The Abomination of Asgard Read online

  As Old Monk and Doshmin approached the largest building within the stronghold, an initiate ran over and opened the door, bowing low.

  “My thanks,” said Old Monk as he and Doshmin entered the structure. The initiate quietly closed the door after staring at the thief for as long as he could. They walked along in silence, Doshmin noting the plain walls and large unadorned windows.

  “The floor, it feels warm.” Doshmin stopped, removed a glove, and felt the floor with his bare hand.

  Old Monk nodded. “It is an old design that most people have forgotten. Some people think the concept came from the elves, when they used to live here. There are water pipes that run under the floor. This water is heated in a main boiler that is housed separately from all other buildings, for safety purposes you understand. These pipes that run under the floor that you feel are connected to that boiler. Perhaps you saw the building? It is the building that stands alone with a tremendous smokestack that rises high above. We still use the fireplaces and wood stoves inside each house when the temperature really becomes unbearable.”

  As Doshmin entered Alchemist's library, he was struck by the aged look of Alchemist. He had no idea how old Alchemist was—just that he was powerful and wealthy, having accumulated both in his lifetime. Even under his meager druid's outfit, you could see the breadth of Alchemist's shoulders and his warrior-like stance. And, if Alchemist stood straight, he would have rivaled some of the tallest clansmen Doshmin knew.

  “Thank you for coming, Master Doshmin,” said Alchemist. “In addition to sowing chaos in Dennland and Aarlund, I now need you to kill someone in Trondheim.”

  Doshmin scoffed, said: “I am no common assassin. To become a thief requires real skill. Anyone can kill someone else. You simply must poke them with a dagger hard, many times. But not anyone can steal a wallet without the merchant feeling the wallet leave their pocket.”

  Alchemist looked unimpressed by Doshmin’s protest, said: “I know you hang onto your title as master of the Pitcairn thieves guild by the thinnest of threads. Any day now, you will be voted out, and a new master will rise in your place.”

  Doshmin gritted his teeth, wondering how Alchemist had known this, quickly realizing Alchemist held all the cards.

  Doshmin nodded, said: “What you say is true, Alchemist. I have been a poor thieves guild master. I thought I could bring in enough coin to sustain being in charge, but I have failed. Which is why I accepted your job offer in the first place. But, killing someone, that is against my guild’s charter.”

  “What if I told you I could pay your guild enough coin that any and all chatter of overthrowing you as master would cease immediately.”

  Doshmin grunted, said: “How much coin are you talking about?”

  And Alchemist mentioned a number so high, despite all his training, Doshmin scoffed, said: “There is no way you have that much coin.”

  Alchemist merely crossed his arms calmly, said: “Do you really doubt me?”

  Doshmin did not, but could not believe Alchemist wanted someone killed so badly, he was willing to spend an extraordinary amount of coin on the contract.

  Doshmin narrowed his eyes, asked: “Who must I kill in Trondheim?”

  “That old fool, the former king’s secretary, Orlough.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Welcome to Trondheim

  It was late evening at the outskirts of Trondheim when Farling arrived. The setting sun turned the clouds a fiery red. It had taken him five days to make his way from Jordheim to Trondheim. He had said good-bye to Jagjord a few days before, and since then, Farling had helped farmers and received food and shelter in return. The farmers had wanted only a strong back from Farling as none had a forge. It seemed most farmers were missing farm hands and helpers as they had left early for the annual King’s Tournament.

  As he came closer to the outskirts of the city, it began to get busier. Stalls had been setup along the road to sell meat pies, homemade mead, and other goods and wares to the people making their way to the King’s Tournament.

  He looked over the large fields where the knights were setting up their tents and pavilions for the King’s Tournament. Further off in the distance, he could see the stands being constructed to offer people a better view of the jousts and other tourneys.

  He decided to enter the city first and find Lanson, the blacksmith friend of Mantock. After a few more months of work, he should be eligible for the blacksmiths guild. He joined the line of farmers, merchants, and villagers wanting to do business in the city of Trondheim. Even though the city had not seen an attack in decades, the city guards made a big show of inspecting all the wagons. Then Farling realized why.

  “What business do you have in Trondheim?” asked the guard of Farling. White flecked the guard’s unshaven beard and wine flavored his breath.

  “To find work with blacksmith Lanson.”

  “Blacksmith Lanson, I do not recall any smithy called Lanson.”

  One of the other guards who had been listening leaned over and addressed the guard: “Ostend, I have heard of Lanson, he has got the forge in the Hive at the edge. But good luck finding him.”

  “Yeah,” said Ostend, the first guard, “good luck finding him.”

  Farling did not like the sound of this talk and he even liked less what the guard said next: “Today is my birthday. What did you get me?”

  Farling knew what that meant. Cursing softly under his breath, he grabbed some coins from his wallet. Farling had seen enough bribes and shake downs in his young life. He had just not expected to experience it so soon. He passed a coin into the guard’s hand who quickly slide it into his pocket. Just like other people, the guards looked forward to the King’s Tournament as they would make a small fortune in bribes.

  “Happy birthday,” said Farling.

  But Ostend was not finished, and his eyes flashed triumphant.

  “Nice scabbard. What kind of sword do you have? Let us have a look.” He made to grab the hilt of Farling’s sword, but Farling twisted his body out of the way.

  Ostend’s face blotched purple as his anger rose, growled: “You had better let me have a look at that sword, son, or it might be the last thing you ever do.”

  “You will not be touching my father’s sword, for if you do, it will be with your last breath.”

  Ostend sputtered in rage as specks of spit covered his lips.

  But before Farling could unsheathe his sword he was surrounded by guards. Farling held his breath.

  “Not so talkative now are you?” said Ostend triumphantly. “I will be having that pretty sword.”

  Farling ground his teeth so hard he tasted blood. He slowly untied the straps that held his father’s sword to his back and handed the sword over, said: “I will be having my father’s sword back one day.”

  Something heavy crashed on the back of Farling’s head, causing his vision to fill with sparks.

  He crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

  ***

  Farling opened his eyes—slowly.

  The sky was light, but the sun had yet to break the horizon. Pain throbbed from the back of his head where he had been struck. He gingerly touched the back of his head and felt a clump of hair clotted with blood. His guts suddenly churned, and he went to his hands and knees emptying what little bit of food he had in his stomach. He sat back, noticing something was amiss.

  He looked around. Black spots still filled his vision. He blinked, and the spots slowly disappeared. He took in his surroundings then understood what he had been smelling. Farling was covered in mud and smelled like a pig.

  The guards must have thought they had quite the sense of humor. After taking everything he owned, including his father’s sword, they had dropped his limp body in the closest pig pen inside the city. One of the pigs came over and sniffed Farling. Farling rubbed the pig behind the ears, much to the delight of the pig who grunted affectionately.

  Farling whispered: “Welcome to Trondheim.”

  With a sigh, he grab
bed the railing of the pig pen, set his teeth, and pulled himself up. He heaved a soiled leg over the low fence, then the other, then stood, watching the people of Trondheim walk past him.

  Nobody paid any attention and the ones that did looked right through him. He wondered if this was a familiar sight. He looked around for a water trough or a bucket of water to clean with but found nothing. He decided to walk down to the harbor, see if he could find a place to go for a swim, either from land or from a dock.

  Farling did not ask anyone for directions as he could see the tall masts of the ships and headed off in that direction through narrow streets. He almost enjoyed how people parted around him like water would around a rock in a stream.

  The narrow street Farling was on joined up with a large boulevard. He saw that the boulevard ran down the hill towards the port. Farling looked up the boulevard and at the top of it was the castle of Trondheim. Even from where he stood, Farling could see the guards that paced the top of the castle walls ever vigilant for some unseen foe. Farling wondered if he would ever meet the king and queen, but knew if he ever saw them, it would be from a distance. A very large distance.

  Along both sides of the boulevard were shops, taverns, pubs, and places to stay. Farling made his way once again to the port. As he walked, he was impressed at all the different outfits people wore. He reckoned they must be from countries far away, countries he knew little about.

  Soon he was down at the docks looking out over the great harbor. Farling marveled at the ships. No ships of this size had ever dared come close to his village of Jordheim as those large ships drew too much water and would have easily run aground. Mighty masts reached towards the sky like outstretched arms. All ships were decorated with a figurehead at the ship’s prow: mermaids, dragons, griffins, all mythical creatures, all meant to grant them safe passage on the open sea. Sailors lumbered their usual stiff onshore gait, getting used to solid ground under their feet as city guards walked slowly around the port, making a big show of their presence to keep the king’s peace. Merchants and guildsmen may have grumbled about high taxes, but guards never heard an offending word.

  At this time of day, the docks were already busy with sailors and port workers unloading and loading freight. Farling could only imagine that, with the King’s Tournament, this was the busiest time of the year. Off in the distance he could see ships waiting their turn to come in and unload their freight and load anew.

  Farling looked for a place to swim. Off at one end of the port was a small beach which looked unused.

  There, he swam with all his clothes on. The water felt good and cold, refreshing after being caked in mud. The salt water of the sea stung slightly where the guard had struck him. Farling swam underwater, rubbing his hair and clothes to clean them as best he could. In his village, he was considered a good swimmer. He tried his best to make sure all his clothes were as clean as possible.

  After a while he sat on the beach, thinking about what to do next. He had only a few coins left that his mother had sewn into the cuffs of his pants. He could still feel them. The guards had not stolen all his money. But he had no extra clothes, and he had lost his father’s sword. He wondered what to do next. He also remembered what those guards had said about Lanson the blacksmith and hoped Mantock had not steered him wrong.

  “Well, maybe I am not cut out for the city life. Maybe I should just head home to Jordheim.”

  “Nonsense,” said a voice behind him.

  Farling turned and looked at the person who had spoken. He was not encouraged by who he saw. The voice belonged to an old man, gray matted hair plastered to his head, and his teeth looked rotten.

  “Thanks, old man,” began Farling, “but I think I know when I am done. I have lost all my money, all my clothes except for these wet dirty ones that are stuck to me. And I lost my father’s sword.”

  “But you still have your skills?”

  “No broken bones and the blow to the back of my head did not break anything. So yes, I can still work.”

  “You are a blacksmith, yes?’

  “Yes.”

  “I see the telltale burn marks of sparks from a forge on your skin.” The old man came closer and squinted at Farling. “Ah, I thought so. I can see some soot still in your ears. What is your name?”

  “Farling. Farling Jordheim.”

  “Ah, Farling from the village of Jordheim. My name is Orlough.”

  They shook hands.

  “Tell me. Farling,” continued Orlough, “did your parents ever tell you the story of how Loki stole the crown from the dwarf king?”

  Farling nodded. “That is an old story my mother told me many times. In Nidavellir—the realm of the dwarves—the dwarf king had placed the crown in the middle of a room. It looked to everyone that the crown was unguarded, but the dwarf king had placed a spell on the floor. As soon as anyone placed a foot on the floor, terror would flood their body and they would flee the room as fast as they could. But Loki was favored by the dwarf king’s daughter. ‘Before you put your boots on, pour salt inside them,’ she told him. This he did and was able to walk on the floor and not suffer any terror attacks. Loki left with the crown, infuriating the dwarf king, who never forgave him.”

  “A tale well remembered and well told.”

  “Why are you asking me about stories of Loki?”

  “Because I miss those stories. Now, another question. Let me see how much you know about being a blacksmith Tell old Orlough how to make a simple horseshoe.”

  And Farling described how to make a horseshow step by step exactly how Mantock had taught him.

  “Good,” said Orlough with a smile, “I see you apprenticed under a master. Come, I think I know a blacksmith who could use an extra hand this tournament season. But first, let us get you cleaned up some more. I cannot present you to anyone in your condition, not even the filthiest blacksmith.” Orlough laughed at his little joke.

  “I was told to pay a visit to Lanson the blacksmith. I do not know where his forge is though in this great city.”

  “Lanson the blacksmith, yes, I remember him. But I have not seen him at his forge for a long time. I fear he has gone missing. Not to worry, young Jordheimer, I will find you work with another smithy.”

  Looking at Orlough, Farling reviewed his options. Figuring he had nothing to lose and knowing he would keep an eye out for any traps, Farling got up out of the water and followed Orlough.

  As they made their way through the city, Farling noticed people still gave them a wide berth, as now they seemed to make room for Orlough. As the crowds parted around them, Farling again was astonished at all the different types of people.

  Farling asked: “Orlough, there are people here from other countries I do not recognize.”

  Orlough nodded then said: “The King’s Tournament pulls in many spectators and speculators. There is a lot of money that changes hands during this time. You will see people from Turkistan, Opistan, Salgaria, and Lanksha. Turkistan is known for its silk; ornate and intricately woven rugs always come from Opistan; rare peacock feathers, ivory, and coffee are from the lush coasts of Salgaria; and Lanksha brings the spices and tea. Trondheim has the best port and lowest taxes, which always attracts the merchants wanting to make coin.”

  Along the street people were cooking and selling food to hungry customers. Farling’s stomach roiled in protest. He noticed all the pubs were busy and overflowing.

  “Here, chew this tack,” said Orlough noticing Farling’s hungry look. “It is a biscuit that the sailors favor on long trips. Even though I am not a sailor, I find I quite like the taste. And they last a long time and help keep you feel full.”

  Farling bit the tack. Just like Orlough had said, it was hard and not very flavorful. Still, it was food and his stomach stopped making noises for the moment.

  “Orlough, where are we going?”

  “All the blacksmith forges are in the Hive. It is a maze of tight, thin alleys with only a few larger roads. It is the oldest part of Trondhe
im. The Hive is also the foulest smelling part of Trondheim. When the wind blows south, which is not often, thank Odin, the entire city of Trondheim is caught in the Hive’s foul odors.”

  “Why does the Hive smell so?”

  “The Hive is where the tradespeople—butchers, bakers, bone cutters, leather makers, blacksmiths, tin smiths, wood craftsmen, felt makers, tailors, cobblers, candle stick makers, and dyers—work and live. During the day, large cauldrons of boiled water cure and harden leather and other garments, dye wool, and boil fat and marrow from the bones from the slaughter houses.”

  “The Hive is also known for its insatiable appetite for wood and charcoal. Woodcutters venture far and wide to feed the Hive. Carts filled with chopped wood are constantly cycling in and out of the Hive’s maze of roads. And charcoal makers also have a fine and profitable business creating the fuel for the forges, as only charcoal burns hot enough for the blacksmiths to make the best quality swords and weapons. As you full well know.”

  Farling did know. Mantock had taught him how to make the charcoal ideal for the forge, how to dig pits in the ground, and burn the wood at just the right temperature for several days, all covered in earth.

  “In the Hive,” continued Orlough, “knowledge of a trade passes from father to son, from mother to daughter, so that over the years, the quality of products is unrivalled, be it wool jackets, leather armor, candles, or swords.”

  “All the craftspeople have their own house symbols or brands signifying the maker. And they guard their house brands jealously. If a house finds an item with their brand not made by their family, the craft maker will hunt down the forger, make them pay. The Hive makes its own rules, has its own way of dispensing justice. Forgers do not last long in Trondheim.”

  They had been walking for many minutes. The crowds thinned, as few visited the Hive unless they must.

  “Ah, here we go. Welcome to the Hive,” said Orlough with a flourish.

  Farling looked around. The first thing he noticed was the haze that hung over the short buildings. The smell was pungent, a heady mix of smoke, slaughterhouse, and sweat. All the people Farling saw were hard at work. The King’s Tournament was their opportunity to make enough coin to last them for many months, maybe till the next King’s Tournament. The streets had rivulets carved in them for the waste matter to flow down and away from the Hive. He watched as small children raced home-made wooden boats down the flowing effluent, running and cheering on their boats. The streets were stained with centuries of use. Farling could smell the tang of salt water used at night to clean the streets.