Loki (40 page)
He struggled to free his sword arm, and when the giant brought him close he stabbed out with his suddenly free sword, directly into the giant’s eye. The creature screamed and reflexively let Heimdall go, but he held onto the sword with one hand while he swung around and grabbed it with his other. The giant flailed wildly and stumbled over the bodies of the slain at his feet, Heimdall dangling from the sword still sticking into his eye.
The giant crashed down face first, the impact driving the sword deep into his brain, and he died instantly. Heimdall, however, had been caught underneath and slammed to the ground, bearing the full weight of the massive giant. After long minutes, he still did not rise.
The Asgardian line held, most unaware that their leader had fallen, oblivious to all but the need to hack, slash, and stab at any giant flesh that pressed near them. Several larger giants moved forth, however, and bodies were cleared away to create an opening. As a massive giant stepped into a hole created in the barrier, several warriors rushed to fill it, their swords flashing. They cut deep into the giant’s leg and were rewarded with a roar of pain and anger, which was shortly followed by the other foot stomping down and crushing them into the ground.
Back ranks moved forward and attacked the large giant, but enough of a gap had been created that some of the smaller giants were able to break through and engage the men. As the men fought off the smaller giants—who still nonetheless towered over them—the massive giant reached down and scooped up man after man; crushing some in his hands, blood and guts spilling over his tightened fist, ripping off the legs of others, biting off the heads of still more.
The line was eventually broken and the warriors swarmed upon those giants who tried to go through it. But they were now forced to fight on two fronts since the line of giants continued to press forward. They fought valiantly, desperately, and many, many giants were slaughtered. But slowly, one by one, the men were crushed, beaten, stomped on, pulled apart, or even eaten, and with each death, every warrior had that many more of the enemy to contend with.
As the streaming legions of giants walked through and over the bloody battlegrounds, eager for more death, none even paused to witness the hundreds of dead giants or the few dozen Asgardian warriors who were now nothing more than broken, littered bodies and bloodstains on the once lush field. Not a man survived, and as the giants continued to stream unrelentingly over the field, their numbers interminable, Heimdall never stirred from the spot where he had been crushed under the massive weight of the giant.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The two armies faced each other across a flat emerald plain, the one vastly outnumbering the other. Tyr could not believe that so many giants existed; they stretched as far as the eye could see, mass upon mass of giant, each at least twice as tall as Thor, and many so large that Thor himself scarcely equaled their thumbs.
The armies of Asgard were silent and brooding. They stared at their enemies across the field with resignation and quiet rage. Once the battle was on they would let fly with battle cries and shouts of fury, but for now, silence reigned. The armies of Jotunheim, by contrast, were eagerly engaged in noisy, mocking behavior, like the savages they were. They did not move forward yet—this was a prelude, an attempt to intimidate—but they would soon, and the field would run scarlet with blood.
Tyr knew it was impossible but he searched the ranks for any sign of Fenrir. He did not see him, but that did not mean he was not there. Still, he did not feel the beast’s presence, and he was fairly certain that he would if the wolf was near. He needed to meet this one enemy on the battlefield, and he would slay the entirety of Jotunheim to get to him if need be. He could no longer rest knowing that Fenrir was out there, mocking him, taunting him with the old injury.
The giants grew suddenly quiet for a few brief moments before beginning the charge towards the armies of Asgard. The gods and their allies held their ground firmly, steel at the ready, knowing that these initial few ranks of giants would be the first of many to die at their hands. They may have bested Heimdall’s retainers, but now they faced gods of battle, and they would soon enough find out what that meant.
As the giant army came closer Tyr noticed something overhead, just above the tree line in the distance. It drew part of his attention despite the imminent threat of the giants. It was a shimmering of the air, followed by a materializing of the largest ship he had ever seen, floating on the breeze. All those assembled paused for a brief moment, even the giants, as the ship became more fully corporeal, and Tyr felt a mixture of rage and anguish wash over him. Standing at the helm was Loki—although he looked different—and next to him was a large wolf.
He had grown much since Tyr had seen him, but it was undeniably the same beast who had chewed off his hand. Tyr felt his grip grow tighter, his teeth clench. In the final seconds before the clash of these massive armies, his lust for blood increased tenfold.
The brief respite from the appearance of the ship ended quickly as the giants resumed their charge. A ripple of trepidation ran through the armies of the gods, however, as the ship moved over them. All the collected dead of Niflheim streamed downward into their midst, just as the wave of giants crashed into the front ranks.
The downward streaming line of ghost-like dead seemed endless, but they were met by the combined forces of the Einherjar and the Valkyries. The shades swarmed over every opponent they could see, their lack of skill outweighed by the crushing force of their unending numbers. Einherjar were each beset upon by ten or more of these dead souls, clawing, biting, striking with whatever weapons they had—knives, clubs, axes, even bare finger bones. They fought back viciously, each of these hand-picked warriors trained for pain and battle from a relentless routine of fighting, dying, and resurrecting to fight and die again. They cleaved heads with their swords, smashed skulls and bones with heavy two-handed axes, ripped out whatever guts remained with long daggers.
Valkyries danced in and out on their pale steeds, appearing here with flashing blade to lop off arm, leg, or head, and then just as quickly appearing elsewhere to stab an enemy in an empty, gaping eye socket. They were able to keep mostly free of injury due to their speed, but they could not always avoid the constantly questing hands and claws of the dead. Valkyries, once made corporeal to strike, were found to be vulnerable to counterattack, and some were swarmed in mid-strike, their sword arms immobilized by the weight of twenty or more ghouls dragging them down, pulling them from their horses and piling upon them with flailing arms and biting teeth. Those who fell thus did not rise again. Their horses, deprived of the direction of their warrior maidens, were also dragged down and mauled mercilessly.
The gods were pressed hard by the onrushing multitude of giants, and could not even see the havoc that was happening behind them. Each of the gods was already surrounded by scores of giants they had slain, but those remaining were endless. They held their line fiercely, supported by the Einherjar behind them, who stabbed and slashed with viciousness born of an eternity of bloody fighting, and the Valkyries, who appeared suddenly to send their swords screaming into giant flesh and then disappeared just as quickly to attack another.
Tyr’s sword hacked mercilessly, slicing through the thick, trunk-like legs of one giant, sending him tumbling to the ground to join dozens of his kin in the blood and muck. With lightning speed and precise movements, his sword danced in and out of the bodies of any giants who came near, while he dodged their clumsy attacks with ease. A larger giant swung a tree trunk at him; he positioned himself to his right and ducked at exactly the right instant. The cudgel struck a smaller giant directly in the chest, breaking ribs and sending him crashing backwards to the ground. Tyr swung high and sliced off the giant’s left hand. A scream of pain and anger was followed by a shower of blood and the dropping of the tree trunk. The giant had reflexively stood up straighter, making his vital areas an open target. Tyr stabbed the creature in the groin. He bent double and fell to the ground, bleeding and mortally wounded.
He heard a growling behind him, a sound more bestial than those made by the giants. He whirled just in time to duck the lunging of a feral beast with a mouth full of jagged teeth, while at the same time slashing out with his sword, drawing a shallow wound on the underbelly of the creature. He was rewarded with a howl of pain, and he pivoted once more, facing the beast squarely, eager to continue the fight that he had anticipated for so long.
Ardor was quickly replaced with disappointment. It was a massive wolf-like creature with slavering jaws and tightly-bound muscle under slick, black fur, but it was not Fenrir.
He had heard tales of this creature. It was a foul beast that guarded the entrance—and exit—to Niflheim. It was Hel’s servant, and it would attack anything that it thought it could kill, whether that be god or ghoul. As he faced it the beast’s jaws opened, hot spittle spilling to the ground. He wondered if there was any intelligence behind those red eyes or nothing but spite and malice.
He did not have long to ponder before it launched itself at him. He stepped to the side easily and scored another shallow hit on the hound. From behind a giant tried to grab him and was rewarded with Tyr’s sword in his throat, but his attention had been diverted just long enough for Garm to sink his jaws into the back of his leg, sending white-hot streaks of pain through his body. Using his massive shoulder muscles, Garm wrenched his head to the right and ripped out a bloody chunk of Tyr’s leg.
Tyr screamed, more in rage than pain, although it hurt nearly as much as when Fenrir had taken his hand. He swung, his normal precise and calculated movements thrown off by his anger. The blade missed, but the hilt struck the hound’s snout and broken teeth fell to the ground. Garm did not react to the pain. Instead, his jaw up against the arm of his attacker, he clamped down on it hard, hearing and feeling the crack of bone as his teeth dug into the meat of Tyr’s arm.
Garm did not release his jaws, but instead wrenched his neck and head once more, pulling Tyr off his feet and sending him to the ground. Caught underneath the hound with his forearm still trapped in the beast’s iron jaws, Tyr was forced to resort to brute strength and tactics to break free. He smashed the metal end of his lame arm again and again against the hound, bludgeoning it with all the strength he could muster. At first the attacks only enraged the hound, and he whipped Tyr about, each time sending deeper spikes of pain through his body and making it more difficult for him to hit the beast with full force.
Eventually he was able to lodge his foot underneath Garm’s body and push upward. The hound, losing his foothold, loosened his jaw muscles involuntarily. Tyr rolled over on top of the beast and smashed the metal end of his lame arm into the side of his face again and again. Still, the beast would not relent, and the scratching of his claws dug through Tyr’s armor and into his chest, leaving deep, bloody gouges.
The two rolled on the ground, Garm refusing to let go of Tyr’s arm, which by now was nearly cut in two with the intense and acute pressure of the hound’s jaws. Blood oozing from the wound, each shifting and movement causing him intense agony, Tyr reversed strategies. Instead of trying to free his arm from Garm’s jaw, he began to force it down into the beast’s throat.
Garm, surprised by the sudden change, released the pressure on the forearm somewhat, although the jagged fangs still held fast in Tyr’s flesh. Steeling his nerves, Tyr bent over and jammed his free elbow into Garm’s throat. Using his weight, as well as every ounce of strength he could muster, he leaned his body onto the beast’s windpipe. Garm struggled wildly, raking armor with his claws, but he could not dislodge the god or release the pressure on his throat.
Bleeding from deep wounds in his torso as well as his now-useless forearm, he summoned every iota of strength and pressed down even harder onto Garm’s throat. The hound’s flailing increased wildly for a few brief moments and then died down, and eventually stilled as the blackness he had been spawned from claimed him back.
Covered with sweat and blood, weaker than he had ever remembered being, Tyr pried the jaws open and withdrew his mangled forearm. His hand dangled limply at the end, and splintered and broken bone were visible amidst the ragged flesh and dripping blood.
He saw his sword lying on the twisted corpse of a giant, and he limped over to reclaim it, not realizing that it was now useless to him. He reached down to grab it without thinking when the shadow fell across him. He turned to see the angry scowl of a bloody giant, the large, stone-headed axe in his hand coming down too rapidly for Tyr’s wounded and exhausted body to dodge. The stone head met the flesh and bone of the god and pummeled him to the ground. Still conscious, Tyr turned his head and thought he saw another wolf in the edge of his vision, perched and watching with a smirk on its long snout. Then the axe came down again and blotted his existence from the Nine Worlds.
The Thunderer was a wall unto himself, barely needing any other god to help him maintain a line against the giants. Mjolnir flashed out again and again, carving a swath of destruction as it sailed through the brains of giants, dropping them to the ground, only to return to Thor's hand in time for him to shatter legs or crush ribs. As he fought, thunderclaps deafened those around him, tearing open the eardrums of any nearby and sending hands flying to the sides of heads in agony. Lightning crashed down from the clouds, exploding the bodies of some and sizzling the flesh of dozens more.