The End Begins At The Edge Of The World

The long daylight hours had slipped away from the world into what Ødger was sure to be a short, cold night. Ødger eyed the Knarr sailing well ahead of his own as the wind rushed into their sails and blew salty air through his thick beard. He gripped his gloved hands tighter on the hilt of his sword, squinting against the sea spray, trying not to lose the dim light of the ship ahead sinking into the darkness.

"You need rest," grumbled the old man, hunched over for warmth.

The large Norseman’s beady eyes slid across to the white-haired man shivering beside him. "You are here to judge the seas, not my sleep, Frode."

"Humph, I’m here ‘cause I’m the only one with a sensible head on my shoulders. If you and Bjørn led the men then you would already have sunk the ship!" A deep laugh rumbled in his frail chest, shaking out into a rattling cough.

"I will rest if you join the men in the hull for warmth under the tarp. It is too cold out here for you, old man."

"I‘ve been through worse," he protested, jutting his chin out with a scowl. "You haven’t seen half the battles I have! I can handle a little wind." Even so, Frode cast his dark eyes nervously at the cloudy sky where not even stars could light their way.

"Fine, old man," Ødger said, groaning as he lowered himself to sit beside Frode. "Is this where I thank you?"

Frode sniffed. "No. Saying thank you would make it seem like this isn’t what Gorm deserved and we are going out of our way to help. If I am honest, I should have done this myself a long time ago."

"My father would have done it, I’m sure. He always told great tales about your adventures together. Your rivalry in everything you did and my father’s triumph made great bedtime stories for Bjørn and I."

"Ha! Gorm didn’t tell you every story then! I beat him plenty." Frode’s wistful smile faded into a gloom which matched Ødger’s. "Odin’s wrath hasn’t touched Arne yet, but mine will, don’t you worry."

"I’d promise you the chance to sink your sword into his gullet, but I want to kill him myself."

The small light ahead seemed like a floating phantom as it moved with the rise and fall of the ocean waves. Frode was a master of the seas, but Ødger didn’t need the man’s wisdom, a sunstone or the stars to navigate while Arne Ulfson and his crew burned their supplies for warmth.

His own crew of 29 men lay quietly beneath the tarp, unmoving, taking advantage of the respite on the calm ocean waves. His men had faced two circling beasts, curious sharks hungering for them, the unforgiving sun, and the viscous seas threatening to sink them. Their bodies were exhausted after last nights’ storm, but Ødger need not worry for their spirit; their hatred for Arne burned just as hot as his own. Frode was an experienced seaman who ensured their Knarr survived but, unfortunately, so too did the ship ahead of them. If the gods’ wills had been in their favour, Arne’s life would have been lost to the unforgiving seas. Instead, his life would be taken by unforgiving men.

The grief-ridden man heading the Knarr sat out in the freezing chill as he had done for two nights now, never letting the figure of the small boat ahead leave his sight. They were keeping pace, with Arne teasingly remaining in sight. Arne was a man full of boast, arrogance, and unreasonable confidence. His triumphs were not his own, his strengths were exaggerated, and his enemies were amassing. He was a scoundrel. A liar. A murderer of a kinsman with a poisoned blade. The men on Ødger’s Knarr had shed blood, but none had shed a man’s blood in the way that Arne did.

"When we tell Jarl Erik that Arne’s ship was taken by a storm on our journey, it’ll be a half-truth," Frode mumbled. "Erik might not believe us. He knows you’ve always had bad blood with Arne, and he forbid you -"

"If Erik doesn’t believe us, he will put all of Hengiforsa against us for disregarding his word. His word is law, even if his tongue weaves lies. I know the risk."

"If Erik tries to punish us, you must go home with Bjørn, to Jarl Harald," Frode spoke quietly, keeping a watchful eye on the tarp across the hull of the ship.

"You know he has done nothing to right the wrong of my father’s death!" Ødger spat, feeling his bitter hatred simmering in his chest.

"Perhaps, but he was managing a treaty at the time. Erik has crossed him more than once since Gorm’s death, and if you’re in danger Harald may break the fragile peace they have left to protect you. The people of Keldunes will do the same. Nobody agreed with Erik’s ruling on what happened to Gorm. If they could, there would be a hundred boats out here lying in wait to sink Arne's ship."

"Never to rise again," Ødger said through clenched teeth.

Two weeks ago Erik had entertained them in the great hall in Hengiforsa, his ale slopping onto his son sitting beside him, his booming laugh at Arne’s tales almost deafening any other talk between the men. Everyone went quiet to hear the tall tales spun by Arne that night - tales of an edge of the earth he had seen himself, where boats could fall off the end of the ocean, tales that would make Bragi blush. As with every occasion Arne spoke, Ødger had felt a hot rage take over and he challenged him in the middle of the hall. Arne only smiled his sly, thin smile, entertained by Ødger’s anger.

"He lies!" Ødger shouted, appealing to the men swaying under their ale, food in hand. "Have we forgotten the old traditions, the stories of Midgard crafted from the giant Ymir? This earth and oceans are not flat. Any seafarer can see that our world is round on the horizon. You are throwing our traditions into question, Arne. Do you dare to disrespect the gods?"

Arne only leaned back in his chair, shrugging, smile growing wider. "Ødger, surely you don’t believe all the old tales? Have you actually seen the meddlings of Floki, seen the shadow of Jörmungandr beneath your ship? We know half the old stories are only cautionary tales to stop us from sailing too far. Now, we have stronger boats and can sail safely. The stories were only warnings, there was no truth in them. I tell you I found the edge of the ocean, my boat nearly dropped right off the side had we not removed the sail and turned with our oars."

Bjørn shot to his feet and argued, red-faced and angry, that Arne had been the only surviving witness of that journey. Erik clapped his hands together. His thunderous laugh was unable to wipe away the thick tension in the air with the men feeling Odin’s heavy gaze.

"Sounds like we have a challenge! Arne, take Ødger and Bjørn and show them the edge of the waters. This is a great discovery to be mapped - take supplies with you."

Arne’s look of dread was missed by most of the drunkards, all except Ødger and Frode who knew the seas well enough to see the man's lies. He hid his fearful expression and beamed a confident grin, boasting to the men around him of his triumphs.

Arne was well protected by Jarl Erik. It was two days into their preparations before realisation struck: out in the open ocean, away from Erik, Ødger only needed to fill his boat with supporters of his cause to ensure victory.

Hours had passed tonight while Ødger’s mind was stuck on the mood in the hall those weeks ago. As the night sky lightened into a pale mauve with the rising of the sun, Arne’s Knarr fell into obscurity in the half-light. Ødger stood, waiting for the feeling to return to his legs while he watched the ship on the horizon. The small shape of the boat in the distance became clear against the brightening sky, but just as Ødger was about to rouse his men into the day’s tasks the ship ahead vanished from sight. His words died on his lips and he gaped wide-eyed into the distance, frantically searching for the shape of the boat but seeing only water.

"Frode, old man, wake up!"

Grunting, the elderly man shifted his limbs slowly, pausing as he looked up at Ødger’s panicked expressions.

"Everyone, get up!" Frode’s voice carried loudly, piercing the empty quietness of the seas surrounding them.

Disgruntled noises sounded from beneath the tarp. Bjørn was the first to appear with thick red hair wrapped in a braid over his left shoulder, sword still at his hip. His focused gaze sought out his brother who remained standing upon his perch, craning his neck up looking for the missing ship.

"They’re gone - they just disappeared!" Ødger said, pointing at the place he last saw Arne’s ship. "In the blink of my eyes the ship was gone."

Frode peered through his bushy brows across the horizon before them, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "You don’t suppose he was right? The ship might have fallen over the edge of the ocean."

Bjørn scoffed. "Fell off the ocean? Arne is a fool - there is no way -"

"Fallen off the edge. . ." Ødger mumbled, mind racing. "Men! We sail ahead but be ready at the oars if we need to turn."

Not once did Ødger expect he would seriously consider Arne’s tales to be true but now he stood frozen while his crew readied themselves, wondering if he should now witness a cliff in the ocean. Enough time passed that Ødger, who waited with baited breath, relaxed his shoulders and shook his head.

"There is no edge, we would have found it by now . . ."

"Then where did they go?" Frode asked.

"Brother. . ."

Turning his head, Ødger found Bjørn pointing to a piece of Arne’s ship floating by their own Knarr. In that moment. Ødger felt a great shadowy presence among them, an unfathomable power as if Floki himself were standing beside him. Frode pulled out his dagger and scanned the waters.

"Something is wrong, our ship is rocking a different direction to the waves. There - again!"

Sten’s panicked cry came from the front of the ship. "There’s something underneath us!"

As Ødger took a step forward to investigate, a great beast crashed through the surface of the waves, violently tilting their Knarr. Men fell overboard, Ødger was unbalanced and tipped forward, tumbling into Bjørn. His senses were overridden. He stared in shock at the sea water that had made its way into the hull, and his skin began to crawl at the sound of rushing water like a waterfall just by their boat. He lifted his eyes, terrified. The hair raised on the back of his neck as he was faced with the Jötunn serpent: a spear shooting through the water’s surface into the sky, a calamity, a terrific pillar of death. It blotted out the rising sun and its shadow cast them into darkness. The sea water fell from the serpent like salty rain on Ødger’s face as it turned its fearsome purple eyes to the men.

"It’s Jörmungandr!" Frode’s voice shook in horror. "Ragnarök is upon us, Jörmungandr!"

The beast bore its giant fangs, dripping with venom and the blood of Arne’s crew. The World Serpent struck the men with its vile glare.

"He sailed . . . right over its maw," Ødger’s voice was weak. "It ripped them asunder."

Roused from its perpetual circle, the monster had released its own tail from its mouth, freeing its head to devour all it saw. Only Thor himself had ever been able to cast Jörmungandr back into the ocean.

Ødger fell to his knees and grabbed his brother’s shoulders, ready to meet their father once again.

_________________

Thank you for reading, your attention is much appreciated. If you enjoyed this piece, leave a heart!

You might also like to read this: