Ragnarok

Chapter 27 - Consequence

The longhouse was one of the largest of its kind, sitting high in the North above Midgard's arctic circle. There was little plant life this far north, mostly evergreens standing sentry over a few hardy grasses, and game was scarce. If one looked far to the southeast, from the tops of the tallest hills, one could just see the misty upper branches of Yggdrasil, orbited by eight shining globes like the moons of Asgard.

Atop one of the highest hills, overlooking a rocky coastline, was the longhouse. Originally built to house a long-dead mortal chieftain, it had been preserved by his descendants for generations. Even now, in the dead of winter, the hearthfires within were warm and well-stocked.

Spanning nearly the length of a football field at 274 feet, and swelling out in the middle like a sailing ship it was a broad, solid building. The roof was bright, verdant green in the summer with the creeper vines that grew during the warm season; during the long night of winter, though, it was covered in a thick blanket of white snow, broken only by the raised smoke-holes.

The watchtowers that stood in a semicircle around the longhouse were considerably less comfortable, but such was the difference between a guard post and a king's dwelling. It was one of these guards, about halfway through his shift and warmed by a horn of mead, that saw the Rainbow Bridge suddenly swirl into existence about 100 feet away. All colors scintillated in Bifrost's chaotic center, while the edges looked like they were aflame. The guard snorted and nearly dropped his drinking horn, then raised his somewhat primitive spyglass to his face.

He stared for a moment as figures started streaming through, glad in rich silks and golden armor, but also ash and blood. Most of the figures milled around listlessly, with a look of pure shock that was not unfamiliar to Norse raiders. Causing that look was, in fact, their stock in trade; it was disconcerting to see that same look upon those who dwelt in Asgard, however.

Or at least, those who normally dwelt in Asgard.

The guard, Bjorn by name, reluctantly put away his drinking horn and pulled out his signal horn, blowing a long blast to bring out one of the messenger boys, bundled up against the cold. "Call the chieftain!" Bjorn shouted at the boy. "Tell him the Bifrost has just appeared! There are wounded streaming through from Asgard!" Bjorn swallowed, then added to himself, "Gods protect us all."

Though that was the problem, wasn't it? The gods were the ones on the run.

* * *

The chieftain's name was Olaf Baldurson, the latest in a long line of war-leaders. The prosperity of his clan was apparent by the size of his hall, and the number of warriors he had at his command. According to his grandfather, the druids had picked out the spot as a convergence of something they called 'Lines of the Serpent', or some such. He had little time for such superstition, personally. His grandfather had steeped himself in it, sometimes to the detriment of their clan.

Olaf concerned himself with more immediate matters, such as raiding and pillaging; and he had stuffed his hall with the bounty of many successful attacks, including artifacts from as far away as Vinland, and the deep south where the sun was hot all the time and people's skins were scorched black. Or so said the merchants that Olaf sometimes robbed, as if legends of other lands were worth more than sharp steel and a heap of plundered gold.

So it was with some surprise that Olaf was awakened in the middle of the night, a comely wench upon each arm, and told that the Gods had come to pay his hall a visit.

At first, Olaf was convinced his steward had gone mad, but there was certainly a large commotion going on in the central hall. So, still half sodden from his libations and feasting the night before, he reluctantly pulled on his pants, tunic and boots ,and allowed himself to be guided into the central hall of his longhouse.

There, he saw a refugee camp. A very well dressed one, to be sure, and every face in it was nearly divine in its strength and perfection; but a refugee camp, nonetheless. And standing at their head, looking less than impressed with their accommodations, was a one-eyed wizard clad in dark robes, a blonde-haired giant with a massive warhammer at his side, and what appeared to be a handful of Valkyries come down from Valhalla itself.

Olaf blinked and rubbed his eyes, sure for a moment that the remains of last night's drinking was simply making him see things. But no, the wizard, the giant warrior, and several of the others ... they were glowing. It was probably only visible because the hearth fire had been allowed to burn down to coals, in order to save fuel for the back end of winter. It was a winter which his sages had assured him was going to be as harsh as the mythical days when Baldur was slain.

Harsh, indeed. But for the Gods themselves to flee Valhalla? That was nothing short of Ragnarok.

So thinking, the chieftain considered the unexpected guests within his hall. Then, he broke out into the wide smile of a welcoming, kindly monarch. He spread his arms to the assembled masses, as well as those members of his own household who had blearily emerged to see what the fuss was about.

"To what, oh mighty Aesir, do we owe this honor? Surely this humble hall, rich by mortal standards it may be, is a mere hovel compared to the halls of Asgard."

"Not so, good Olaf," replied the one-eyed mage in a grave voice. "Your hall is a fine one indeed, and among the largest in Midgard. This is why we have chosen to make this our refuge." He fixed Olaf with the gaze from his single eye, and leaned heavily upon his oaken staff. "This is a troubled time within the Nine Worlds. The fire giants march in Muspelheim at the forefront of an innumerable host of demons; the frost giants have begun to launch attacks into Vanaheim; Svartalfheim and Alfheim have renewed their eternal blood-feud, and their battle has spilled out into Jotunheim. The gates of the dead are trembling with the inflow, and Helheim is filled nearly to bursting."

"My old nan always told me, 'When there's no more room in Hel, the dead shall walk the Earth!'" wailed one of the serving wenches, clutching a small necklace in the shape of a stylized hammer.

"Great, Dawn of the Dead too?" the blonde giant muttered, though Olaf was having trouble following. The Gods often spoke in riddles, it was said.

The priest of Odin swept the crowd with his one-eyed gaze, and all fell silent, even the trembling servant girl. "And that brings us to why we are here. Asgard itself has fallen under attack, by a horde of half-man, half-beast creatures called the Wolves of Fenris. They came in burning ships that exploded upon impact, disgorging their maddened hordes upon Asgard." The man looked haggard. "Even I have never seen such chaos. We could not stop them, only fight our way clear before the Hall of the Gods burned down around us."

That terrible, one-eyed glare found Olaf, and he cringed as though he'd just been stabbed with a poisoned dagger. "And those wolves will coming to Midgard. Along with everything else I just mentioned." He turned towards the guttering flames of the hearth-fire, and with a wave of his hand, a massive pile of dry brush appeared atop the coals, quickly catching fire and filling the longhouse with the roar of its heat.

He turned to Olaf once more, who had been uncharacteristically silent. He'd always found it was not a wise idea to interrupt messengers with important information, especially not ones who arrived via Bifrost. And most definitely not ones who could summon matter out of nothing with a mere gesture.

"Summon your warriors, every hard man and shieldmaiden you have at your command. They will be needed. The Nine Worlds are at war, and Ragnarok is upon us. The time has come to stand and fight, or die upon the hills of our fathers. There are no other options."

Olaf bowed his head slightly, then turned to his staff to start barking orders. "Dispatch runners to every mead hall and longhouse in our lands! Tell them they'll either answer the call to stand with Valhalla, or by Odin's balls they'll be squatting in Helheim come midday tomorrow!"

He glanced over at the grim-faced Yeshua, and mumbled. "No offense intended, yer holiness." Keeping one eye on the strangers, feeling like a coward in his own hall, the chieftain quickly retreated to his room. The girls had already wisely disappeared, leaving Olaf to plan out the routes his fastest riders would have to take, in order to assemble his forces. They would come reluctantly, but they would come.

Olaf would see to that.