The Abomination of Asgard Read online

  Brodden stuck out his fingers waiting for the story. And as Farling told the story they passed the string back and forth taking turns holding the string creating intricate designs over their fingers.

  “This is the story of how Loki, God of Thieves, was captured trying to kidnap Yorli, daughter of Thrymr, king of the frost giants.”

  “Yorli was beautiful beyond compare. It was said she put the beauty of the gods to shame. Loki would often spy on her as she went about her castle in the north high in the mountains beyond Aarlund in the land of Jotunheim where ice and snow live forever.”

  “One day, when she was alone, Loki swooped in and carried her away. When they were far from her castle, he found a pleasant place and put her down. And even though Loki, God of Thieves, was considered handsome, she saw neither beauty nor grace as she was blind with rage at having been taken from her home.”

  “He foolishly professed his love for her. She demanded to know what gifts he had brought. Angry at himself for not bringing something special, he searched his pockets. But all he found was a piece of string. He fashioned the string into a loop and made fancy designs with it, hoping to impress the princess.”

  “But all was in vain. She scorned him. Miserable, he did not even try to flee when her father Thrymr and her brothers approached. Her brothers would have slain the Trickster where he stood. But Thrymr wisely intervened. He had the young impetuous Norse god shackled with heavy chains preventing even Loki, the swiftest of all Norse gods, from running away. And so, Loki was presented to Odin, his father, bound in shame. The Norse gods thought he refused to escape as he was weak from humiliation. But they were wrong as he was weak from a broken heart.”

  “Thrymr demanded punishment from the Loki's father. Odin also was wise. He knew he had to punish his son as he too did not want to war with the frost giants.”

  “And so, to demonstrate he showed no favor, Odin meted out a punishment most terrible. For his crime, the young god was turned out, made to stand as a statue for all time in the middle of a great desert, until his curse was broken. It is said he stands there still, eternally vigilant, waiting for his love to find him. He waits for her and cries, tears running down his stone face, every year on the anniversary of his capture.”

  “It is said the frost giant's daughter searched for him for she realized too late he was her one true love.”

  While Farling told the story, Brodden had mouthed all the words. They looked at the intricate design he and his brother had made with the string as it lay on his fingers. Brodden reluctantly picked at it and pulled it off.

  “Take the string with you,” said Brodden. “So you will not forget me.”

  “I will never forget you, Brodden. One day, one day soon, I will return and there will be enough coin in my saddlebags to buy us all a farm, big enough for you, me, and our mother.”

  “Will this farm have chickens and goats?”

  “Whatever you want, little brother.”

  And with one final tousle of his little brother’s hair, Farling set off on the several days journey to Trondheim, the capital city of Dennland.

  CHAPTER 2

  The King’s Tournament

  At the village of Brondheim, Farling headed to the outskirts to the road that led to Trondheim. Florin who had driven the cart from Jordheim to Brondheim was a typical Jordheim fisherman, quiet and taciturn, whose only conversation had been the occasional whistle at his old horse. This had been fine with Farling as he had wanted to be alone with his thoughts. He had helped Florin unload the salted fish and had thanked him for the ride once the job was done. Florin had merely grunted and shook hands with Farling. Farling felt the typical thick calluses of a fisherman who had pulled on nets and ropes his entire life.

  At the outskirts of Brondheim a horse and cart pulled up beside Farling and stopped. Holding the reins was a grizzled looking old man with sunbaked skin like leather. And beside him sat a man who had the most colorful clothes Farling had ever seen. He also had one of the largest stomachs Farling had ever seen.

  “Looks like you need a ride,” said the man in the bright clothing. “There is room up here on the bench, climb up.”

  Farling threw his bag of clothes in the back of the cart on top of the pile of chopped wood and found a space to sit.

  “This is Clajorn,” said the man pointing at the cart driver. Clajorn made a clicking noise and the horse began pulling the cart again at an easy cantor. “And mine is Jagjord.”

  “Mine is Farling,” and they shook hands. “I must admit, I have not met a lot of strangers in Jordheim, but I have never someone dressed as colorfully as you. You are obviously not a fisherman or a blacksmith. What do you do?”

  “I am a teller of stories.”

  Farling’s voice was incredulous. “And you are paid for this in coin?”

  “Sometimes, but rarely. Often, I am paid in food and a roof over my head which is fair compensation. People like to hear stories and news from other parts of Dennland. I oblige. My clothes are a way for people to recognize me as a storyteller. So, where are you going, young Farling?”

  “Trondheim. I am off to make some coin during the King’s Tournament as an apprentice blacksmith. Then hope to continue working in Trondheim after the tourney ends as I want to buy a farm back in Jordheim.”

  “Ah, the King’s Tournament, the biggest tournament of the year. It closes tournament season with a flourish. It also boasts the fattest purses for the winners. Anyone winning an individual tournament is set for the entire year, able to hire more servants, purchase better armor and weaponry, and buy a horse more befitting the winner’s new status. But the biggest purse by far is the Grand Prize, awarded to any knight who wins all individual tournaments: quarterstaff, archery, sword, and the most glorious event of the entire tournament—the joust.”

  “Winning the Grand Prize ensures a steady income for the knight from the lands he will be bequeathed. The purse is so large, the winner is also able to purchase a small castle, staff it, and maintain it. But no one knight has won the Grand Prize for many a year. Some say it is impossible.”

  “Who are some of the knights attending the King’s Tournament that people say might win?”

  “A betting man, are you? No?” he said seeing Farling shake his head. “Sir Morgan, Sir Eyfrod, Sir Lagmann, Sir Baldur, all strong knights, all favored to win individual events, perhaps even the Grand Prize. And if they do not win, perhaps a warrior from Aarlund might.”

  “What?”

  “Oh ho,” said Jagjord with a grin, “I see I will be earning my keep on this story. As you know, the people of Aarlund and Dennland have been fighting each other for centuries. Aarlund warriors, with their flaming red hair have fought the dark-haired Dennlanders along the northern border as long as anyone can remember.”

  Clajorn merely mumbled something about Aarlund and spat on the ground.

  Jagjord ignored Clajorn, said: “The last big battle between the great nations was the Battle of Blarjmarn. A terrible smashing of shields and splintering of spears. The death grip was a grim harvest of death on both sides. Before that battle, there had been only small skirmishes as centuries before the battle of Blarjmarn, King Tvedestrand of Dennland had built a wall to separate Dennland and Aarlund. The wall kept the Aarlund clans from crossing into Dennland and attacking the small villages and farms that populated the area. It also prevented Dennlanders from moving into Aarlund territory as well as the farmland is good in the south of Aarlund. The manned wall worked for a long time, forcing a peace upon the land. There was even some trade of goods between the two lands after a while.”

  “But with peace came apathy. The wall crumbled, falling into disuse. None of the Dennland barons who lived along the border would commit the men, resources, or coin to maintain the wall. Soon, the same farmers and villages that had been protected by the wall began to pick at the wall, both Dennlanders and Aarlunders, stealing stones and bricks for their own barns and buildings, until the wall was but a ghost of its fo
rmer self.”

  “And so, the skirmishes returned as any useless soothsayer could have predicted. Dennland fell back on its old trick of dividing the clans, pitting one against another as Dennland kings successfully exploited the anger between the clans. But, while Dennland had made war on one clan, or several clans bound together, they had never fought all the clans of Aarlund at once.”

  “Recently, there is a new king of Aarlund, King Cormac of clan Mac Dún. He has united the clans. I have heard snatches of stories along my travels, but most tales tell a similar story: That Cormac was only been able to unite the clans because of a druid. A new druid the whisperers whispered, he appeared one day alongside Cormac and has never left his side.”

  “What is the druid’s name?” asked Farling.

  “His full name is Nas na Riogh, Clan Builder, for he has united the clans. The clans would never unite for a king, but for a person of mysticism and magic, they would. And did. Aarlund clans are superstitious. So, under Nas, the clans are bound into one, each clan leader pledging fealty to Cormac, but each secretly doing so out of admiration of this new druid, Nas.”

  “As to why an Aarlund delegation is in Trondheim for the King’s Tournament, no one has a definite answer. Some guess that King Frederick is meeting with the Aarlunders from a position of weakness. That because he and Queen Astrid have no heir, he has had to make a peace, to buy some time. King Frederick is not a young man, he has more than 40 summers of life. If he has not had an heir by now, the people think he never will. War might break out in Dennland amongst the barons if there is no heir. But the barons will only war with each other if they feel the prize of the crown is within reach. And if an heir isn’t produced soon, I fear for this country.”

  “Still, others guess that Aarlund and Dennland are weary of fighting. The last great battle of Blarjmarn was especially hard on both countries. People wonder if the two kings have agreed that it would be best if the two great lands made peace and improved trade to grow their wealth.”

  Jagjord fell silent and pulled a small pipe from a pocket. He filled it with fresh tobacco leaf, banged a small bit of flint against a tiny rock over the pipe causing sparks that lit the tobacco. Jagjord puffed on the pipe as the smoke drifted behind the cart.

  They talked of other things along the way till Jagjord noticed Farling’s sword.

  “May I?” he asked. Farling placed the sword in Jagjord’s hands. “A fine blade,” admired Jagjord. “An old sword, well maintained. Keep that sword safe, young Farling. I would not want it to fall into the wrong hands.”

  As Jagjord puffed slowly away at his pipe deep in thought, Clajorn continued his steely silence only punctured by the occasional click at the horse and spit on the ground.

  CHAPTER 3

  Ravens Bring News

  The raven flew high in a sky, barely a speck against the blue expanse. His coal black eyes scanned the ground and paid especially attention to the tree with the black bark and white leaves. Satisfied no one was near, he pulled its wings close to its body and plummeted towards the ground. At the last moment, he spread his wings and halted his dizzying descent. He landed gracefully on the rocks that surrounded the pond with the tar-like substance. All the bird’s senses were on high alert, but no sound or sight caused him to bolt. He hopped quickly over and walked out on the rock that overhung the pond. He gazed down and measured how low the tar-like substance was in the pond. He looked over and noticed the tree’s tendril-like roots drinking deeply of the pond.

  The raven ran along the rock and leaped into the air, his strong wings lifting him higher and higher into the air. He had seen what he had been sent to see. Now he had to get back his master—alive.

  ***

  The old man sat slumped on the throne. His clothes, ragged and threadbare, hung from his skeletal frame like a cloth sack many sizes too big. His long white hair was tied in a braid that reached down to the small of his back while his snow-white beard covered his entire front. Deep creases crisscrossed his face and his parchment-like skin pulled tight over his cheekbones. When he opened his eyes at the sound of the flapping wings, his deep milky white eyes registered nothing. Blind as a newborn kitten he waited for the raven to land.

  The immense black bird glided gracefully through the open window of the Norse longhouse, flew the length of the room and landed easily on the back of the throne. His brother, Hugin already sat perched on the other side.

  “Welcome, Munin,” said the blind man in a clear strong voice, betraying his skeletal frame. “You were gone a long time. What stories have you to tell?”

  The raven leaned forward bringing his beak close to the man’s ear, whispering.

  “So, it is as we feared. We knew this day would come but it feels too soon. Still, this flesh I call my body is close to betraying me. Perhaps it is best that this happen now before I am incapable of movement. It is time we find some defenders, heroes who have not forgotten the stories of the gods and who will fight the darkness that threatens to sweep the land.”

  He stood and walked unerringly down the length of the longhouse and out its front door. Outside, the ground was covered in thick snow. He pulled the thick furs tighter across his shoulders and pointed a bony finger out towards the water where a black ship lay. Ice had not yet bound it to the land and he could hear the gentle waves lapping against the ship’s hull.

  He mumbled an incantation and the ship’s slack sails billowed with an unseen wind. The ship lurched forward as the timbers creaked and groaned under the strain. No sailors climbed the rigging, no hand was at the till. The ship sailed without crew unerringly towards the port of Trondheim.

  The old man stared unseeing out at the ship, hearing it recede in the distance. Satisfied, he whispered to the other raven, Hugin.

  “You are well rested. Find the Master of the Hunt where he sleeps the sleep of dreams. Wake him. Tell him to find the Necklace of Freya. He will know what to do with it.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Alchemist

  Doshmin, thieves guild master of the city of Pitcairn, had been riding hard the past two days. Pitcairn was the second largest city in Dennland and had been built on the crossing of the Renaelva and Orklaelva rivers in the far north near the border of Aarlund. Over the centuries, Pitcairn had served as the buffer against the marauding clans from across the border with Aarlund.

  Doshmin experienced no problems crossing the border from Dennland to Aarlund earlier that day. He knew which guards to bribe.

  He had been summoned by Alchemist, who lived just across the border in a stronghold at the foothills of the mountains. Doshmin chuckled lightly to himself. Alchemist had earned his nickname because of his ability to make such tasty ale and mead. Everyone had said that the ale and mead must taste so good because of alchemy, and that the person in charge of the stronghold must be an “alchemist.” And so, the nickname had stuck. And it had been the name he had used for so long, that Doshmin did not even know Alchemist’s real name.

  Far away from any town, village, or city, lay Alchemist's stronghold. Built into the hills that started at the foot of the mountain range that continued north for the rest of Aarlund, it was a fully functional and working stronghold. Many novice druids worked the land, kept the stables clean, and made the ale that was sought after and sold throughout Aarlund. Doshmin had sources that would smuggle the ale across the porous border, making Doshmin some fat profit.

  Doshmin approached the stronghold. As he entered the land around it, he saw that the fields had been harvested and were will tilled. The gardens that still held vegetables looked very green. The farm animals, a collection of goats, cows, sheep, chickens, ducks, geese, ponies, and horses, appeared well looked after. And the stronghold itself was clean, but non-descript.

  He noticed the chimneys that sprouted from all the buildings. This part of Aarlund would get extremely cold during the desperate parts of winter.

  But there was one building that was different. It stood apart from all the others and seemed to be p
ractically all chimneys. An immense and wide stack of wood was piled outside under a simple roof.

  A novice druid made his way towards Doshmin and motioned Doshmin to follow. Eyes downward, the novice led Doshmin’s horse towards a small and clean stable. Doshmin dismounted and handed the reins to the druid. While Doshmin was gathering his personal belongings, another druid, this one much older, approached him.

  “I understand I have the pleasure of meeting Master Doshmin from Pitcairn.”

  “I am.” He extended a hand in introduction.

  “Oh no,” the elderly druid said, “We don't shake hands here. We merely bow.” And the wizened druid bowed slightly. Doshmin returned the bow politely enough.

  “How should I address you then?”

  “You may simply refer to me as Old Monk. I understand it is a common nickname for me amongst the younger initiates within this house.”

  “Fine. If you could be so kind, Old Monk, I have been summoned to meet Alchemist. Obviously, you were told as you expected me.”

  “Yes, indeed I was. Your arrival caused quite the stir amongst the apprentices as we never have visitors here.”

  “But what about Alchemist's ale that is made here and sold at pubs and taverns across Aarlund and Dennland?”

  “Ah, I have the pleasure of driving the wagon laden heavily with barrels of ale that is made here. I meet my business associate just beyond sight of here, where we exchange ale for coins or anything else this house may need. No, no one comes to this house as we do not want to disturb the fine work done here. An apprentice’s life is a highly disciplined and regimented one that is not to be disturbed. A bell rings on the hour ever hour, night or day, signaling what work needs to be done about the stronghold and its surrounding land.”

  “Then I am honored that I have been allowed to enter this house.”

  “As you should be.”