not stop but only grew as the walls of the pit amplified the sound. The keening bubbled up and over the walls like boiled mud, causing Mage to grind his teeth, trying as he might to fight the ogres’ wails as it sought to overcome his will.

  Then Mage could take it no longer. Blind with passion, the keening of the ogres ripped open old wounds. He removed the necklace and leapt into the pit.

  And with an ogre battle cry, he grabbed Trant’s war hammer, crushing the skull of a surprised elf guard, and then smashed the nearest ogre’s shackles.

  The freed ogre stopped his keening, shocked at seeing Mage and having his shackles destroyed.

  “Behind you, brother!” bellowed the freed ogre. Mage spun, swinging the war hammer in a deadly arc. Elves lifted off the ground from the force of the war hammer’s blow, dead before they struck the wall.

  Ogres grabbed all the weapons they could off the dead elf bodies and dug at the base of the posts, trying desperately to free themselves.

  Mage turned to the freed ogre and handed him the war hammer. In the chaos of battle, the two old friends looked at each other, their nod speaking volumes.

  And with a terrible battle cry, the ogre sprung into battle, the war hammer crushing elves with every swing.

  Furious at the turn of events, Amalaja hollered: “Archers! Cover those ogres with arrows so that no skin can be seen!”

  Upon hearing those words, Mage gathered his wits and reached into a bag and pulled out a potion he flung in the bonfire. With a great hiss, the contents of the potion extinguished the fire so that not even embers glowed, pitching the pit into darkness.

  And then Mage bellowed: “Arastead!”

  CHAPTER 72

  Arastead Builds a Tunnel

  It had been painfully slow, building a tunnel from the middle of the city of Vanaheim, under the plains that surrounded the city, and under the elf camp. And while Arastead had created a tunnel before wide enough and tall enough in which people easily walked, this one was much longer and deeper underground. He had to make it deep enough to avoid detection by the elf sorcerers. As well, he worried about the weight of the entirety of the elf army, and while he reinforced the tunnel wall and ceiling as he went with strong arches, he did not let anyone else know his fears of a tunnel collapse.

  With him were Margret, Farling, Grum, and the were-beasts, who never left Margret’s side. As well, her father, the Aarlund brothers and their nephew had insisted on coming, not wanting to leave Margret’s side either. This left only Einar and Pressan in Vanaheim, which had delighted Pressan, not Einar as much, as Pressan had found an abandoned library, the contents of which he searched and read what he could.

  Peg, Arastead’s cat familiar, sat astride his shoulders, her eyes eldritch green. In Galdr’s odd voice, she would direct Arastead where to build the tunnel as, even though the old Norse god was blind, the two ravens flew high above Asgard showing Galdr the path Arastead’s tunnel must take.

  It must have been an incredible sight to someone who had never seen Arastead carve a tunnel underground. At a walking pace, with both hands outstretched, his ring glowing brightly, he would push the dirt and rocks aside, turning them into rubble, and then into thick bricks that he would then interlock so tightly that the bricks formed strong arches, which became the ceiling and walls of the tunnel. Behind him walked everyone else, some carrying torches that cast just enough light, the others pulling a sled of weapons and armor for the ogres should they escape.

  “Are you certain you did not create the tunnel from the Paupers Temple out to Freya’s ruins?” asked Grum. “Your tunnel making skills sure remind me of that.”

  Arastead, despite what he was doing, chuckled, as he walked and made bricks. “That tunnel inspired me, Grum,” he said. “And just as that tunnel needed to be tall enough for the Master of the Hunt, I am designing this tunnel to be high enough so that the ogres should not have to stoop over as they make their way down it.”

  “If we can rescue the ogres,” said Grum. “If.”

  “We will,” said Margret, the pearl in her circlet glowing, “Of that I am certain.”

  “And what of us?” asked Grum. “Do we all live?”

  “Sadly, blacksmith, my circlet does not allow me to see that future,” she said. “Do you doubt your skills? Are you not the mighty Grum, feared by all frost giants, slayer of many a meal and dessert?”

  Grum smiled. “Guilty as charged,” he said. “I did destroy quite a lot of food in the competition against the frost giant champion. You could say that I ‘slayed’ it.”

  “Groan,” Farling said aloud. “You did lose that competition, dessert slayer.”

  “You lost too,” said Grum causing Farling to chuckle. “Now, how much further?”

  “Not much,” said Peg the cat.

  Grum shivered. Said: “I do not know why but Peg talking makes the short hair on the back of my neck stand on end.”

  Farling nodded. “Think of it as a good thing,” he said. “And besides, Peg says not much farther. And once we are there, we just need to wait for a sign from Mage, or a sign from the ravens.”

  Margret turned and looked at her father, who nodded back at her. The Aarlund brothers as well, nodded at her encouragingly. She sighed as she turned back to watch Arastead work. She whispered an old prayer t
o Odin that everyone would make it out of this rescue mission alive.

  After what felt like an hour to Grum, but must not have been as long, Arastead stopped and whispered: “We are below the ogre pit.”

  “There is no need to whisper,” said Margret in an equally low voice.

  “It just makes me feel better,” said Arastead, his voice still hushed. “I worry someone might hear us somehow or at least sense our presence.”

  From where they stood in the tunnel, deep under the ground, they could not hear the movement of elves on the surface.

  “Let me just get the door, for lack of a better word, prepared,” said Arastead. “We are directly under the bonfire in the middle of the ogre pit. I will cut a circle above like how someone cuts a hole in thick ice. But first, I will make a hole below that the plug of dirt above will neatly fit into.”

  Farling watched as Arastead did as he said, creating a large and deep hole.

  “Are you sure the hole is deep enough?” asked Farling.

  “We will find out,” said Arastead with a wink. “Now, let us all stand back in the tunnel, for when I drop the dirt above into the hole below, we had best move quickly. Any word, Peg?”

  “The time is very close,” said Peg.

  Grum’s left eye twitched at the sound of the cat’s voice.

  No one spoke as they waited for the moment to spring into action. After a few agonizing minutes, Peg meowed loudly, causing Arastead to sever the plug of earth above. Instantly, it fell under its own sheer weight.

  Farling watched as the dirt raced by and with a loud thump sound that was oddly satisfying, filled the hole below perfectly, with just a foot or two for everyone to jump up onto.

  “First, weapons,” said Arastead as he moved the air around the carts so that it lifted them off the ground, across and over to under the hole, then up, and over the edge so that the ogres could reach the weapons cart.

  “Now it is up to Mage and his ogres,” said Margret. “If any elves make their way down to us, we are the line that stops them from entering Vanaheim.”

  Everyone unsheathed their weapons, stood at the end of the tunnel, and listened to the sounds of a fight rage above.

  CHAPTER 73

  Ogre Mage Unleashed

  Mage could not help himself but grunt with approval as the middle of the pit where the bonfire had once been, dropped down like a boulder creating a huge hole large enough and easily wide enough for the ogres to jump down into. But first, the ogres had to be freed from their shackles. And before that, Mage had to protect the ogres from arrows. Mage stood near the hole and muttered an incantation, moving his hands above his head, swirling the air. In an instant, he created a shield of air so thick elf arrows could not pierce it.

  Elf archers loosed arrows into the pit but shot blindly not being able to pierce the darkness, nor Mage’s shield.

  Then, Mage slaughtered the remaining elves in the pit, and quickly, he and the first freed ogre smashed the shackles off the remaining ogres. As the ogres’ eyes adjusted easily to the darkness, they ran to the cart Arastead had lifted into the pit, grabbed weapons, and surrounded the hole.

  ***

  From the lip of the pit, where she stood, Amalaja recognized Mage’s magic. She ground her teeth. That ogre killed my husband. And now, here he was, freeing her ogres.

  She summoned her sorcerers who set to work to counter Mage’s magic.

  She glared down into the pit, feeling hate roil inside her, poisoning her mind with thoughts of revenge.

  ***

  “Ready!” cried an ogre into Mage’s ear.

  “Jump!” yelled Mage. “My friends will guide you to safety.”

  Without hesitation, the ogres leapt into the hole leaving Mage alone. With teeth bared, Mage made the wind stronger and hearing it howl made him smile. Slowly, one by one, the wood posts that had imprisoned the ogres tore free from the ground and whipped around the walls of the pit, gouging dirt, forcing the elves to stand back from the pit’s edge.

  Distracted, each elf sorcerer lost his concentration, and shuffled back, far away from the pit, humbled and angry at the strength of the magic Mage wielded.

  As the wind’s howl reached a crescendo, the wood posts clattered against each other creating a deafening sound. Mage howled along with the wind, his teeth bared, his eyes wide open but not seeing, when someone tugged his sleeve. Surprised, he looked, and it was Margret and she was saying something.

  “We must go!” she yelled.

  Somehow, she had made her way up the hole to stand beside him.

  “You need not kill yourself to protect your friends!” she added.

  Ogre wondered how he could hear Margret’s voice above the din then realized dimly she was projecting her voice into his mind as her lips were not moving. He marveled at her abilities while he nodded in agreement.

  “Now!” cried Margret.

  He snapped to attention. He looked at the wind flinging the posts around. The posts had created their own formation, their own shape of moving around in the wind so that they no longer collided. Margret jumped into the hole and then Mage knew what he must do.

  With a great deal of effort, he changed the direction of the wind, causing the posts to levitate above the pit. He then jumped into the hole, landing hard. He stumbled away and down the tunnel. He turned at the entrance and looked back.

  He had timed his magic well. The posts thudded into the bottom of the hole, blocking the tunnel’s entrance.

  Everyone in the tunnel whooped in amazement at Mage’s magical abilities.

  “Now is not the time for applause,” said Cormac. “We must make haste!”

  But it was too late.

  An elf archer, unafraid of Mage’s magic, had jumped down into the pit as soon as Mage had dropped the posts. He slipped through the posts and notched an arrow to string. Staring down the tunnel, the archer had no time to choose who to strike and so shot at the first person he saw.

  The arrow caught Arastead full in the back, the force of the arrow pitching him forward to his knees. As the elf archer pulled another arrow back, Cruithni’s arrow struck the elf’s bow, shattering it.

  One of the larger ogres picked up Arastead’s limp body as if he was no more than a child and ran down the tunnel towards Vanaheim.

  Behind them, Mage brought down the tunnel, sealing it.

  ***

  The elf archer climbed back up the hole, then up the pit. He knelt before his queen, his broken bow in one hand.

  “Did you strike Ogre Mage?” Her fingernails dug into the palms of her hands in sheer hatred of him.

  The elf archer shook his head. “The Midgardian who wields great magic was struck,” he answered, not daring to look up at his queen’s face.

  Amalaja nodded in approval, clicked her teeth once to stop the grinding, and walked away, her retinue of guards and sorcerers listening intently to her every command.

  The elf archer waited until she was out of sight, then rose and sighed in relief that he had not been slain for not striking Ogre Mage.

  CHAPTER 74

  The Accord

  A moment of silence hung in the air.

  It was a strange sight: ogres, Midgardians, and Norse gods, standing in one of the great halls of Vanaheim.

  Galdr, sitting on a stool, spoke first. Said: “There is not much time until the sun brightens the sky and the armies of our enemies descend upon our walls. First, I am glad the rescue mission went well.”

  “We lost Arastead,” grumbled Grum.

  “Do not make it sound as if he is dead,” chided Farling.

  Grum said: “Well, that elf arrow nearly killed him. It was only because of Sihr and Margret’s healing abilities he was saved. And so we lost him from future battles.”

  “Yes, Grum, Arastead is lost from future battles, but he will live,” said Farling.

  “I hope he lives to see Vanaheim’s walls hold,” murmured Grum.

  “Next,” continued Galdr as he had waited patiently for G
rum to finish, “We welcome the ogres to Vanaheim.”

  Everyone clapped except the ogres. Instead, they pounded the heels of their weapons on the ground, the sound deafening.

  Mage said: “On behalf of the ogres, we thank everyone for what they did to make the escape possible. How may we repay you?”

  Loki interjected: “I am glad you asked.” Galdr simply blinked in surprise, worried Loki would say something incendiary. “You may not know,” continued Loki, “but the walls of Vanaheim contain few guards.”

  An ogre stepped forward, speaking for the freed ogres. Said: “Hear my name and weep. I am Muck Skullcrusher. Vanaheim is weak, it is ripe for the picking.”

  Farling flinched at the remarks and reached for his sword. He glanced at Grum who tightened his gloves to ensure they were snug.

  Muck cleared his throat, not caring everyone had assumed fighting stances. Then: “We ogres, with these weapons you gave us, could take Vanaheim.”

  Mage could barely control his anger when he snarled: “You will not!”

  Muck shrugged. “Why not, brother?” he said. “We struggled under the bonds of our elf captors for far too long. As well, why should we listen to you? You abandoned us.”

  Mage’s voice still menaced. “You knew I would return,” he said.

  “Words you never spoke, so words I do not trust.” Muck thumped the flat of his battle-axe against his chest. “We are warriors.”

  The ogres now assumed fighting stances.

  Farling held his breath.

  Muck continued: “We fight, and we take what we earn by blood and sweat. Ogres are not weak. The strength of ogres wins the day. Once, we enslaved the weak, you remember those days, Mage. An ogre knows his place in our society. Is he warrior, who sheds the blood of his enemies? Or a slave? Told what to do every minute of every day. For too long we were slaves of the elves. Now, we are free. We are warriors. We are strong. We will never be slaves again!”