Prelude Part 6: Naming Day

A new egg-shaped stone cut from a single two-ton boulder marked the grave of the little girl. The stone had been dug out from underneath the snow; a stonemason had chiseled the name Freya Olafson and the date into the stone and then it was carried to the cemetery behind the community roundhouse.

There, also under a thick layer of snow, were the rock mounds and rock markers of the graves of the most revered. On a planet with so little land, the dead usually received a burial at sea. The greatest warriors and heroes were burned aboard a wooden ship, the wood brought from Earth. The old clans, however, maintained a burial field behind the Roundhouse and just before Mount Asgard. It was there where they had placed the little body of the dead born girl.

Ilva, the mother of the girl, wrapped in a black fur-trimmed cloak, stood there, the wind pulling on her cape, her face hidden behind the black fur of a Nubhir wolf mask. The men were all gone after she had asked to be alone for a while. Her father had left a flier for her to use behind and only after the third assurance that she would be fine they had left.

The bitter cold had long penetrated the cape and her insulated clothing underneath, yet she did not want to leave just yet. She had so looked forward to raising the twins. To have a girl of her own, hoping she would grow up in a better world.

All her life she had been raised to be a proper Nilfeheim woman and after her mother died, she had first hated her father, but she knew how much he had loved her and that it was a terrible accident. She then tried to be a good daughter, especially as fate was not kind to the Ragnarsson clan and her older brother had died in a Tyranno Hunting accident.

She sensed his presence and said without turning, “She is dead Old Egill. I have a beautiful son, but his sister is dead.” Her voice was just a hint above a whisper.

“I could be twice as old, lovely Ilva, and still would not know what to say to make it easier for you. Nilfeheim is Hel’s realm and in this, our world is aptly named.”

“It would not have happened if we opened a little more to the worlds beyond our orbit, but women are still nothing, but ornaments meant for pleasure, bearing sons for them.”

“Death happens even on Pluribus; the old reaper has not lost his sting and old Hel has never suffered a shortage. As you know I hoped Freya would be the one, the one I could raise as a warrior.”

She turned to look at the equally bundled up old man they often called the Wizard of Nilfeheim. “I so wish Tyr would be here.” She knew he could not see her sad smile but she knew he could sense it.

He pulled her close and said. “He knows my child I am sure and knowing him he will be the first Tyranno that weeps. Now let us go back, your son is alive, and he does need his mother.”

Erik Gustav had spared no expenses to make the naming day of his grandson a momentous event. The Burg was made snow and ice-free as possible. Flags and banners everywhere and even the Lowmen had received new clothing. Every room in the burg was filled with guests, many clan Chiefs were invited and all the Elders. A delegation from Hasvik along with the First Keeper was there, even Bjorn Igvarhein, the operator of Nilfeheim Radio, was there to record the event and broadcast it.

The tables almost buckled under the weight of the mountains of food.

A dozen grills lined up with entire Fangsnappers slowly turning over an open flame. There were stacks of barrels of beer, ale, and mead. Stacks of cases holding aquavit and other strong spirits.

Now after days of frantic preparations, the ceremony drew near, and again just like at the wedding, oak tree branches had been transported all the way from Earth and decorated the High Hall.

Even sacred mistletoe and birch saplings and flowers. Even the rich clan lords were open in their envy of such Old Earth splendor. Things only are seen in the most ancient illustrations, from the original home of the Vikings.

The Elders had brought the most precious artifact of the planet, the Altar of Odin made of solid platinum.

It was richly decorated depicting the one-eyed god, his ravens, and all the other symbols associated with the father of the Aesir.

Twenty men had struggled with the enormous weight as they had carried it in.

It had been placed just beyond the five wide steps that led from the High Hall to the Lord’s Retreat.

The big table that usually was at the center of the High Hall had been pushed to the side and chairs were placed in rows to the left and right of a dark red carpet running from the main entrance all across the polished stone floor of the High Hall and to the Altar of Odin.

Olafson banners and the wolf heads mixed with the banners of Ragnarssons and the falcon crest everywhere.

Tall iron wrought braziers and oil-fed torches lined the walls.

From the twenty-meter-high, vaulted ceiling now hung the eight huge, famous chandeliers made of Tyranno Fin bones and the skulls of long perished enemies of the Olafson clan.

They had been brought from the old Olafson Rock to symbolize that this was now the new burg of the clan. Each of these chandeliers had thirty-six soot-blackened skulls with a long-lasting candle burning in each of the skulls half-open jaws. These macabre lamps were the source of many legends and were known far beyond the walls of the Olafson clan.

Isegrim was standing in his finest chief regalia near the top of the stairs and looked up to these chandeliers.

It was an old Olafson game to know the name of each enemy whose cranium bone was attached up there.

Each time a mistake was made, a tankard of ale had to be emptied. No ancient symbol had been overlooked; Odin’s spear lay upon the altar, the Elders wore their white robes, and the goði, the priests from Hasvik, had added dark red capes to their stately outfits.

The First Keeper of Hasvik wore a robe adorned with the world tree Yggdrasil embroidered on his chest.

Over a hundred fifty clan chiefs both from the Alliance of the East and the Western clans in finest, most traditional garments complete with swords, axes, and today even shields accompanied by first sons, warriors and wives filled the mighty hall to the very last seat.

The Eldest, the hermit they often called the Wizard of the Pillar was here as well. That he again had left his lonely burg was seen as an omen of great importance.

Gretel was standing in the back, next to Brunar Bendixen, disguised with a dark wig and a veil.

She had used a generous dose of the Shaill pheromone to attract the man and then spiked his ale with more illegal Hypno drugs.

Despite her sister’s complaints, she had not wasted all her time spending time in virtual reality.

She talked to other escaped Lowman. Not all were like her sister, content to simply be away. She was not the only one lusting for revenge.

She learned about the Nubhir gang, residing right under the noses of the high and mighty clan lords.

One of them got her in contact with a dealer of these illegal substances. From him, she learned about the subtle ways to entice and control others via psycho drugs. After she had heard of it’ she soaked up every bit of knowledge she could find.

Her sister’s money purchased a neural upload on Shaill poisons and toxins.

Of course, the possession and use of such drugs were highly illegal, but so was stealing her own sister’s life savings. She would eventually get over it, besides, it was her parents too, that Gretel wanted to avenge.

She cared little about that; she was beyond Union law on Nilfeheim. Here, the knowledge she had gained, and the content of the little box would make her queen and give her the tools for revenge.

What easier way to gain all she ever dreamed about, on a world ruled by pecker brained simpletons?

The Shaill, a very disgusting species of huge sentient slugs, had based an entire civilization on the mastery of biochemistry and could at will make their glands produce the most complex and potent biotoxins and compounds. While it wasn’t psionics, the potions could only increase and reinforce emotions that were already there, but with the help of inhibition lowering and Hypno suggestive psycho drugs the primitive men of this cold world could be molded to her will.

How Isegrim freed himself of her biochemistry induced spell was not entirely clear to her, but seeing him with his son and that blonde bitch, she suspected strong emotions overpowered the effects of her drugs.

It took little persuasion to convince Brunar to take her along, finding him in the bed of a South Down whore was a stroke of luck.

Gretel was introduced as a high lady of his clan. The Bendixen clan was not an ally of the Ragnarssons and an open enemy to the Olafsons, but it was tradition to open the gates to friend and foe alike on a day like this.

That they had to stand in the back was because there weren’t enough chairs left and it was the allies and friends of the clans that had reserved seats.

Next to Brunar stood his father Odvar Bendixen. He too was under the influence of Gretel’s Hypno drugs, he too frequented the shadier side of town, and needed little convincing to simply ignore her. The older Bendixen was talking to the clan Chief of the Elhir.

Leif Elhir, who like Isegrim, had just recently become the leader of his clan snorted. “That whelp they name today is celebrated like the coming of the first King of Nilfeheim.”

Odvar Bendixen kept watching the last guests arrive. “Aye and the first king he just might be. His name is going to be Eric and he is going to inherit not just the riches of the Ragnarssons this shrewd clan has gathered on this world, but the billions Erik Gustav has. There isn’t a week going by one of his freighter’s lands. Do you know how much a freighter like that costs?”

“No, and what need would I have for such a thing? We are Norse.”

“You could buy every last boat and sub on Nilfeheim and have the spare change to buy a hundred more. We are not as isolated from the rest of the Union as you think. Wealth is power and in that regards Erik Gustav is more powerful than all the clans. The old hawk is worth billions!”

Gretel could barely keep quiet. She had seen what the money of her sister could buy, and if her plans came to fruition, those billions would be hers.

Leif said. “Volund the old chief had to hire on our boats to keep his clan fed and now Isegrim spends more coin on the naming of his son than his clan has seen in five Longnights. What I like to know is, what they paid the hermit to come down from his rock.”

“Yes, that would be interesting to know. His endorsement could get me a seat in the circle right away. Yet he is known to refuse even the most generous gifts. They say he is a wizard and has the ear of the gods.”

Gretel could not hold back and whispered, “There is no such thing as gods and there are no wizards.”

Odvar turned to her and the thin veneer of psycho drugs could not change the fact that he was a Nilfeheim man. “Silence woman don’t blaspheme. Who are you again?”

She lowered her head. “I am the companion of Brunar, thy lordship.”

He grunted. “Then know your place and be silent. It behooves you not to speak when chiefs converse. A woman is silent and knows her place. Brunar, see that she knows her place, and later you will tell me from what clan she hails and why the proper traditions are not kept. Or I shall introduce her to an old Bendixen tradition, called the Branks.”

Brunar tried to remember who the woman was and looked at Gretel. “I don’t remember.”

Gretel was saved by a blasting of horns, calling the assembled to attention. She knew how close she had come to losing it all.

The biochemicals worked, but it seemed the effect was not as strong as she hoped. She also remembered the warning of her virtual instructor, that strong emotions could break the Hypno drug enforced suggestions.

The music, played on the old instruments, swelled to a rousing tune every Norse knew. The Hymn to the Seven Aesir was a well-liked sacred melody.

Then the crowd became silent as the Eldest of them all appeared.

Through the opening doors, the Eldest came walking along the red carpet carrying a heavy object. Someone whispered. “It is the Blótbolli.”

Brunar asked his father, “Is that the cup they made of the Nogoll skull? Do you know the tale?”

“Indeed son, the Nogoll, an alien race and part of the Galactic Council, raided many Union Colonies during the big intergalactic war. An advanced scouting party of the Nogoll also landed on Nilfeheim. They picked the wrong planet and none of the Nogoll left.

This cup was made of the skull of the Nogoll commander, felled by Siegfried Olafson. It galls me to say but that man was perhaps the wildest and strongest Viking ever to live. They say he was even bigger and stronger than that giant Hogun.”

The Eldest did not wear his usual tattered things but looked the part how the Eldest and wisest of all Elders were supposed to look. In a floor-length billowing cloak the darkest red, the old maroon of the Skallagrímsson clan, not seen by anyone in four hundred years, The black dragon symbol upon the heavy fabric and the hood drawn around his face and the legendary sword Dødbringer on his hip.

With a solemn expression, he carried the heavy skull cup and stepped up to where Isegrim held his firstborn.

There the First Keeper of Hasvik took the spear of Odin from the altar and Isegrim cut his hand on the razor-sharp spear and dripped his blood over the forehead of the child.

“This is my firstborn son! My blood is his blood, his blood is Olafson. Before Odin, Thor, and the Aesir; before the Elder of Nilfeheim and the holy men of Hasvik, I proclaim his name to be Eric Thor Olafson!”

Isegrim held his hand over the cup and dripped more blood into the cup the old man held.

Now Erik Gustav cut himself and dripped blood over the newborn. “This is my grandson and sole heir. My blood is his blood and his blood is Ragnarsson. Before Odin, Thor, and the Aesir; before the Elder of Nilfeheim and the holy men of Hasvik, I swear that all that is mine shall be his on the day he is declared man and warrior. Hail thee my grandson, Eric Thor Olafson.”

Then he too dropped blood into the cup.

To the surprise of all, the old hermit cut himself on the spear and dropped blood over the infant and said with deep emotion in his voice, “Many Longnights and Shortsummers have passed since I was born, but I am thy kin Eric Olafson and my blood is your blood. Before Odin, Thor, and the Aesir; before the Elder of Nilfeheim and the holy men of Hasvik. I swear to be thy teacher and protector and no secret I guard shall be secret to you.”

Huge Hogun Olafson stepped up to the spear, cut himself, and sprinkled blood over the infant. “My blood is your blood. Before Odin, Thor, and the Aesir; before the Elder of Nilfeheim and the holy men of Hasvik. I swear to be thy godfather and protector.”

The First Keeper took and raised the cup. “This cup, filled with the blood of a mighty Tyranno, slain during the last days of Shortsummer and with the blood of thy father and kin. May their strength and the might of this world flow through thy veins. I hereby declare thee to be known as Eric Thor Olafson. Bring though honor to thy name. Hail Odin, Hail Thor.”

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