The Abomination of Asgard Read online

  The Sorceress, the Norns, and the Abomination of Asgard

  Farling just wants to work as a blacksmith’s apprentice during the annual Kings Tournament in Trondheim.

  But things don’t quite work out as planned as one magical event happens after another that takes him and his newfound friends on a swords & sorcery adventure of epic fantasy proportions in the Norse realms of elves, frost giants, dwarves, and gods—including Loki, the Trickster.

  And all the while the Norns sense a shift in the Tapestry, one that heralds the return of the Sorceress.

  Also by the Author

  The Sorceress and the Norns Trilogy

  The Abomination of Asgard

  The Prophecy of Asgard

  The Reckoning of Asgard

  Dedication

  For my wife, Cristine, who made it all possible.

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2019 by James Elrick.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the author. Cover design by James Elrick, photo from shutterstock.com.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Previously published in 2013 as The Aelfheim Gateway ISBN 978-0-9920057-0-2.

  Published by Somerset & Elgin Press

  www.somersetandelginpress.com

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  The Story of Loki, the Trickster God

  The King’s Tournament

  Ravens Bring News

  Alchemist

  Welcome to Trondheim

  The Master of the Hunt

  The Knights Stable

  Princess Margret Mac Art

  The Black Ship

  The Paupers Temple

  Freya, Norse Goddess of Wisdom

  The Undead

  The Thieves Guild of Trondheim

  The Draugr

  The Squires Tournament

  An Unexpected Guest

  The Circlet of Freya

  The Archery Event

  The Quarterstaff Event

  The King’s Widow

  The Sword Event

  The Joust Event

  A Parting of Friends

  Alchemist’s Stronghold

  The Ravens Bring News

  The Frost Giants

  A New Forge

  Hidden Items of Magic

  The Norn Tells a Tale

  The Story of the Chosen

  The Unexplainable Corpse

  The Book of Princore

  Queen Astrid

  Trouble in Trondheim

  The Return

  The Heart Tree

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  “Master?” said the young druid.

  “Yes, child,” answered Alchemist.

  The young druid, barely old enough to shave, pointed at the pond filled with a black, sluggish liquid. The pond’s surface was glassy smooth, undisturbed by fish or fowl, while all around the pond were just rocks and stones. No villages or farms could be seen as the pond was quite remote.

  The young druid looked confused, then asked: “Why do we not simply use buckets to drain this pond?”

  The master nodded, said: “Child, you are wise beyond your years. But you see, the water in this pond is special; it is protected by a magical charm. Were you to use a bucket as you suggest, fill it, and empty it far from the pond, the water would return to the pond, ensuring the pond’s water level never decreases.”

  The young druid still looked confused and asked another question: “So, the roots of this tree will draw nourishment from the pond? But the water in the pond appears to be tar, like the type I use when I paint the outside of our buildings to keep the timber dry. I cannot imagine how any tree could grow from tar.”

  “It may appear to be black, thick, and sluggish, but it is not tar you see in the pond—it is magic,” replied Alchemist.

  “Magic is black tar?” said the young druid in wonderment.

  Alchemist chuckled softly, said: “No, not quite. It is difficult to explain. You see, this pond is old and ancient. No one builds near it, no animals drink from it. It is a cursed pool that we need to drain. And, finally, after searching for years, I believe I may have found a way to do that.”

  “With this sapling?” said the young druid as he held up the small tree that had a thin black trunk and white leaves. It was in a bucket of dark soil that smelled of blood.

  “With that sapling, yes,” said Alchemist. “What you hold in your hands is called a Heart Tree, and this tree is also magic. And it was extremely hard to find I would add. You see, my child, you need to fight magic with magic. The Heart Tree, as it grows, will draw nourishment from this pond. Once it is big enough, its roots will grow deep into this pond. And what makes this tree special is that the magic charms that protect the pond will never notice the level of the pond decreasing. Because, as the tree grows, it will retain the pond’s tar-like water, hold that water in its leaves and roots, until, after many years, the pond will be drained.”

  “What will happen then?” said the young druid.

  “Midgard and all the Norse realms will change,” replied Alchemist. “This pond blocks the Alfheim Gateway, a door if you will, between Midgard and Alfheim, the realm of the elves.”

  “Elves?” said the young druid looking surprised. “I thought the elves were a myth.”

  Alchemist slowly shook his head, then said: “No, no myth. Long ago, the elves were banished from Midgard through this gateway back to Alfheim, their own realm. And once the elves were banished, this magical pond was created to seal the gateway shut, preventing the elves from ever returning to Midgard.”

  Again, the young druid looked confused, said: “How long will it take for the Heart Tree to drain the pond so that the elves can open the gateway between our realms?”

  “Years, my child, many years,” said Alchemist. “Now, I think I have talked enough. My voice aches and the sun sets. We are running out of time. Grab one of the shovels and please plant the Heart Tree near the pond.”

  With his back to his master, the young druid did as he was asked, struggling to dig a hole deep enough for the Heart Tree. After many minutes, he was successful and planted the Heart Tree in the ground amongst all the rocks and stones. He noticed that the Heart Tree seemed to be sleeping, as if hibernating. And he felt life in the Heart Tree as if it had a heartbeat.

  He put his shovel aside and poured the blood-smelling soil from the bucket around the Heart Tree’s roots, carefully covering the roots to ensure they would not dry out during the critical first days of growth. He took great pride in his ability to grow vegetables at Alchemist’s stronghold where he lived with many other druids, all followers of Alchemist. The young druid enjoyed being in the garden, tilling the soil, watering the vegetables, protecting the vegetables from rabbits, watching the vegetables grow, and then harvesting them when ready.

  Then, without warning, Alchemist struck the young druid with a shovel, killing him in one blow.

  Alchemist stared down at the young druid’s dead body. With his heel, he pushed the dead body so that it touched the Heart Tree.

  Alchemist looked closely at the Heart Tree. He could see the faintest heartbeat in the thin trunk as it began to feed on blood.

  With the empty bucket, Alchemist walked to the pond, filled the bucket, then poured the tar-like water over the roots of the Heart Tree. He watched in amazement as, slowly, the water moved back to the pond—except for the small amount
that the Heart Tree’s roots managed to already absorb.

  “Many thanks, child,” began Alchemist, “as I could not have accomplished this without you. This Heart Tree will now feed off your blood so that it will grow strong. And I have just given this Heart Tree a taste of the wizards’ blood in the pond. It will hunger for more and will send its roots deep into the pond. Then, one day, the Heart Tree will drain this pond of all its blood, revealing the Alfheim Gateway. And the elves will open it, heralding The Return.”

  With a satisfied grunt, Alchemist took his shovels and made his way back to his stronghold in Aarlund.

  CHAPTER 1

  The Story of Loki, the Trickster God

  “Are you going to come back and visit?”

  Farling ruffled his younger brother’s already messy hair, said: “Of course, Brodden, I am just off to Trondheim to find work as a blacksmith apprentice. I will not be busy all the time. I should have time to visit. And if I make enough coin, I promise to return and buy a farm here in Jordheim where we can all live.”

  Brodden looked up at his older brother, Farling. He admired his older brother’s wide smile, woodsmen skills, and fighting abilities. Once, when Brodden was being picked on by several older boys, Farling had stepped in and laid them all out flat with his fists. Even though they had all been the same size as Farling, they lacked his speed and power. Their punches were slow and went wide. But Farling’s punches never missed and bloody noses and split lips bloomed like fresh red roses. Brodden also wished he had his brother’s dark blue eyes, which always seemed moody and mysterious under his dark eyebrows and thick shock of short black hair.

  Farling’s mother stepped out of the kitchen, cleaning her hands on her apron, and said: “Be a good boy, work hard, be punctual, and make sure you are always polite around those knights.”

  “Yes, mother,” Farling said with his usual mischievous smile. He winked at his brother.

  “And I have a gift for you,” said his mother.

  She motioned to Brodden, who ran into the kitchen and returned holding a sword and its scabbard. Brodden was smiling so hard his eyes disappeared into two crescent moons. Farling recognized it as their father’s and sighed appreciatively as he unsheathed the blade.

  “I had it repaired for you,” said his mother. “All the rust has been burnished. And all the nicks have been smoothed out. It is like brand new, sharper than ever.”

  Farling admired the clean blade and sharp edge, remembering how tired it used to look.

  “Your father prized this sword over all others,” said Farling’s mother. “He wanted you to have it when the time was ready. I think that time is now.”

  “Mantock fixed it?” said Farling.

  “Who else?” said his mother.

  “I knew he was up to something secretive,” said Farling as he strapped the scabbard and sword to his back.

  “And here are some clothes and food for the journey,” added his mother, handing him a bag.

  “I will be fine,” said Farling. “I do not want you to worry about me.”

  “I know you will be fine,” was her reply. “You are so much like your father, just all the good parts.” She kissed Farling on the forehead.

  As she stood back, tears welled in her eyes.

  Farling asked, although he knew the answer: “Are you going to be OK without me?”

  His mom nodded, said: “I will be fine. I am just so sad that you need to leave Jordheim to earn your fortune. If your father had not gotten himself killed so many years ago trying to break up a fight, we would still have enough coin to make a decent living here in Jordheim.”

  Farling grunted. “My father was a good man, but when he drank, he made poor decisions, some may call stupid,” he said. “I will be fine in Trondheim. I will be careful, and I do not drink mead or ale, so any stupid decisions I make, I cannot blame on that,” he added with a wink.

  Then Farling roughed up his brother’s hair again, said: “And you, Brodden, man of the house. You help mother with all her chores.”

  “Of course,” said Brodden as his wide smile changed to a small frown. His eyes quickly filled with tears as he gave his brother a hug, saying: “I will miss you, older brother.”

  “I will miss you too, little one,” said Farling.

  Farling threw the bag of clothes and food over a shoulder. Standing up straight, he looked every bit a young man of 14 summers as he said: “I am just going to say goodbye to Mantock.”

  “Of course,” said his mother. “May Freya, Goddess of Wisdom, look after you on this journey.”

  Farling grinned, said: “And may Loki, God of Trickery, stay far away.”

  At the edge of the dirt road, Farling turned and waved once more at his brother and mother, then disappeared from their view.

  ***

  The sun shone down brightly as Farling made his way over to Mantock’s forge. Other people from Jordheim, knowing that he was leaving, stopped to wish him good luck on his adventure in Trondheim.

  As Farling approached the forge, he heard Mantock’s familiar clanging of hammer on metal. It sounded like music, a rhythm of bending and shaping metal. Different hammer songs created different objects. Horseshoes made one sound, armor another. Each type of metal needed to be pounded a certain way with a specific strength. Too much and the metal became too thin, too soft and the metal refused to change. If the water was too cold, the hot metal might crack. So many rules, so many things to learn. And Farling had learned and had taught metal to obey him.

  Seeing Farling, Mantock stopped, and said in a smoke-filled raspy voice: “You are off, I see.”

  Bald as a chicken’s egg, Mantock wore his dark beard long so that it covered his neck and went down to the top of his dirty leather apron. His thick beefy arms and chest like an ox made him ideal for metal work. Mantock was shorter than Farling but more powerfully built. It was rumored Mantock was a former soldier and had settled in the quiet village of Jordheim far away from all the battles.

  Farling nodded, said: “Thanks for fixing my dad’s sword.”

  “The least I could do.”

  Mantock turned down the dampers on the forge to reduce the air rushing in to keep the embers burning longer. He put the hot metal he was working on in a bucket of sand to keep it insulated so that he could work on it later.

  Farling asked: “Shall we have one last dance before I go?”

  Mantock smiled and pulled a sword off the forge wall. They walked into the clearing in front of the forge. A small crowd gathered in anticipation.

  Farling unsheathed his father’s sword. He and Mantock paced each other moving in a circle, measuring each other’s steps, waiting for the moment to strike.

  Mantock had been the one who had taught Farling how to fight, both with fists and with sword. Mantock had taken a shine to young Farling and had helped him where he could, teaching him everything he knew.

  Farling raised his sword just in time as Mantock had struck without warning. The familiar shock passed through Farling’s arms and shoulders as he twisted and struck back. Mantock easily blocked the cut.

  As the swordplay continued, Farling’s new sword became a blur as it sang its song. It cut the air, hissing as it went making a sound that pleased Farling’s ears. Mantock’s sword hummed as it cut through the air. And the hiss and the hum were punctuated by the clang of metal on metal, a rhythm of song and smash.

  Mantock blocked Farling’s every sword cut, thrust, and slash but Farling could see in Mantock’s eyes that he was struggling. When Farling was younger Mantock had easily blocked all Farling’s sword thrusts. But now, Farling’s speed and reach had improved.

  With a loud war cry Mantock lashed out with a great wide sweep of his sword trying to force Farling back a step. But instead of stepping back, Farling ducked under Mantock’s sword and in an instant brought the sharp edge of his blade to bear at Mantock’s bull neck.

  As the sweat poured off his face, Mantock grinned dropping his sword limply at his side, said:
“A pretty move. And effective. I have nothing left you to teach you. And besides, I am getting too old for the dance.”

  Farling wiped the sweat from his brow and sheathed his sword. “To me, you will never be old. I guess as you have no gray hair on your head.”

  Mantock grinned, rubbing his bald head with his free hand.

  “Be careful in Trondheim,” he said in a gruff tone. “City folk do not take kindly to country folk, think you are simple. They will try to provoke you, cause a fight. They think they are better than you. Do not back down. You do not want a coward’s label else it will follow you around like a bad smell. Always be courteous to the knights. And of course, be on your best behavior for King Frederick and Queen Astrid. They are good people. And remember to visit the forge of Lanson. A good man, a good blacksmith. And although I have not seen nor heard from him in years he will remember my name. He will give you work before and over the King’s Tournament. He may not pay well but it will be coin in your pocket.”

  “Thank you, Mantock. You have been as a father to me.”

  “And you, a son. Farewell, Farling. May Odin’s spear guide you.”

  They shook hands in a grip full of affection. Then, Farling made his way down the dirt road that led out of their tiny village towards Trondheim.

  ***

  At the edge of the village, Farling saw his little brother, Brodden.

  “Well, little brother, I thought I heard the birds singing your name, telling me I was to see you once more before I left.”

  “One last story?” Brodden’s eyes looked hopeful. “My favorite, the one about Loki.”

  “I will be catching a ride to the next village of Brondheim with Florin who’s taking a load of salted cod, but I do not see him yet, so I have time. Do you have any string in your—” but Brodden had pulled out a string long before Farling had finished his question.

  Farling smiled as he knotted the string at one end creating a circle. He looped the string back and forth over his fingers and thumbs so that he quickly had what looked like a simple spider's web.