Heimdall, blow his horn, a call to battle.
Wicked Loki would join the enemies of the gods— the followers of Hela, who was
Death, and the Frost giants; and the sons of Muspell, with their leader, Surt,
at their vanguard, would ride over the rainbow bridge, Bifröst, breaking it
beneath their weight, on their way to the last battlefield, Vigrid. There, all
the gods and their foes would be slain; then the universe would burn up and be
no more— or so the skálds sang in the great
mead halls of the jarlar, and so all his life, Wulfgar had believed. Nor
was he the only one of the hunting party to think that their doom was come upon
them. Stricken, the rest of the freedman had fallen to their knees as though
awaiting retribution, and even the jarlar and thegns were stunned
and uneasy, uncertain what to do.
Ivar
was still locked in mortal combat with the giant wolf, twisting and turning to
avoid its great, snapping jaws and terrible, bared fangs. Another man would
have been dead by now, Wulfgar thought. But Ivar had the strength of two men
and was gifted, besides, with the uncanny ability to contort his body in that
unnatural fashion— as though he had no bones. He had his hands firmly about the
wolf's throat to hold the creature at bay, and he and the wolf thrashed and
tumbled across the ground as they grappled desperately for supremacy, a blur of
grey fur and brown leather, stained with blood— although whether this was from
wounds of their own or from the roe deer killed earlier, Wulfgar could not
tell. The snow was red with the blood that had poured from the injuries and the
opened throats of the roe deer, and the battle of Ivar and the wolf had brought
them near to one of the slain does that lay silent and still upon the earth, large,
liquid brown eyes glassed over now, limbs already stiffening in the cold.
It
seemed forever before at last gathering their wits, Ubbi and Halfdan raised
their bows and notched their arrows to take aim at the wolf, only to have their
weapons abruptly and savagely struck from their hands by their father, who
swore at them wrathfully.
"By
the God of the Runes and Valhöll!" Ragnar roared as he cuffed his sons
again roughly, nearly knocking them down; and Wulfgar thought he had never seen
his father so angry— or so afraid. "You fools! 'Tis plain you did not
drink from Ymir's well of wisdom and wit at Jötunheim ere you were birthed,
else you'd have more of both, you stupid whelps of a mongrel bitch! Why, you
cannot tell man from beast in that fracas! Do you want to slay Ivar by
mistake?"
"Nay,
but neither are we of a mind to stand idly by while a crazed wolf mauls him to
death, Father!" Halfdan, younger and bolder than Ubbi, shot back, his
breath coming harsh with ire at Ragnar for shaming him before the hunting
party, and with fear for Ivar.
"So
you say!" Ragnar growled, his clear blue eyes blazing like sunlight
reflecting off ice. "But 'tis more like you cared not if your arrow
pierced him, Halfdan, for then would his death set Ubbi on my throne— and you be one step
closer to it, by Odinn!"
"Nay,
Father!" Halfdan protested. "That was not the way of it—"
But
Ragnar, in his upset, did not want to hear Halfdan's indignant words; and with
his fist, he backhanded Halfdan across the mouth before roughly shoving him
aside; then, breathing hard, he strode toward Ivar and the wolf, spear in hand,
poised to strike. Now, of all Ragnar's sons, Ivar was not only his heir, but
also his best beloved, and this must have been foremost in his mind, Wulfgar
thought; for Ragnar's hand trembled ever so slightly as he watched for his
chance to intervene in the deadly struggle, and when he finally did thrust his
spear downward, he missed the wolf's side and instead drove it so savagely into
the creature's haunch that the shaft broke in two. Still, the wound did not
prove fatal. If anything, it only incited the wolf to further violence; for
after making a spine-chilling sound that was neither snarl nor
Wicked Loki would join the enemies of the gods— the followers of Hela, who was
Death, and the Frost giants; and the sons of Muspell, with their leader, Surt,
at their vanguard, would ride over the rainbow bridge, Bifröst, breaking it
beneath their weight, on their way to the last battlefield, Vigrid. There, all
the gods and their foes would be slain; then the universe would burn up and be
no more— or so the skálds sang in the great
mead halls of the jarlar, and so all his life, Wulfgar had believed. Nor
was he the only one of the hunting party to think that their doom was come upon
them. Stricken, the rest of the freedman had fallen to their knees as though
awaiting retribution, and even the jarlar and thegns were stunned
and uneasy, uncertain what to do.
Ivar
was still locked in mortal combat with the giant wolf, twisting and turning to
avoid its great, snapping jaws and terrible, bared fangs. Another man would
have been dead by now, Wulfgar thought. But Ivar had the strength of two men
and was gifted, besides, with the uncanny ability to contort his body in that
unnatural fashion— as though he had no bones. He had his hands firmly about the
wolf's throat to hold the creature at bay, and he and the wolf thrashed and
tumbled across the ground as they grappled desperately for supremacy, a blur of
grey fur and brown leather, stained with blood— although whether this was from
wounds of their own or from the roe deer killed earlier, Wulfgar could not
tell. The snow was red with the blood that had poured from the injuries and the
opened throats of the roe deer, and the battle of Ivar and the wolf had brought
them near to one of the slain does that lay silent and still upon the earth, large,
liquid brown eyes glassed over now, limbs already stiffening in the cold.
It
seemed forever before at last gathering their wits, Ubbi and Halfdan raised
their bows and notched their arrows to take aim at the wolf, only to have their
weapons abruptly and savagely struck from their hands by their father, who
swore at them wrathfully.
"By
the God of the Runes and Valhöll!" Ragnar roared as he cuffed his sons
again roughly, nearly knocking them down; and Wulfgar thought he had never seen
his father so angry— or so afraid. "You fools! 'Tis plain you did not
drink from Ymir's well of wisdom and wit at Jötunheim ere you were birthed,
else you'd have more of both, you stupid whelps of a mongrel bitch! Why, you
cannot tell man from beast in that fracas! Do you want to slay Ivar by
mistake?"
"Nay,
but neither are we of a mind to stand idly by while a crazed wolf mauls him to
death, Father!" Halfdan, younger and bolder than Ubbi, shot back, his
breath coming harsh with ire at Ragnar for shaming him before the hunting
party, and with fear for Ivar.
"So
you say!" Ragnar growled, his clear blue eyes blazing like sunlight
reflecting off ice. "But 'tis more like you cared not if your arrow
pierced him, Halfdan, for then would his death set Ubbi on my throne— and you be one step
closer to it, by Odinn!"
"Nay,
Father!" Halfdan protested. "That was not the way of it—"
But
Ragnar, in his upset, did not want to hear Halfdan's indignant words; and with
his fist, he backhanded Halfdan across the mouth before roughly shoving him
aside; then, breathing hard, he strode toward Ivar and the wolf, spear in hand,
poised to strike. Now, of all Ragnar's sons, Ivar was not only his heir, but
also his best beloved, and this must have been foremost in his mind, Wulfgar
thought; for Ragnar's hand trembled ever so slightly as he watched for his
chance to intervene in the deadly struggle, and when he finally did thrust his
spear downward, he missed the wolf's side and instead drove it so savagely into
the creature's haunch that the shaft broke in two. Still, the wound did not
prove fatal. If anything, it only incited the wolf to further violence; for
after making a spine-chilling sound that was neither snarl nor
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