The Twilight Warrior (The Drengr Røkkr Sagas Book 1) by James W. Truax

Author:James W. Truax [Truax, James W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-08-11T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The Mistlands

A malodorous aroma corrupted an otherwise pleasant autumn day. The stench of rotting death permeated the air, an attestation of a great calamity that has befallen this part of Jötunheimr, a rapid plague that has laid low the giant inhabitants. A field of colossal plants with heart-shaped leaves and fluted yellow flowers feed on the corpses of the dead, creating a scene of tranquility that disguises the unpleasant reality beneath. We enter the field expecting to step lightly over the bodies of dead, but we find none. It is as if the flowers themselves have fully consumed the fallen, the fetid tang of which has infected their bouquet, giving them a fragrance quite contrary to their beauty.

“Birthwort,” says Fenrir, recognizing the scent.

“Birthwort? Aren’t those the plants brewed and given to expectant mothers to induce labor and calm the pain?” I ask, covering my mouth and nose to avoid vomiting. I am amazed that anyone would drink anything smelling of death, let alone a woman in the throes of childbirth.

“The same. We are at the border of Jötunheimr and Midgard. The jötunn have planted this to mark the boundary,” says Fenrir, somehow immune to the overwhelming smell of the place.

“Why?” I ask, but by the smell, the answer is obvious, or so I think.

“To keep my brother in Midgard and out of Jötunheimr. He hates this stuff. Some call it snakeroot.”

“Jörmungandr? Why would the jötunn care if your brother was here?”

“Because they are afraid of him ... of us. You see what the mere thought of my presence here has wrought, how the gods inspired the mortals to attack. Well, Jörmungandr is as reviled and feared, and maybe more so, as I am. The jötunn are content to keep us in Midgard or Helheim or ... well ... anywhere but here.”

“The birthwort doesn’t seem to affect you, though,” I say. “What would the jötunn do to keep you out?”

“Capture me and take me to Nidhöggr,” replies Fenrir with a shiver.

I realize now why Fenrir hates this place so much. He’s had terrible experiences here, the worst imaginable given what I myself have undergone in my brief time beyond the realm of Midgard. I never thought about it. I always assumed he’d be welcome in Jötunheimr because he is, in reality, a jötunn, the son of a jötunn and a god. In truth, he is a half-breed, unwelcome in the realms of the gods and despised in the realm of giants.

“Is that what happened the last time you were in Jötunheimr?” I ask.

“Jötunheimr was my home, but as I grew, so did the hatred of my kind. They dragged me to the Spring of Hvergelmir and gave me to Nidhöggr. I barely escaped. I left Jötunheimr and went to live in Midgard. The mortals hate me, too, but at least they leave me alone for the most part. I’ve not been back here since. I was still a pup, then. I am more formidable now.”

The anger and pain of Fenrir’s thoughts take a physical presence in me as well, and I feel the heat of rage burning in my chest.

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