After the Gods - Chapter 1

 

1.
A relic from the past

Asgeir heard the first thud well before the fog crept in, yet he chose to disregard it. He thought it superstition, one of the many shadows plagueing every soul since the serpent’s rise. There was no reason for him to abandon this field so ripe with the remains of a bloody battle. Shattered spears, torn shields and dented blades lay everywhere Asgeir could see, some of which could still fetch him a day’s rations in the Nook. He couldn’t understand why people clung to these rusted mementos, but they did. They sought some salvation from the blunt axes and bent bows, a spark of hope hiding withing these weapons. A chance to fight the terrors that befell humanity.

The next thud was louder and more clear, and when Asgeir raised his head, the blood froze in his veins. The horrid figure emerged from the milky mist and trampled on several half-eaten corpses while turning its blind sockets towards Asgeir’s racing heart. It was larger then the tales told, standing almost thrice his height and many times his weight. The fog swirled around it and froze into solid, tinkling gems that covered its entire arm, from thumbs to shoulders.

There was no hiding now—the jotun saw him. Or rather sensed that he didn’t belong there, between the lifeless cadavers of once mighty warriors and heroes. He was way too alive for that. Asgeir lept back just before the colossal fist smashed down where he previously stood, shredding a wooden shield to pieces and flinging pieces of bone to all directions. Nobody knew what drove the children of Ymir into such a frenzy, but people told about them in every hideaway. Life slipped from them the moment the Gjal sounded, and so did the tolerance for any living thing. They smashed apart villages, uprooted glades and massacred anything that crossed them.

Asgeir rolled to the side, avoiding the massive foot crushing him like a bug and looked around for a weapon. There was nothing that could save him from the jotun, but by Odin, he wasn’t going down without shedding blood. 

He caught something glistening under a mound of rotting flesh and heavy leather cuirasses. Asgeir didn’t hesitate, he just rushed towards it and grasped the handle with both hands. He heard the jotun thudding behind him, crossing the distance with a few steps and casting a deathly shadow over him. The weapon wasn’t giving. The chilling presence of the giant bit him all throughout his body, but he couldn’t run away. There was no use. He’d only die a coward, and he refused even now, when no god was alive to judge him.

The jotun raised his hand to swipe Asgeir to the side, most probably shattering every bone in his body, but that moment something got unstuck in the pile of flesh and the weapon swung upwards, meeting the giant’s palm head-on. It was a spear, sturdy and thick with a rune-carved head, which somehow survived the massacre. Time slowed to a halt, the dry muscles strained around the jotun’s arm, and in that moment, Asgeir was ready to die. Valhalla was no more, Odin’s halls lay empty, so only uncertain darkness awaited him, but he didn’t care. Life was miserable as it was, he could settle for an emptiness.

Yet, death never came. The runes inscribed into the spearhead glowed in dark, ancient colors and the jotun’s hand split. The small, barely fist-sized blade cut the giant’s hand clean off, more akin to a headman’s ax, spilling crimson blood across half an arrow-shoot. The creature roared in agony, while Asgeir just stood there, grasping the spear, not daring to even blink. This was surely a dream. A last feverish phantasm as his skull split, just like the jotun before.

He had no time to decide wether he believed his eyes, because the giant leaned forward and smashed down, trying to crumble him between his dried out fingers. Asgeir hopped back, twirled the spear around and jammed it clean into the colossal arm. Bones creeked and tendons popped under the blade, and when Asgeir pulled the weapon back part of the jotun’s forearm came with it, spinning free from the joint and smashed onto the ground between two warriors’ remains.

Blood rushed into Asgeir’s mind. The runes almost burned on the tip, and the heat covered his arms and legs, crying to give into the bloodlust. The wounded giant coiled up like a worm and threw his leg forward, trying to sway the troublesome human away. Asgeir jumped upwards to dodge the attack, then kicked himself forward, closer to the colossal torso. The omen of dread that clouded his mind until now dissipated, the force driving him towards escape let go and nothing but an instinct remained. He was no berserker, yet in that moment, he understood them better then all his life.

The jotun swung the snag that remained of his right arm at Asgeir, and he could barely block it with the weapon’s shaft. The force of the blow sent him flying clean across the field, and eventually onto a shieldmaiden’s corpse. The air escaped his lungs, but the crimson haze didn’t clear. A familiar metallic taste rushed onto his tongue, his chest stung like fire and when he tried to rise, his limbs forsake him.

The runes on the spear brimmed again. A cold, salty wind swept over Asgeir and his vision blurred, obscuring the giant slowly rising to it’s feet. It was barely more than a corpse; maybe it never was more. A mountain of frosted meat and tendons, bristle bones and a cold killer instinct that drove him to squash Asgeir even crippled and near its end. 

Asgeir clenched his teeth in anger and forced himself to rise, then spun the spear around and planted his feet for a last charge. He heard drums from somewhere, strong and agitated beating like a warchant. When the jotun howled at him, he cried out too and lunged forward. Time crawled like a melting glacier, every heartbeat took an eternity, and every move heralded a victor. Either the raging monstrosity with unearthly strength, snapping the warrior’s spine like a twig, or Asgeir, mystic spear in hand, aiming for the jotun’s empty eyes.

The warrior won. The weapon thrust into the giant’s skull, pierced through the layers of bone and emerged through the back of its head with a wet plop. The colossal body curled, its abdomen fell against the ground while the spear got stuck in the mud and held the lifeless head looking ever forward. Asgeir wheezed like a horse, his shoulders trembled and unwilling tears ran down his face. He couldn’t control the panic that came over him as the battlerage left, so he gave in. He fell down his knees and covered his head with both arms, shaking on the miry ground until he was too tired for that.

He faced a jotun. A jötnar denizen of Jotunheim, an ice giant akin to the god Loki and he won. There was no man since the starts faded that could befell a giant, yet he did just that with a spear he just requisitioned amidst junk and rubbish.

Asgeir slowly opened his eyes and looked at the weapon still sticking out from the gian’ts eyesocket. A normal spear would have snapped already from the weight, but this not only withstood and stayed firm, it radiated some wild beauty. An ancient perfection, something from the oldest tales told by the völvas during their sacrifices.

“What… are you?” Asgeir wishpered barely daring to speak. It was clear the spear was far more powerful than he was, and it made him uneasy. People told about relics, adorned armament of the Einherjar that fell to Midgard in the battle, but he never seen one carried around. Warriors would give anything for those relics and some gatherers like him made a fortune from them. Not that fortunes mattered these days, but this thing—this had real power. This wasn’t a simple Einherjar weapon.

Asgeir grabbed the shaft and fighting his disgust, he yanked it free from the skull. The runes still glowed, shifting from blood red to nightshade, but the light shrunk weaker with every pulse. Almost if the weapon knew the battle was over and it had no duty anymore. The giant’s head knocked against the ground and a fang broke from its horrid jaw. Asgeir’s eyes narrowed as an idea came over him, then set the spear onto the ground and grabbed the skinning knife hanging from his belt. There wasn’t a chance he would sell that weapon for anything, but he still needed to eat that day. He knew how much would Hrothir give for the remains of an ice giant?

* * * *

The Nook grew somewhat since Asgeir departed three days ago. Refugees came pouring in from every direction, mostly from the south where the waters rose the fastest and they settled in to count the days left. It was a pathetic sight for what was supposed to be the harshest survivors mankind had to offer, but nowadays getting here was a feat in itself.

A lean, dark-haired man winced at him from atop the guard tower, but seeing he was just a human, he nodded. Asgeir walked past the stake fence, resting the spear on his shoulder and hanging his spoils form the end of it in a brown sack, catching many an eye. He was seemingly the only one walking straight with some confidence among the hunched husks and darkened glimpses, and that stirred into the murky depression. He couldn’t walk three steps inside the walls before a woman rose up from a shadowy corner and walked up to him.

“Oy. You a peddler, right? What you got there?” she asked. She spoke flawless norvegian, yet her colours were much more reminiscent of the celt warriors they battled with on the western raids. Or so they told.

“Nothing. Hunt was unsuccessful,” Asgeir replied but it didn’t startle the woman.

“You know, lyin’ is fruitless when you show off the truth. That’s a spear, right?”

Asgeir took a deep breath and looked into her eyes as cruel as he could. “It is. Not for sale, though. It’s personal.”

“Yeah, right,” the woman smirked. “What would you do with a weapon, peddler? You ain’t a warrior.”

The conversation caught the attention of more people and they slowly cornered Asgeir. He felt like prey, and he didn’t like that at one bit.

“How much?” a staunch men said simply. He looked quite sickly, with a shrunken face and a spreading black malady on his fingers. He must have spent a long time in the snowstorm heralding the end times, and the frostbite chewed his flesh and bone. He couldn’t hold the spear properly even if Asgeir was willing to part with it.

“Not for sale,” he replied more agitated.

“Come on, peddler,” the woman pushed on. They threw the word around like a jest, a mockery to humiliate him for living on instead of charging head-first into a wall of jötnar like many did. He was “just” a peddler in their eyes, someone to cowardly to die a warrior.

“Alright, so be it. I’ll just pluck it from your corpse,” the staunch man said raising a rusted axe onto his shoulder.

“Hey!” the celt woman shouted and grabbed the man’s shoulder. “Did the frost scoop out your wit, you moron? You want to kill a man, here?”

“So what?” the man replied confused. “You wanted to take it too, Fenris.”

“Yeah, with coin. Or whatever he asks. Kill a man and you’ll bring the giants on us.”

“That is just saxon horseshit,” the man grunted. Fenris struck out like a fox, clever and precise, grabbing the man’s neck and twisting it backwards until he lost his balance.

“Say that again, you sack of piss and I’ll rip out your throat right here. I’m no saxon, Geirolf, and I do not speak nonsense. Understood?”

The man squeezed a weak ‘yes’ through the grasp, so Fenris let him fall on his arse, then turned back to Asgeir, who just stood there silent, bearing the interlude.

“Now, peddler. You sure you won’t sell me that? I could pay well.”

“I told you twice already,” he replied. “It’s personal. I need to defend myself as well.”

“I could defend you with it. How’s that? You give me that and we’ll share food until you find something else.”

It was obvious they were getting nowhere, so Asgeir threw the sack onto the ground, unfolding half a dozen frosted fangs and a hearth larger then Geirolf’s head. He didn’t know which part was worth anything, so he went after his instincts and old tales.

Fenris and Geirolf both took a step back, while a third bystander, a young blonde kid nearly jumped away from the sight.

“Is—is that…” the celt woman gasped.

“It is. Jotun fangs and its heart. Those I’d gladly sell for a week’s rations. You think I need protecting?” Asgeir asked looking at Fenris. The woman’s lips curled into a grin, but her eyes still stuck to the remains.

“How… How did you kill that?”

“Wait. Don’t tell me this peddler coward fell a giant!” Geirolf shouted, and the words ran across the Nook like a warhorn. Every begging cripple, every malnourished child and wounded warrior sprung up and swarmed at them so tight even Fenris got agitated.

“Hey! Behave, you mongrels!” she cried, but it bothered no one. A grey warrior lumping around with a crutch tried to touch Asgeir’s spear, only deterred by another woman grasping his hand and pushing him back.

“Did you really? You killed a giant?” a juvenile boy asked. A slim, crooked man knelt down next to the fangs and slowly picked one up then dropped it immediately. A veteran-looking man shoved away another, shouting about something and not before long almost a hundred tired souls tussled around Asgeir and his spoils.

“Someone killed a giant. There’s still hope!” the grey man said shedding tears. “Odin might still be with us.”

“Enough!” Fenris cried out so ferociously the buzz died out in an instant. “Shut your claps before you get more hurt than you’re now. You…” she said tilting her head towards Asgeir. “Come with me. Without a word.”

Asgeir just sighed and packed up the giant remains, then walked after the celt followed by the renewed cacophony of eleven dozen people spinning the tale of a yet unkown giantslayer. He didn’t intend to put himself as a hero, nor did he want to show off, but he was left with little choice.

Fenris struck through the mass and lead him towards a hiding, half carved into the rockface that served as the backwall to the whole Nook, half built from stakes and split shields. It was surprisingly large considering how fast people had to build hovels for themselves, but it seemed Fenris didn’t cut corners. The inside was separated into two rooms with a board wall, one that was suppsodely where the woman slept, while the larger was packed with different hunting trophies and half-prepared meat.

“You’re a hunter?” Asgeir asked, but Fenris didn’t answer. Instead she lit a large way candle on a wall-mounted shelf and closed the door shut. She even covered the windows with some pelts, so the candle was the only source of light in the whole hovel.

“So, peddler,” she said sitting down by the rough table. “How did you come across those horrible trophies?”

“I told you.”

“No, you didn’t. You just htrew them on the ground and let those dumbasses believe you killed a fucking jotun.”

“Why do you think I didn’t?” Asgeir said, sitting down opposite Fenris. The celt just grunted and stood up again, making the whole scene a bit awkward.

“Because that’s impossible. You know, I’ve met one. Fought it, even, and by sheer luck I could escape with my hide,” she said while tampering among the junk piled on a counter until she found two drinking horns. “So don’t speak nonsense to me, boy.”

Asgeir tried not to remark, just shrugged. “If you say so. You can believe whatever you want.”

“I’m not much for believing, peddler,” Fenris said while sat down and threw a horn towards Asgeir. It was just water in it, but he would have been much more surprised if she’d waste ale on him—if she had any. Not many did. “I want to know things. At first I thought you just happened upon the most intact weapon on this side of the sea, but after that little stunt… Now I don’t wanna buy it. I want you to tell me about that giant.”

Asgeir took a big gulp from the horn to bide his time a little. There was no point keeping anything from her, since laying low was no longer a possibility. He’d suspected he couldn’t keep something this unearthly a secret, but a bit more peace would have been nice.

“If you insist,” he said eventually. “I was scavenging a day’s walk from here, around the Coal Woods.”

Fenris suspiciously narrowed her eyes. “That’s where the Serpent’s blood dripped onto the earth. Are you mad, boy?”

“Perhaps. But I found no curse, no poison, just a battlefield. It was so vast I could tread half a day and still walk inwards. I wandered around there for two days at least, until I was covered by a fog.”

Fenris looked lost in thought, at least the way she wiggled her drink said as much. “A giants’ spell. Something that even fooled Thor once. So you were ambushed.”

“You believe me now?” Asgeir said with a smirk. “But you’re right. A frost giant emerged from the fog and almost killed me if not for this spear,” he said glancing over his shoulder at the weapon’s cloth-covered tip.

“How could a spear stop a jotun? I saw even varg fail to penetrate their skin.” Fenris asked leaning back. This woman grew more interesting with every word, and somehow that reassured Asgeir. It was good to know he wasn’t the only one experiencing the impossible.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I wasn’t thinking much, I just grabbed something and held it towards the jotun as it tried to flatten me. But it didn’t, instead the spearhead cut its palm in half and tore the other arm off by its elbow.”

“What?” Fenris said even more confused. “Alright, you’ve stalled enough. Show me that spear.”

Asgeir was still reluctant to reveal anymore of something he himself couldn’t fully grasp, but for some reason he didn’t oblige. The runes carved into the tip were peaceful now, almost like they were sleeping inside the metal, but it still hummed with the strange, archaic power.

“I can’t let you take it, but you can observe as you like,” Asgeir said as he held the weapon towards the celt. Fenris tried the blade’s edge with her finger, then caressed every rune carefully until she stopped.

“Don’t… Don’t tell me… This can’t be—,” she muttered, almost grasping on the spearhead.

“What? You know this weapon?”

Fenris looked up in utter dismay. Her eyes stared forward with a sickly pale shimmer and she even flashed her teeth at Asgeir, while the woman’s hand twitched and her fingers curled.

“How can you not know? How can you not recognize the symbols?” she asked. Asgeir pulled the spear back and stood up, unsure if the woman would jump at her or collapse.

“Tell me. What is this?”

“That is Gungnir, boy,” she said in a deep growl. “You found the place where the gods fell.”