Even without Mjolnir, Thor was a force to be reckoned with, as he caught the club of one giant in mid-swing and threw him to the ground, still clutching the weapon. Others were lifted as they attempted to step on him, and then thrown into their comrades. Thor’s fists smashed giant bones, his boots broke open wide fissures in the ground, his shouts set his enemies to trembling. It was not long into the onslaught that the giants wondered if it would even be possible to defeat him.
Captivated by his radiant energy, the dead warriors of Niflheim sought him out. As he shattered the knee of a giant, sending him to the ground, and then drove Mjolnir into his head, he was overtaken by a swarm of the dead. Like a wave, they poured over him by the hundreds, each one weak and feeble, but making up for their paltry natures with sheer numbers. Thor was pulled under, and more continued to pile on top of him, each one biting, scratching, striking anything they could reach, including each other. It was a feeding frenzy of the dead, and Thor was buried under it, hundreds of corpses weighing him down.
A violent burst created a tunnel through the bodies, limbs and dead flesh flying up and away as Mjolnir flew free. One entire side of the pile shifted, the dead tumbled to the ground, each scrambling to regain position. From every side bodies and body parts were being forcefully ejected, the entire mountainous pile quaking.
Finally, the pile of the dead was forced forward and crashed to the ground. Thor was now visible, ripping apart dead warriors with his bare hands and shrugging off any attacks mounted on him. Mjolnir returned to his hand and he sent it flying again. It struck dozens of dead warriors, blowing holes through their bodies, and they crumpled to the ground, unable to rise again.
When it returned to him once more he held it aloft, and lightning streamed outward from the hammer in multiple arcs, each one striking dozens of ghouls, frying their rotted flesh and exploding their bodies. When the smoke cleared, Thor stood alone, facing down scores of giants still battling. For the first time, there was fear in their eyes.
The ground roiled, and all those near Thor—scores of giants and hundreds of others—were thrown from their feet with the force of the quake. For a brief instant, the sun was blotted from the sky as a massive shadow loomed overhead. Thor got to his feet quickly, uncertainty spread across his features for the first time as he turned around to see the source of the shadow.
There was barely time for him to register the awesome sight of the giant snake before it crashed down upon him, mouth first. He continued driving into the ground, sending tremors for leagues around and shaking the battlefield so intensely that all assembled wondered if they might truly be experiencing the end right then. Jormungand continued to drive ever downward, Thor caught in the trap of his jaws, until his tail disappeared into the hole he had created.
For long minutes the battlefield continued to quake, tossing the combatants about as if they were children. Thunder roared from underneath the ground, although none above could tell if it was from Thor or from the pounding of the massive snake smashing through rock and whatever else lay under Asgard’s soil. Battle continued on, but uneasily, each tremor from underground creating wariness, the thought that at any moment Jormungand might rear up from the ground and kill all in his wake.
There was an eruption near where the snake had driven into the ground, rock spraying out violently, striking and killing those nearest, injuring countless others, followed by a great plume of dirt that obscured the vision of all in the immediate vicinity.
All battle ceased then, each warrior on the field eager to know the outcome of the struggle, to know if the Thunderer had been finally laid low by the Midgard Serpent. The Aesir feared the worst, and considered the consequences of losing the most powerful warrior the Nine Worlds had ever seen. Their fears were realized when the dust and dirt settled, and they could see the head of a massive snake poking out from the hole he had created, with no sign of Thor to be seen.
The cheers of the giants were deafening, and the magnitude of the loss weighed on the souls of the remaining Asgardians like a millstone. They would fight on, and giants and dead warriors would fall by the thousands, but for the first time, defeat was not just some distant possibility.
The cheers died down, however, when the armies of chaos noticed no movement from the snake. Its head merely lay there, its lidless eyes open, but still. There was silence as the head began to move slightly, but it was clear that the movement was not of its own volition. It was being moved by something, and realization fully dawned on all gathered that Jormungand was no longer alive.
Underneath the head was a tiny figure, miniscule in size compared to the enormous serpent. Yet this figure, arms over its head, was lifting the snake up and off of him, and the blue-white flash of lightning could be seen in his eyes.
It was the Asgardians’ turn to cheer, and though their numbers were far fewer, the sound that issued forth from their lips fully overshadowed that of the giants.
Thor threw the head of the snake from him, its twisted and broken neck and skull now evident. Mjolnir still gripped in his hand, he staggered forward nine steps then crashed down face first into the dust and lay still.
One Eye was near; Fenrir could sense it through the mass of bodies. He had torn through Einherjar with a fury, shredding limbs and body parts, a trail of blood and dismemberment left behind him, gore coating his slick fur. He knew that One Eye would be near his precious warriors, and if he slaughtered enough of them, perhaps he would seek Fenrir out, to his woe.
As he prowled through the blood-soaked fields, striking out at unsuspecting victims with his iron jaws when he saw an opportunity, a pale maiden clad in armor and wielding a broad sword appeared suddenly in front of him, swinging hard at his head. He ducked, barely in time, and felt the sting of her blade take off the tip of one of his ears.
He sprung then, faster than a beast his size should have been able to do, catching the maiden unprepared for the counter attack. His paws struck her breastplate and knocked her from her horse while his oversized jaws closed on her head and cracked her skull open like a brittle egg. He spat her out and turned on the frightened horse, ripping its throat out with one brutal bite. The corpses of both maiden and horse faded into nothingness as he continued through the maze of dead bodies and embattled warriors.
He cleared a mound of dead giants, each with spears sticking from their throats, and saw a gaunt, thin figure in gray mail, two wolves at his side and wielding a grim battle spear dripping with blood and gore. One Eye looked like death incarnate, and Fenrir wondered how any could worship this evil god who preyed on the weak, who stole babies from the teats of their mothers, who chained and tortured those who threatened his tyranny. He would not survive this day, he thought, and Fenrir relished the idea that his jaws would soon be around One Eye’s throat.
He would dispatch the wolves first. One quick snap would break a spine, and he would toss their limp bodies on the heaps of the dead around them. Then he would advance upon One Eye, always wary of the spear. He would not underestimate this god; he would move carefully, striking at the right time, gutting him and swallowing his innards while he slowly died at Fenrir’s feet.
The god faced him, the wolves growling and adopting a feral pose, ready to spring at their master’s command. Then One Eye did a strange thing. He put a hand on one, soothing it, and spoke softly to the other. The wolves ceased their aggression and abruptly loped away from his side, disappearing amidst the chaos around them.
Suspicious lest they circle back, Fenrir slowly advanced, warily sizing up the god. One Eye simply stood there, his spear pointed upward, its butt end resting on the ground at his feet. He looked completely unprepared for an attack of any kind.
Fenrir growled at him, “You die today.”
“
Yes,” he replied.
Keeping a cautious eye open for a trick, sniffing the wind to see if any of the other Aesir were close and planning an attack, he decided that even if there was a trick, a rapid attack was still the best way to take him down. Even if his initial advance was unsuccessful, he would be in a better position, and perhaps any who might be waiting to attack him would be less aggressive if he were in close with their leader. Bracing his paws on the slick grass, he leaped forward quickly.
One Eye fell under his weight like a crumpled old man. Surprised that there had been no counter attack, he hesitated for the barest instant, suddenly realizing that this might have been his plan, that he might have been lured in close so that One Eye could spear him or grapple with him while his allies attacked from hiding.
But in that brief instant of pause and regret, nothing happened. The god lay underneath him, Fenrir’s paws on his chest, his hot breath heavily in his face. Perplexed though he was, he could see no reason why he should not press his attack. His jaws clamped onto One Eye’s throat and he wrenched away a bloody chunk with a quick jerk of his powerful neck muscles.
The god groaned in pain, and his eye rolled back in his head, but he offered no resistance, his arms still and outstretched on the ground, almost in an inviting pose. Sparked by blood lust, Fenrir’s jaws dipped down again, ripping mail and digging into torso. Skin was torn, ribs were cracked, blood spurted everywhere, but still One Eye made no attempt to resist or even plead for his life.
Emboldened and frenzied, Fenrir doubled his efforts, ripping the god open and swallowing whole chunks of him right there in the middle of the battlefield. When he was done, the life was nearly gone from the god and his innards were now mostly inside the wolf. Still, a small spark of life persisted, although it would not last long.
Fenrir looked down into his eye. He mouthed something, but Fenrir could not hear it. Feeling more confused than sated, the revenge he had craved so long somehow becoming bitter, he turned and left the old fool to die alone.
Mounted on Sleipnir, Freyja found herself at the base of Yggdrasil. She was confused and distraught; she had not wanted to leave the battle, to leave all her kind to their fate against the armies of chaos. If they were to seize victory despite these overwhelming odds, then they would need all to fight on, to give their last dying breath to defend Asgard. If they were to lose, then she wanted to die with them, not slink away like a fleeing coward. She was not one of the Aesir, but that did not mean she would shrink from a battle, and Odin knew that well.
She had been faring as well as could be hoped, probably because she appeared less of a threat than the Aesir. That was to her advantage, for she was able to use her sorcery to strike from afar without her enemies realizing it was she who attacked them. Let Thor and Tyr gather giants to them with their well-brandished weapons; she would help them slay enemies without even realizing they were being helped.
Odin had been insistent. She had found him next to her of a sudden, during a lull in the battle around her. He had appeared from nowhere; she had not even known he was near.
Taking her arm gently, he had said, “Sleipnir will come for you. You must go with him.”
She had given him a strange look. “Where? Why do I need to go with your horse?” She assumed it was a battle strategy and she would do as he said, but craved the reason why so she could better prepare her spells and attacks.
“
He will take you to Yggdrasil. You will enter the tree and wait there. You will know when it is time to leave.”
She was incredulous. “I cannot leave the battle, my lord! I am assisting in ways that our enemies do not even suspect. We need all here to win this battle! The loss of my sorcery could be devastating!”
Odin looked at her solemnly, calmly. “The battle will be lost. It is a foregone conclusion. That is not what is important.” He gripped her shoulder gently. “You must survive, and there is one other who must also survive. When Sleipnir comes for you, go with him.”
Even there, amidst all the blood and chaos, it was impossible to deny a command from the High One. Freyja nodded her head wordlessly, closing her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she saw him staring over her shoulder.
“
What is it? What do you see?”
“
My death,” he said. She turned to look, finding nothing, and when she turned back he had disappeared.
Sleipnir came soon after Thor’s death. As she had promised, she mounted him quickly and he took off, his eight powerful legs propelling him faster than any living thing could from the battlefield.
She had seen Yggdrasil from afar many times, but had only been close occasionally. The staggering size of it drew an awe-filled gasp, even from one who had existed for eons as Freyja had. Standing at the base of the World Tree, she could scarcely take in anything else, so overwhelmingly immense was the thing. She had a thought of what it must be like to be a flea standing at the base of a mountain, but realized that even that comparison was not enough to appreciate the colossal nature of the tree.
She dismounted Sleipnir, and the horse paused for a moment before turning its flanks and galloping off, a plume of dust arising in its wake. She walked toward the tree.
Yggdrasil seemed to shrink as she approached, the bark taking on the normal dimensions of a large tree, and yet it also retained its boundless size somehow. She did not question it, but merely reached out a hand to touch the warm bark. There was a living pulse there, something not unlike what she might have expected from a living creature’s body. It also radiated a silent wisdom, a primeval intelligence that was unmistakably different from anything she had experienced before.