The Abomination of Asgard Read online

  “Yes,” said Farling and pulled back the sleeves on his shirt to show where the skeleton had gripped tight on his wrists. Two blue burn marks left by the skeleton’s bony hands could plainly be seen. And then they told Sihr how salt in the boots had been the trick to getting aboard the ship, that they had found the jeweled belt, left the ship in time, and how the merchants guild had paid them in full for the reward.

  Sihr said: “I would of course appreciate a small token of appreciation with some of the reward going to the Paupers Temple.”

  “Of course,” said Farling.

  “Now, as to the burn marks on your wrists. I think I can help. Do you mind?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Sihr gently held Farling’s wrists exactly where the skeleton had.

  “An evil stain,” said Sihr. “But I think I can help.” He closed his eyes and started mumbling a spell. Farling at once felt a strange warmth tingling in his wrists. After a few moments, Sihr let go.

  Arastead and Grum looked at Farling’s wrists and their mouths fell open. It was as if Farling had never been injured.

  Farling asked: “What did you do?” He rubbed his wrists, not feeling any pain at all.

  Sihr said: “A simple healing spell. The priests of the Paupers Temple were renowned for their healing. Unfortunately, my master died before I could learn more, so I know some basic healing herbs and simple healing incantations. I am also quite good at binding wounds and fixing broken bones. Now, what about this jeweled belt you mentioned.”

  “It is safe back in Bringon’s forge,” said Arastead. “We could not bring it out of its hiding place as Bringon was around too much this morning.”

  “Ah well,” said Sihr, “I would have liked to have seen it. Let us have some tea and biscuits as you must be hungry.”

  Grum nodded, said: “Now you are talking my language.”

  CHAPTER 13

  The Thieves Guild of Trondheim

  Meanog and his two friends Brascan and Slofar made their way along the streets of Trondheim. Meanog’s bloody nose had stopped bleeding but still looked terrible. Brascan, the thief with a twisted nose, gingerly touched his chin, grimacing in pain. Slofar’s black eye was already an impressive purple.

  Slofar asked: “What are we going to tell Jorum?”

  Meanog grimaced, said: “We tell him the truth. I have seen other initiates tell Jorum lies. But Jorum has some means of detecting truth. And then the punishment is always worse. No, we tell them what happened with Orlough, how we had the ring in our hand, but were foiled by those blacksmith apprentices that work for Bringon.” He spat on the ground.

  They turned down a non-descript alley. Where the main streets of Trondheim had been busy, this side alley was quiet. They walked into a store that looked plain and run down.

  Inside were old objects for sale as it appeared to be some sort of antique store. There were even cobwebs on old vases. Obviously, the shopkeeper did not have a head for business. The shopkeeper himself was a large overweight man who seemed permanently drunk behind his desk. Meanog and his friends ignored the shopkeeper and walked through a set of thick curtains at the back and entered a room.

  The room was empty, only paintings and drawings on the wall. A single candle lit the room as when the curtains were drawn, the room was pitch black.

  Meanog lifted an amulet out from under his shirt and pressed it to the wall.

  A door materialized where just moments before had been a blank wall. Brascan opened the door, and they all entered the Trondheim thieves guild.

  Inside the entrance lobby were two guards and an old man perched on a stool in front of a tall table. On the table were papers and papers, some loose, some tied together with string. He held a sharpened pencil in one hand and looked expectantly at the boys.

  Meanog spoke: “Meanog, Brascan, and Slofar beg permission to enter the Trondheim thieves guild, Master Horund.”

  Horund asked: “Do you have anything to declare?” He wrote down their names on a piece of paper.

  Each of the boys said no. Horund recorded everything in his journal.

  “Einar wants to see you,” said Horund, putting the pencil down. “He is in the library, waiting for you.”

  The initiates’ shoulders sunk as they made their way to the library. Einar could usually be found there as his closest confidant was the librarian, Pressan.

  The thieves guild library was in the far corner of the guild’s compound. The entire compound was hidden from the view of the people of Trondheim. Even the sounds of practice fighting and the smells from the guild’s large kitchen could not be detected as the entire guild existed in a place apart from Trondheim. Meanog had asked about this, but no one had been able to give a meaningful reason, simply saying that the guild was hidden by magic and charms.

  Meanog prayed silently to Loki, patron of thieves, that the meeting with Einar would go well. Einar was the thieves guild master. He did not see you unless it was something important. Meeting him was either a blessing or curse. And the initiates knew it was not going to be a blessing.

  Meanog hoped any punishment meted out would not be too painful as the thieves guild was his last chance for redemption.

  Meanog had tried practically everything after leaving the School but had failed miserably. Looking after farm animals, shearing sheep, milking cows, shoeing horses, he was horrible at them all and been chased away from each job.

  So, when an old acquaintance of his had approached him at the Hammer & Anvil pub one night, and had asked for his help on a job, he had gone along, happy to make some extra coin. And when the job had gone well, this old acquaintance had introduced him to some very interesting people, people as it turned out who were in the thieves guild. It was they who had got him a job as a blacksmith apprentice, where he worked with Brascan and Slofar. While they did do work for the blacksmith, they also did work for the thieves guild.

  He had quickly impressed everyone at the guild, especially with his ability to lead. It was not so much leadership but just bossing around other people. So, when Jorum, master of the initiates at the thieves guild had asked Meanog to do a job, his heart had leapt with joy. But now they had been bested by some young blacksmiths and had lost Orlough’s ring.

  Meanog detested the library. But he knew Einar loved the library, knowing that the books were at times his only way to riches for the guild. For books held knowledge and knowledge was his weapon.

  The library had several entrances. At each entrance were rows and rows and stacks and stacks of books. Old thieves, too slow and decrepit to pick pockets, maintained the library, keeping it neat and orderly. They took pride in their ability to keep the vast knowledge of the guild well preserved.

  The long tables for reading were in one corner. And in the farthest corner was Pressan’s desk. While the rest of the library was fastidious, Pressan’s desk was a jumble. But somehow, he always knew where everything was.

  Seated across from Pressan was Einar, master of the thieves guild of Trondheim. Each city had a thieves guild. All had rules and a charter. Each guarded their territory jealously. It was said that there was once a thieves guild that ruled all the thieves guilds of Dennland, but no one could determine if that was real or not. The one person all thieves did pay homage to was Loki, the trickster, the deceiver, the charmer, the thief. Loki was a god and was both loved and despised by his fellow gods. But thieves had to be careful asking for Loki’s help as often he would make the task more onerous and dangerous just for his own enjoyment. But no thief had asked for help from Loki in years as Loki had disappeared after the fall of Asgard.

  Still, out of respect for the Trickster, a small statue of Loki was in the library and it was plain to see that even his small statue was up to no good. A sly smile played across the statue’s lips and his eyes roamed looking for trouble and adventure. Homage to Loki in the form of coins lay at the statue’s feet.

  As Meanog, Slofar, and Brascan came into view, Einar closed the book he was reading.


  Even though the master thief was seated, one could see his body was a tight spring, coiled for action and speed. Lean, slightly taller than average, Einar was a rakish man with short dark hair streaked with gray. He was able to hold his wine and drink any man under the table. A small pointy beard was his only vanity, and he liked to stroke it when deep in thought. His blue gray eyes it was said could penetrate through walls, seeing danger before it happened, ensuring his escape. His long-tapered fingers could pick thousands of pockets and never tire. And his mastery of the thief’s knife, the long dagger, was legendary. His taste in fine clothes and well-made weapons often caused him to stand out in a crowd, but everyone assumed he was a wealthy merchant. Einar still held many of the guild’s records: most pockets picked in a day, largest single haul, and most daring theft when he stole the crown off a visiting queen during a crowded reception. It was rumored he also stole a kiss from her later that night.

  Pressan, on the other hand, looked as if at any moment he would crumble and fall apart at the seams. No one knew how old Pressan was, just that he was old. His short hair was a bright white color, his eyes a pale green hidden behind half-spectacle reading glasses. His shoulders were stooped from years of sitting and reading. And when he walked it was so slow that thieves often asked if he would like them to pick him up as they would get him there faster. But Pressan would merely chuckle at the oft-repeated joke and say how he had waited this long, it would still be there when he got there.

  Einar asked: “What news?”

  Meanog gulped, said: “The only news we have, Master Einar and Master Pressan, is not news I believe you wish to hear.”

  Einar steepled his fingers, said: “Continue.”

  “As requested, we found Orlough’s body in the Paupers Temple and relieved him of his ring.”

  “So Orlough somehow gave you a sore jaw, Brascan a black eye, and Slofar a shiner of a chin?”

  “No, Master Einar. I had the ring in my pocket, when we were disrupted by that blacksmith Bringon and his three apprentices. When we made to escape, we were tackled and beaten.”

  “I am confused. Three young thieves get their ring stolen. Something is wrong with this picture. I will give you a clue: you three are supposed to be doing the thieving!”

  The initiates hung their heads as they stared at their feet.

  Einar stopped shouting, said: “Fine, you three are on kitchen duty all week here in the guild. And you will still perform your responsibilities at the forge in the Hive. And you are off patrols for the week. No sharing in any revenue that comes in this week. You had better pray to Loki it is a light week for your sake. You three are dismissed.”

  Slofar nudged Meanog in the ribs.

  “Oh, right,” said Meanog. “Master Einar, we were hoping to qualify for the Squires Tournament. Do we have your permission to try out this afternoon before the king’s speech?”

  “What part of working in the kitchen do you not understand? No Squires Tournament for you three, it is peeling potatoes, doing dishes, and working in the forge.”

  The three young thieves now hung their heads in true dejection as they walked towards the kitchen.

  Once the young thieves were beyond earshot, Einar turned to his friend Pressan, and said: “What do you make of all that?”

  “I think they were telling the truth,” said Pressan. “At least enough of it.”

  “It does dovetail nicely with what I heard.”

  “Those young blacksmiths that work for Bringon will be at Orlough’s burial.”

  “Of course, old friend. You are getting wiser every day. I will meet them at Orlough’s burial. May Loki’s smile shine down on us. If my suspicions are correct, those are the same three who got aboard the black ship last night and collected the merchants guild reward.”

  Pressan looked wistful for a moment, then said: “It is too bad you and Orlough had such a harsh falling out all those years ago. I miss his visits.”

  “My friendship with Orlough was never over, just placed on a low simmer. Now it is too late to make amends, which I will need to atone for later. I will pay homage to Orlough at his burial.”

  “What about Orlough’s ring?”

  “That old bauble. I will get those three initiates to dig up Orlough’s body and get that trinket back.”

  “Wait a week then make them dig it up.”

  Then Pressan and Einar laughed so hard they cried.

  CHAPTER 14

  The Draugr

  Old Monk walked over to the pigeon hutch at the top of the highest building in Alchemist’s stronghold in Aarlund. He thought he had seen a pigeon recently arrive. And he was expecting a note from Doshmin, the thieves guild master from Pitcairn.

  Inside the hutch he could see several excited pigeons jumping around. But one looked a little more tired than the rest. It had a note attached to one of its legs.

  Old Monk grabbed the pigeon and untied the note. He let the pigeon feed and drink while he read the note. Old Monk chuckled to himself. He enjoyed working with thieves as they were always so direct in their manners: All about the profit.

  Old Monk hurriedly made his way to Alchemist. He found him in his study, surrounded by books, a roaring fire in the fireplace.

  As Old Monk entered the room, Alchemist raised his eyes.

  “What news my old friend?” he said.

  “It would appear our thief from Pitcairn was successful at his first job. He demands payment.”

  “Thieves, all about the profit. I knew it was wise to hire someone from a different guild to carry out such a delicate job in Trondheim. So, the old fool Orlough is dead. Good, I found him more dangerous as a gutter rat than I did when he was the king’s secretary. No other word from Trondheim?”

  “No, nothing yet, but there may be other pigeons on their way.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps. I have need of your services, my friend.”

  “My will is yours to command.”

  “As you are the only one allowed to leave our stronghold, I need you to visit the Heart Tree.”

  Alchemist handed Old Monk a scroll with a wax stamp, the same wax stamp used on all their bottles of mead.

  Old Monk nodded, said: “My will is yours to command.”

  ***

  It took Old Monk many hours to get to the Heart Tree. When he reached it, night had fallen. By the light of this torch, he gazed at the tree in adoration. Old Monk loved visiting the Heart Tree. It represented everything he felt that was good and pure in the world. It was going to make things right in the land. And Alchemist and his followers were going to be rewarded handsomely for their efforts.

  Old Monk admired the shiny black bark, the blindingly white leaves. The tree was a survivor. And not just survive, but thrive. Old Monk admired that too.

  He was a survivor as well. Life had not been easy for Old Monk. Before, when he was younger, at the mere mention of his name, his enemies’ knees trembled. Omagh Dún Cranach he had been called. Even thinking about his old name caused him to stand taller.

  As Omagh Dún Cranach, he had been a great man, a leader of men. He had led scores of warriors into battles, leading the charge at the front of the formation—the tip of the spear—with wild abandon, striking fear into the hearts of his enemies. His sword had sung the song of battle so often its voice was hoarse.

  But then, one day, he had slipped in battle. A storm had raged the day before and rain had soaked the ground. Mud was slick everywhere making the footing treacherous. He had drunk wine before the battle as always, which usually did not affect him, only increased his zealousness for battle.

  But this time, his balance was off. As he charged into battle and fell upon the enemies’ shield wall, he slipped in the mud, and lost his footing. He saw in slow motion a shield move in front of him, and a short spear spit out and strike him in the chest. His warriors had swarmed the shield wall, while others pulled him to safety.

  The wound had been horrific. The spear had pushed some of his clothing deep into the wound, c
ausing a bad infection. The camp cook who also set broken bones and bound wounds, had poured hot wine on the infection. But the cure had not worked. Omagh became delirious and lost all sense of time. The battle had been short, only a few hours. At the end, his side won, and his warriors carried him home.

  But once home, he did not improve. He lost weight and withered away. His friends abandoned him. When he finally regained some strength, he found he could not grip his old sword. Somehow the infection had destroyed his nerves and now he could not lift his sword. He broke down and cried when he discovered he could not fight. He did not know what else to do.

  In grief, he lost himself in wine and visionflower. He spent all his money and lived solely on the handouts of strangers. Occasionally he ran into an old friend, who would treat him for one night. But that was not enough, and so Omagh’s sadness grew and grew, until one day he tried to take his life. But it did not work. So, he tried again, and this time headed out into the middle of a fierce snowstorm. The snow was hip deep as he waded out in the thinnest of clothes. Even in his condition, he had made it far into the countryside until, exhausted, he had collapsed in the snow, waiting for the cold to finish him.

  But when he awoke, he found himself covered in blankets beside a roaring fire. He thought he had gone to Asgard, the place where warriors go who fall in battle. When he saw an old man tending the fire, he knew it was not true and cried bitter tears.

  Hearing that he was awake, the stranger stopped tending the fire and spoke, said: “Now is not the time for tears. You have been given a rare opportunity. You have been chosen to help me in my task.”

  And those words could not have been any truer. For the speaker was Alchemist.

  Alchemist helped Omagh’s strength return, fed him strange brews of herbs that cleansed Omagh of the effects of visionflower to the point he never craved it again. Omagh’s nerves even healed enough that he could wield a sword again, but not to the same deadly effect as before. Still, he was grateful to be healed. And in his gratitude, he followed Alchemist, and helped him wherever he could around the stronghold: training new recruits, building new barracks, and helping brew the mead that made the stronghold the bulk of its treasure. Alchemist only trusted Omagh to drive the small horses that pulled the wagon full of mead to be sold. And over the years, Alchemist began to trust Omagh more and more, to the point where he shared the secret of the Heart Tree.