Gods of the North.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
Simon Macmurdo is a Scottish thrill seeker. Whilst mountain climbing in Norway he makes a magical discovery. The hammer of Thor!

Submitted: July 15, 2017

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Submitted: July 15, 2017

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Gods of the North

 

Simon Macmurdo was a thrill seeker; he lived for the adrenalin rush of extreme sports. He was born in the highlands of Scotland near Loch Lomond. As a child he had spent every waking moment walking the hills and climbing the hard cold rock outcroppings that pockmarked the rolling heather scented hills of his home.

At the age of 12, Simon had even swum across the Loch in winter as a bet with his friends. The water had been cold and biting, numbing the lad to the very bone, but the thrill of just doing the dare had been enough fuel to keep him going.

As Simon grew older and his body matured, hard muscles and tough sinew weaved itself around his bones, until he stood an impressive six foot four inches tall, with rugged good looks, a mop of curly dark russet hair and large hazel eyes.

Simon was an adrenalin junkie; he skied in the winter, clung to the faces of rocks like a fly in the summer as well as mountain biking across the Alps on his 21st birthday.

Simon was twenty five and had travelled to Hammerfest in Norway.

It was winter and the glaciers had called to him, he had to cross the deadly ice sheets and climb the frozen water falls of the Norwegian landscape, for his blood needed the rush, and it was something he had not done yet.

All had gone well for Simon, until the ice mantle below him had just given way sending him tumbling down into a cold ice fissure. Simon lay at the bottom of the fissure, he must have fallen, slide and rolled a good one hundred feet to the bottom, he was lucky he had not seriously injured himself.

His satellite phone lay at his feet in pieces, there was no way of calling for help, with a sigh, Simon gripped his ice pick as his expert eyes begin picking a path in which to climb out of the fissure.

It was then that Simon noticed something in the ice, a dark blemish, big and solid, on closer inspection; he realized that something was frozen in the ice wall, lifting his ice pick; Simon began to chisel it out.

It must have taken him a good two hours solid work to chisel it out of its icy tomb, two hours, Simon could have used to make his way back to the surface.

 But instead, he blinked in awe at the iron headed hammer lying at his feet, it was huge, as thick as his torso, with an iron handle as long as his arm and just as thick. The hammer head was covered in braided weaving designs, which ended in serpent heads and inlaid with red enamel.

 

The hammer was ancient, a relic of the Viking age, Simon was sure; it must have been for ceremonial use only, for there was not a living human who could hope to lift such an awesome artifact in their grasp.

As Simon gripped the handle of the hammer, it suddenly crackled and fizzed. Simon felt a rush of electrical current running through his body, his hair stood up on end and his muscles cramped and bunched up.

Simon let out a cry as a bubble of crackling energy suddenly engulfed his body as wild images flashed before his eyes. Then suddenly he was standing outside, on a snow capped mountain side looking down on a white snow blanketed valley. Simon blinked and shook his head at the sudden realization of what had happened to him.

 

He was Thor the Norse god of thunder, his body bulged with iron muscles, his arms threatened to burst as he flexed his biceps, the thick muscle bunching up and rippling under the skin. His veins were threaded under his flesh like twisted rope cords, and gripped firmly in his huge calloused fist was Mjolnir his mighty hammer.

The hammer head fizzed and crackled with electric blue lightning. Thor grinned; his thick blue lips peeling back to reveal strong white teeth sparkling from his straw coloured thick braided beard.

 

To his left seated on his grey eight hoofed stallion, Sleipnir was Odin king of the gods, the grim grey god, a thick grey cloak draped over his shoulders. Odin’s face was a deathly pallor, with high protruding cheekbones, and a maniacal grin on his cold face. his left eye socket was a black hole in his face with only one good bright grey sparkling eye full of the wisdom of the world burning like a beacon in the night. His grey beard fell from his chin like chiseled stone. In his hand he gripped his mighty spear, Gungnir

Standing to the right of Odin was, Freya the beautiful corn maiden, the goddess of fertility, her lithe form barely hidden by a gossamer gown could make a man’s blood boil in his veins and his temples throb with mad desire for this vision of beauty. Her hair was long and braided into corn rows as bright as a sun beam, flowing around her body in the winter breeze.

Turning to his right, Thor spied, Loki, the dark troublesome god as he hid in the shadows of the rocks and surrounding trees, seeping from one to another shadow like oil on water. His skin was as black as soot, his eyes as red as burning embers with two knives gripped in between his yellowed teeth.

Below them in the snow covered valley the trees of the forest waved and shook and the snapping of their trunks could be heard on the wind as the frost giants broke cover and stood glaring up at the Norse gods and their army of followers, their breath billowing out of their mouths like a cloud of freezing fog.

The frost giants were huge, twice the height of a man, their skin was a cold white with spots of glistening frost sticking to them, their eyes were like ice and their features were sharp and cruel. Their beards hung from their faces like icicles.

Odin raised his spear and shouted his battle-cry, his army of brave warriors raised their weapons and shields and shouted at the top of their lungs, their cries screeching down the snow covered valley toward the waiting frost giants.

Then they charged banging shield bosses with the butts of their swords and waving their war hammers. The frost giants looked on, impassive, unbothered by the charging screaming horde of mortal men that dared challenge them.

 

As the charging army of brave Viking men neared the line of cold frost giants, the giants filled their lungs with the cold mountain air and as one blew it out, a billowing cloud of freezing fog engulfed the warriors, freezing them in their stride.

 

As the fog cleared, the army came back into sight, standing as though they had been carved from the snow and ice around them, then the frost giants strode forward and raised their hammers, and brought them down on the frozen warrior army, shattering them into a million icy shards.

 

Thor standing in his copper chariot held Mjolnir to his lips and kissed the hammer’s iron head, then gripping the shaft, he began to spin the hammer around his head in great sweeping arcs, and as he did so the hammer slipped from his grasp as it extended on a iron chain that came from its handle.

 

 Crackling and sparking, the hammer extended further and further out encompassing Thor as he stood in his chariot. And as the hammer became nothing more than a blur to the eye a great fizzing globe of electric plasma engulfed him slowly lifting the god and his chariot in to the air. The wheels of the chariot slowly began to turn gaining momentum and sending thunderous shockwaves screeching down the frozen valley to where the frost giants stood waving their war hammers and battle axes.

 

Riding through the sky in the centre of his electric plasma sphere, Thor called forth the power of the storm. The sky turned black, the clouds coalesced and flashed with deadly lightning. A bolt shot from the heart of the swirling clouds, striking a frost giant in the chest, the giant opened his mouth and groaned before falling like a felled pine, smoldering and twitching in its death.

Freya skipped and danced down the valley like a fleet footed nymph, her foot treads so light not a mark was left on the crisp snow drift. Her braided hair blew around her lascivious body cracking in the winter air like whip cords.

Leaping like a gazelle, Freya attacked. The grim frost giant raised his hammer then slammed it down into the ground, but Freya had already leaped away, her braided whip hair shearing through the giant’s thick icy thews severing a leg.  The giant bellowed like an ox as it fell sending a billowing cloud of snow up into the air. Freya moved in for the kill, her braided locks wrapped around the giant’s neck and squeezed the life out of it.

Loki advanced leaping from the shadows onto a giant’s back, his wicked knives chipped away at the giant’s flesh tunneling his way to its huge thumping heart and slashing it in two. The giant fell like a tree to the woodsman’s axe; Loki leaped from its back into the shadows and waited for another giant to cross his deadly path.

Odin looked on, his visage was a mask of grim death, and then the grey god raised his dwarven fashioned spear, Gungnir above his head. There was a flash of blinding rainbow light as the spear unleashed the power of the aurora borealis. The northern lights lit up the sky like writhing angry serpents over the heads of the giants.

The northern lights flashed and fizzed above the giants’ heads, before streaking down toward them, striking them like striking vipers; where their eldritch fangs struck the giants were engulfed in poisonous heavenly fire incinerating them where they stood.

The first battle of the frost giants had been won, Thor drew Mjolnir back into his mighty grasp as his copper chariot came to rest on the frozen ground. Grinning in triumph, Thor held Mjolnir above his head as it charged the air around him with blue lightning, then suddenly the world began to spin and Simon Macmurdo fell to his knees.

Looking around him, Simon realized that he was no longer buried deep in the ice fissure; but was back on the surface on the ice mantle.

The sun was high in the clear sky, and then Simon suddenly felt a tingling at his throat. Rubbing at his neck, Simon felt something that had not been there before, pulling a long gold chain from out of his padded clothing; Simon stared wide eyed at the small iron hammer hanging from a loop on the chain, the hammer of Thor.

Simon laughed then and shook his head as he gripped the small hammer in his hand and felt the distinct tingle of electricity in the palm of his hand. Getting to his feet, Simon turned around and began to make his way back to the town of Hammerfest eager to feel the pull and call of Mjolnir again. A world of adventure awaited him he was sure. It was the challenge of a lifetime, a challenge he had been waiting all of his life to confront and conquer.


© Copyright 2017 Celtic-Scribe63. All rights reserved.

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