Prologue
Alexander never thought that he would live long enough
to enjoy quiet nights like this. He noted it was a particularly cold night as
he stepped onto his back porch. His breath sent out a little fog, and he
marveled at how peaceful winter could be in the Icelandic forest. The freshly
fallen snow sparkled as the Northern lights flashed through the night sky.
Alexander never grew tired of watching their fiery dance. He only wished his
wife, Helga, was still around to enjoy the peace and quiet. Sighing contentedly,
Alexander reached down, grabbed a bundle of firewood, and turned to head back
inside. Suddenly he froze. He felt it, a tingling he hadn’t felt in a long
time, danger. Scanning the surrounding forest, Alexander couldn’t see anything
out of place, but the feeling that something was out there, something that
didn’t belong, still pulled at him like the tide. Alexander stared into the
darkness for a few more moments, but the forest remained silent, unwilling to
give up its secrets. Alexander shrugged and went back into his house. For the
first time in years, he locked the door behind him.
As Alexander sat by the fire, the warmth failed to
chase away the feeling that someone or something was out there roaming his
forest. A familiar howl rang out from deep within the forest, pulling Alexander
out of his thoughts. A second later similar howls answered. Alexander could
identify each individual wolf by their howl; he had known this pack for years.
Settling back in his chair, he envisioned the wolves in full force. The howls
continued to ring across the forest. In all his years living in the forest,
Alexander had never heard so many wolves at once. They sounded agitated. They
must sense it too, he thought.
Alexander groaned as his knees popped and his old
bones protested the sudden movement of getting to his feet. It was as if his
body knew what he was planning to do and was voicing its discontent. It had
been decades since he had been in a fight, but it seemed he was being called
out one last time. Hell, Alexander thought, I may see Helga sooner than I
thought. Pulling on his thick wool parka, Alexander grabbed the double-bladed
ax he used to chop wood. The weight felt comfortable in his hands. The ax had
been his weapon of choice from the time he was strong enough to swing one. His
mother had pushed him to branch out and learn to use other weapons, but it
wasn’t meant to be. The ax was the weapon of his ancestors, and he honored them
by using it. The cold hit Alexander like a hammer, clearing his senses and
waking him up to the world around him. The Berserker had laid dormant inside of
him for decades now, but Alexander could feel the old battle lust stirring
within. The forest had gone too quiet, the howls of the wolf pack had died
down. Goosebumps speckled Alexander’s body as the tension in the air thickened.
Alexander knew why. A predator not of this realm stalked his forest.
Alexander silently crept through the forest. The snow
crunched lightly beneath his weight; his senses screamed at him to turn back,
but he ignored them and pressed on. It had been decades since he had felt the
thrill of a fight, and he relished the feeling.
A bird pierced the silent forest with a loud squawk.
He peered through the tangle of trees and branches; he could barely make out a
blotch of darkness that seemed to be darker than the surrounding forest. As he
moved closer, the air blew warm breaths on his face with each step. Alexander
was within ten feet of the odd black blotch when he noticed that the snow had
completely melted away. Steam rose from the freshly uncovered earth in a circle
around the object. Thick drops of water splashed down from the tree branches
above, puffing into steam upon hitting the forest floor.
Alexander continued to move slowly around the dark
object but didn’t see anyone or anything. Creeping ever closer, his feeling of
unease intensified. As Alexander stepped around the inky darkness, the heat had
him sweating through his clothes. He stopped dead in his tracks. His blood ran
cold. From the back, the round black object drank in all the available light,
but now that Alexander was in front of it, he could see it opened up to a world
of fire and lava. Alexander knew what he was looking at; he just couldn’t
figure out why it was here. The dark blob was a bridge to another realm.
However, it differed from any bridge he had used in his youth. This thing was
more like a rip in the fabric of reality. Whoever did this was immensely
powerful. Peering into the gateway, memories from a lifetime ago came flooding
back to him. Muspelheim, the realm of fire and lava. The home to an
unimaginable evil. It was a place he had hoped to never see again.
As if in answer to his thoughts, something rose out of
the molten river that lay beyond the bridge. Alexander’s stomach backflipped as
he recognized the creature that was steadily stalking towards the bridge. It’s
the beginning of the end, Alexander thought. Ragnarok is here.
As the being stepped through the bridge and into
Alexander’s world, the frigid forest air hissed and steamed in protest to the
fiery monster’s trespass into Midgard. Alexander stared up at the molten giant
and thought he looked even taller than he had appeared decades ago. Alexander
backed up, making sure he was out of range of the monster’s hulking sword. He knew
a fight was inevitable. Alexander closed his eyes and freed the dormant
Berserker, embracing the longforgotten thrill of the fight. Icy fire burned
along his veins as his muscles grew and strengthened. Alexander knew, even in
his enhanced state, that he was no match for the force of nature that stood
before him. He only hoped to fend the giant off long enough to create an
opening and run for help. Hopefully, with luck, he could lose the creature in
the forest.
Alexander opened his eyes, filling his old frame and
flooding his veins with the familiar icy burn of the Berserker. Any thoughts of
running vanished as a thin red haze of rage colored the edge of his vision.
Fear and doubt evaporated and was replaced with excited determination at the
chance to cross blades one last time with a worthy foe. Who gives a damn that
I’m well into my sixties? Alexander thought. “I am the last of an ancient and
powerful Berserker clan, bestowed with the power of Thor, chosen to defend
Midgard from invaders such as you. How dare you step into my realm, Surtr,”
Alexander growled. “You aren’t welcome here. I will say this one time; return
to Muspelheim or face my wrath.”
Surtr’s molten eyes studied Alexander. A voice
Alexander had hoped to never hear again thundered in the clearing. The fire
giant’s voice washed over Alexander like an oncoming forest fire.
“You arrogant and foolish Midgardian. Do you have any
idea who you are speaking too? Face your wrath? Don’t think I don’t remember
you. You are one of the few beings who was lucky enough to escape me the first
time we fought. You will not be so lucky this time. By Hel’s will, I have been
given a second chance to finish the fight you started many years ago.”
“You think I’m afraid of you, giant?” Alexander
boasted, “I have faced hundreds of enemies and killed them all. Last time we
faced, we were in your realm, but now,” Alexander gestured around. “You are far
from Muspelheim. I have the advantage here.”
Surtr laughed and pointed his massive sword at
Alexander. “You truly don’t know what I am, do you? I cannot be killed by the
likes of you.”
Surtr blurred, moving with a speed no normal human
could track. But luckily for Alexander, he wasn’t a normal human. This also
wasn’t his first fight. Alexander had been waiting for Surtr to make the first
move and was ready for him. Surtr’s burning blade slashed through the air mere
centimeters from Alexander’s face as he dodged out of range. A blast of
scalding air washed over Alexander as Surtr’s blade sliced through the air.
Alexander rushed forward, relishing the speed his Berserker state granted him.
Alexander hoped to throw Surtr off by attacking him head on. Slashing upward,
Alexander attempted to split open Surtr’s unarmored stomach. Before the ax hit,
Surtr lashed out, kicking Alexander square in the chest, causing him to fly
backward. He slammed into a tree trunk with a bone crunching crack. Alexander
felt the ancient pine sway back and forth from the impact. Snow rained down
from the branches above, pelting him in wet kisses. Alexander struggled to
catch his breath. Damn, that hurt. I can’t afford to take too many hits like
that, Alexander thought. Struggling to his feet, Alexander felt every cell in
his body struggle with the pain. He suspected a few of his ribs cracked, but nothing
felt permanently damaged or out of place.
Luckily, years of training had taught Alexander to
never let go of his weapon in a fight. Even in his old age, he still had the
wherewithal to keep hold of it. Alexander used his ax as a crutch and looked up
at Surtr. His enemy hadn’t even bothered to follow up his attack; he just stood
there studying Alexander.
“You’ve grown old, Berserker. You weren’t a match for
me decades ago. You certainly aren’t one now.”
Alexander eyed the giant, “Ha, I’m just warming up,
Surtr. Before long I’ll have you running back through that bridge, crying to
whoever sent you here,” Alexander boasted. However, deep down he knew he was
finished. That kick had hurt him more than he cared to admit. His back was
ablaze with pain and his legs felt like wet noodles. I must have damaged my
spine when I hit the tree, Alexander thought. “This fight will be over before I
get a chance to heal,” Alexander grumbled.
Alexander eyed the fiery giant and quietly thanked the
gods he had the foresight to leave a letter to his Berserker heir. He had
wished he could have had more time with his daughter and grandson. He’d wanted
to introduce them to the idea of realms, gods, and supernatural creatures
slowly, but as with all great plans, it fell apart. Alexander could only hope
they would find the journals.
There is no way this attack is random, Alexander
thought. A being such as Surtr doesn’t leave his realm unless provoked, and for
a bridge to open right in his backyard, linking Muspelheim to Midgard – it was
too much of a coincidence. The gods were moving against each other; he could
feel it.
Wincing in pain, Alexander steeled himself.
Whispering reverently, Alexander breathed into the icy
wind, “Odin, Allfather, my time on this mortal plain has come to an end. I, one
of Thor’s anointed, choose to die with an ax in hand, and can only hope to be
welcomed into the halls of Valhalla.” A raven cawed an answer to Alexander’s
prayer somewhere in the trees. Even though Surtr was far stronger than him,
Alexander couldn’t just roll over and die. That wasn’t the Berserker way.
Taking a deep breath, Alexander took a two-handed grip on his ax, feeling the smooth
grip of the handle form perfectly to his weathered and calloused hands. He
charged, bellowing a war cry. Surtr moved in as well, sensing the fight was
coming to an end. Surtr brought down his massive sword in an attempt to split
Alexander in two, but Alexander saw it coming and blocked the attack with his
ax. Sparks flew in all directions as the two blades met. Alexander’s ax blade
chipped and bent along the edge where it met Surtr’s sword, but that didn’t
faze Alexander.
Quick as lightning, Alexander swung for Surtr’s
outstretched forearm. Alexander thought he had scored a hit, but it merely
bounced off Surtr’s thick hide. Alexander, unwilling to relent, swung a
horizontal slash meant to take the giant in the knee, but Surtr’s burning blade
materialized and Alexander’s ax slammed edge first into the flat of Surtr’s
broadsword with a loud clang. The resulting tremor ran up Alexander’s hand and
arm, causing them to momentarily go numb. Dodging to the left, Alexander
averted a savage punch aimed for his head.
Alexander ducked and dodged Surtr’s onslaught. He
never gave up, always looking for an opening to attack. Spinning the ax between
attacks, Alexander continued to duck and dodge, waiting for the giant to make a
mistake. Alexander knew he couldn’t keep this up for much longer, but he
couldn’t waste his attack either.
Alexander backed away. Overconfident, Surtr grew
bolder with each attack and was swinging wildly. Just as he had hoped,
Alexander’s opportunity came as he ducked under a slash meant to take his head
off at the neck. Ducking under the smoldering blade, he stepped in as Surtr’s
blade slammed into an ancient pine tree. The force of Surtr’s blow nearly cut
the massive tree in half, but luckily for Alexander, the blade stopped
three-fourths of the way through.
It only took him a second, but that was all the time
Alexander needed. Alexander knew this was his only chance, and he swung with
all his might. His blade hit Surtr in the stomach. Sparks fluttered to life as
Alexander’s ax impacted Surtr’s hardened skin. A look of shock crept across
Surtr’s face; Alexander’s blade carved out a shallow cut. Surtr blurred,
attacking faster than Alexander thought possible. Not knowing where the attack
was coming from, Alexander flung himself backward, but it wasn’t fast enough.
Surtr’s blade buried itself deep into Alexander’s right shoulder.
Alexander crumbled, falling to his knees as Surtr
pulled the blade free in a spray of blood. Alexander’s vision blurred. Through
the pain, Alexander focused on a thin trickle of molten orange blood seeping
out of the cut chiseled into Surtr. Surtr followed Alexander’s gaze and looked
down. He dabbed lightly at the bleeding wound.
In his grave voice, Surtr intoned, “You are the first
to injure me in decades. Be proud as you go to your death.” He heaved the sword
above his head, “Give my regards to the Aesir. Their rule over the realms has
ended. Ragnarok begins.” Reverently, he brought his sword down for the killing
blow.
Alexander, broken and bleeding, moved on reflex,
brought up his ax in an overhead block, but it wasn’t enough. Knowing that his
time had finally come, Alexander hoped he had made his ancestors proud and that
his family would be ready for what was to come. The Berserker mantle that he
had held for so long would finally pass on.
A flutter of wings and a caw from the onlooking raven
were the only sounds in the silent forest as Alexander slumped back, dead.
Surtr took a long moment to stare down at his fallen foe before turning and
disappearing through the bridge.
Bjørn Larssen is a Norse heathen made in Poland, but mostly located in a Dutch suburb, except for his heart which he lost in Iceland. Born in 1977, he self-published his first graphic novel at the age of seven in a limited edition of one, following this achievement several decades later with his first book containing multiple sentences and winning awards he didn’t design himself. His writing is described as ‘dark’ and ‘literary’, but he remains incapable of taking anything seriously for more than 60 seconds.
