* RAGNAROK - Chapter 2

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1

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R A G N A R O K
C h a p t e r - 2

The foundation of the Nine Worlds was shaken, the roots of the World Tree trembled as Ragnarok drew ever near.

In Midgard, chaos reigned. For all its technological savvy and international strength, the United States found itself unable to protect its own. The greater metropolitan area of Los Angeles had been reduced to radiated rubble at the hands of the now infamous Soviet revivalist group known as Red12.

The United Nations acted quickly in response, launching commando teams to the four missle sites controlled by the revolutionaries. But the death of Los Angeles was but a prelude to the carnage that was to come.

In golden Asgard, the gods had finally become aware of the danger, and pooled their resources to prevent the onset of Ragnarok. The eye of Odin had fallen on the realm of man. On his stout shoulders lie the future of all that was.

In distant Jotunheim, the brutal murder of the King of Giants paved the way for endless bickering and warring among the barbaric hordes. Yet they were destiend to be united before the end.

And in the forsaken depths of Hel, sinsiter plans had likewise begun to unfold. Many servants had been set against the hand of Odin, to counter his actions, to weaken his infulence, and to force the inevitable War to come.

The saga of RAGNAROK continues…

2

—MIDGARD—
My Enemy’s Enemy
(ATTN: Ego)

Red12’s first major victory had come at a heavy cost. The full force of the United Nation’s axis powers had been brought to bear against Targo Vleitnikov and his men.

Oustide each of the four silo locations scattered across the Ukraine stood a large military force. A majority of these UN soldiers were British, French and American in number, each holding a differnet kind grudge against their neo-Soviet nemesis.

Yuri and his men had set up a perimeter inside the Cheska3-8 compound, ready to give their lives to protect the inner control tower. Resting wearily in the black leather control chair sat Targo. Three missles remained at his local command, a grand total of fourteen spread amongst the four locations. As long as he reminded his enemies of such powerful leverage, the impotent dogs of war would remain on tight leash.

A communications jam now prevented further talks between the four stations. The only incoming transmissions were those of the UN command.

They were waiting. Waiting for a list of demands. Waiting to be addressed by the Leninist leader that threatened the world community.

And to be sure, unseen ears were listening as well.

3

—MIDGARD—
Wayfareres
(ATTN: Blunt, Poxy)

Clive was thankful to be in relative safety again. He had managed to provide the out-of-place Skarn with some of his clothes for the time being.

The Viking laughed as he plopped down to claim the drink he had been promised. The small mug of beer the local bartender slid his way seemed more fit for a child.

He nodded kindly just the same, and quaffed the ale with a long gulp.

Clive, however, was anything but enthused. His eyes remain locked on the flickering black and white television set in propped behind the counter.

The news report came across in Swedish, but the gist was impossible to miss. Nuclear detonation. American soil. Branson was speechless.

Skarn joined him at the counter’s edge, looking towards the glowing box curiously. Before the barbaric nomad could inquire, a painfully loud screech grew from outside the tavern.

Racing outside, the handful of patrons joined other onlookers. A large passenger jet screeched smoking in the distance, landing gear was lowered, but there was obviously no runway to service the emergency landing.

In disbelief, Skarn ran back into the bar and nabbed the catatonic Clive by the collar. “You must see this! Giant metal bird!”

Clive was numbed by the news of his homeland, but surrendered enough willpower to shamble out the front door.

In the hills just above Gluddun, a 767 screamed down into the snow. Fire, smoke… choas billowed out of the broken vessel.

***

Meanwhile, onboard that ill-fated flight…

The few passengers that remained conscious had braced for impact. Gunnar was among them, cut at the shoulder and bleeding somewhat profusely.

The rockstar had single-handedly brought the would-be terrorists down, but had watched them take the life of his friend and guitarist, Ben. Stray bullets had found their way into the hull of the vessel, bringing the troubled bird to the ground.

Gunnar latched himself into the nearest seat, tugging on the oxygen mask overhead until the promised flow finally came. Bitter cold greeted him as an increasingly large hole on theplane’s left side was chipped away.

With a hobbile scrape and ensuing boom, the vehicle had completed its crash landing, lodging itself securly into the side of a small foothill at the base of the famed Swiss Alps.

Gunnar shook himself conscious, bleeding from the head as he was in the arm. Screams of panic, tears of confusion… all muddled into a ringing sound inside his head.

The burning smell of hot oil wafted over him like smelling salts. The dangerous aroma lifted him right to his feet.

4

—MIDGARD—
Liberation
(ATTN: Eucalyptus)

Father Ilya had remained silent during the flight, a fact for which the devious Ormstunga was thankful. The helicopter ride would have been much more difficult, had it not been for the latter’s gift of illusion.

Despite a bitter snowstorm, Ilya’s pilot had proven to be worth his pay. The silver-green cargo chopper kicked back into the wind, bringing the two servants of evil a bit closer to the One they sought.

A curious feeling of certainty crept upon the two men silultaneously. And without a word they knew they had closed in on their goal.

Ilya motioned for the pilot to set down in a flat, snowy plain not far from the center of a branch of southern mountains.

The pilot manuevered over a small Nepali village and prepared to touch down.

Suddenly, an awkward lurch sent the machine rolling uneasily to the side. A wind had picked up, roaring a bit more than nature often requires.

The cave is most certainly protected, Ilya had said. Ormstunga was certain that the almost supernatural voice on the wind was just that. He grinned in anticipation.

For this meant that they were close.

Meanwhile, the pilot stuggled against the stick, shouting Russian’s finest stingr of curses as the helicopter was pushed by the strong gale completely onto its side. As though gravity’s pull tripled, the craft came careening down toward the ground.

Chopper blades cut deep into the snowy banks at ground level. A malicious screech of ripped metal greeted the three passengers. The rounded body of the helicopter began to tumble, end over end.

Had they come this far, only to perish at the edge of victory? Whatever brought the deadly wind against them, it must have been afraid.

Ormstunga took confidence in that even as death loomed about them. What was mere death to someone like him? He had died before. He was “dead” already.

Then the creeping though of a disappointed mistress of Hel entered his mind. Failure would perhaps carry a worse fate with it than only death.

Something had to be done.

5

—MIDGARD—
Fallen Angel
(ATTN: Fett)

The singed body of a fallen Valkrye was much less a curiosity in a place like New York City. In the backstreets of a Vietnamese market, the noble Friija awoke.

Sharp memories of fire and pain stung her back to consciousness. Her body ached, battered and bruised in what have must been a collosal fall. Despite the wintry cold around her, Friija’s skin felt hot, as though aflame.

Tasked by the Allfather as a heroine to rally other heroes, the battleworn aven was now in need of protection herself.

She rose to her feet slowly, summoning the fleeting strength in her legs. She ambled out beyond the market, into the back of a store.

Shouting rung out from within the modest structure, a panicked noise that rattled her enough to keep her awake.

She peered through the backdoor to see a large, brute of a man slapping an elderly couple about. The shopkeepers, no doubt. Brutally tossed by a cowardly thug.

Friija knew what to do, if only she could keep herself aloft long enough to do so.

6

—JOTUNHEIM—
Relentless
(ATTN: Unicorn)

For a thick-skinned barbarian like Prottigrnari, injuries like the ones he bore seldom came. Pain was one thing, but the numbing spike of electricity seemed to have scorched his mind as well–an annoying tickle that he could not prevent.

How long had he layed in the valley? A day? A week? Anger returned to his mind as he thought of the foolish thunder god.

The self proclaimed “Foe of Giants” was nothing more than a pompous godling. If he carried with him the dreaded Battle Axe Hjalmstallrklofna, then the outcome of the sneak attack might have been different.

On equal ground, the Son of Odin would not fare so well. He would pay, as would all of the gods. Protti only needed time to heal.

“What say ye now, Giant?” came an all-too-familiar chrip from his side. As he lay across a hard patch of dirt, the brute watched as the golden-furred squirrel bumbled back into his field of vision.

“Come to be eaten, I see,” he scoffed, biting back the ferocious rage in his cold heart. “Just when I needed some strength.”

“No,” the little creature shook its head seriously, “I have come back for an apology.”

Protti meant to burst into laughter, but the cutting pain in his ribs shut him up prematurely.

“I can help thee with thy ills,” the odd thing spoke. “And take thee to thy frozen axe.”

The giant was curious, almost stupified by the creature that dare ask for his apology. If the paralysis of his injury wasn’t so great, the frost giant would have reached out and crushed the sprite into a fine mist.

But strange days had come to Jotunheim. Perhaps he would play along, until the time was right to dispatch his grating companion.

7

—ASGARD: VALHALLA—
Call of Heroes
(ATTN: Katanga, Ludwig)

The honor of his arrival had taken time to settle in. And soon, a revitalized Magnor found himself itching for battle.

Knowing that he carried the favor of the god Tyr, the champion wolf-slayer stepped into the combat ring.

Chuckles and cheers spilled onto the ground from the half-drunken stands. Playful insults were lobbed as tankards were tipped. With a gracious smile, Magnor sat his treasured Wulfblud to the side and lifted a sturdy sword and stout shield.

Across the field approached Fjaldi, a short, stocky Viking warrior who was well-liked by his fellow Einherjar, almost to the same degree as Magnor.

The two squared off, and the stands were at their feet. Each of the warriors had their own band of support, as though situated intentionally behind each of them in the stands.

The horn was sounded, and Fjaldi half-bowed as a gesture of honor. He would await Magnor’s first strike.

As a fleeting thought before giving himself fully to the mock battle, Magnor noticed that neither Tyr, nor any other godly onlooker remained.

The horn sounded again aggressively, and Magnor, Slayer of the Seven was cast fully into the heat of the moment’s conflict.

***

“Rest easy, valiant one.”

Ajene squinted as bright light seemed to pour from every direction. It was not the bright flame he had succumbed to, but a fair and gentle glow.

The painful sting had left his lungs, and the sharpness of the burns on his limbs had faded. It seemed as if the inferno had been but a dream.

Or was this the dream?

Two glowing maidens carried him. Gently lifting him by the arms into a brightly lit hall. Were they angels? Was this paradise his reward for faithful service to his Maker?

He drew closer, breath stolen by the magnificent grandeur of the great of Valhalla. A palatial structure, several stories tall, brimming with golden and blue architecture.

It filled up his entire scope of vision. Ajene felt at great peace. In the distance golden fields and trickling waters seemed to welcome him.

A bit in doubt, he wondered if he would wake to find himself back on earth. But the moment never came. The dream seemed to stretch on for minutes… hours. It was as real as any reality he could recall.

A pair of ornatedoors swung slowly back, revealing an inner hall that was just as grand as the exterior. Ajene felt his feet touch the warm, fur-lined floors beneath.

His angelic escorts flitterd to and fro, collecting a suit of archaic yet pristine blue armor, covering his chest, shoulders and legs.

“Welcome home, welcome… to Valhalla.”

Valhalla?!

8

Wayfarers

As his new companion carried him outside, Clive’s thoughts were still fixated on the disaster that had hit his homeland. He had been to LA numerous times. He had friends there. He had made love there. He had marveled at the many sights the city had to offer and the wonderful times one could had there. And now nothing was left of it, destroyed that it had been by the folly of a few men. He sweared that if he ever was to encounter one of the men responsible, he would make them pay. And the bill would be pretty high. He awoke from his trance when Skarn shook him by the shoulders.

“Look! Over there!”

Clive’s eyes drifted towards the crash site and widened when he realized what it was. First the terrorist act, now this. What was the world coming to? Well, he couldn’t do a thing about LA for now, but maybe he could be helpful with his. He turned to face Skarn.

“There must be survivors. We gotta go over there and see if we can help. Follow me, there’s no time to lose.”

Without awaiting for an answer, he started running, hoping to get there before it was too late.

9

—MIDGARD—
Liberation
(ATTN: Eucalyptus)

Ormstunga snatched the priest by the back of his collar, used Heart-Biter to carve through the metal skin of this odd bird, and carefully timed a jump to safety. The shady cleric howled with fear as the old dead seer shrieked with glee. They landed in a snowbank and watched as the helicopter continued its death roll. “Your enchanted flying machine wasn’t too effective at landing, but it got us here in one piece. Where is the cave from here?” He shook the trembling man viciously. “Come to your senses man and point our way!”

10

Relentless

Prottigrnari grumbled to himself in his own tongue. He was not a humble giant in the least, and being forced to even feign humility left a bitter taste in his mouth. Or perhaps that was the blood.

“Alright, sprite. I’ll play your game. But if you want an apology, you won’t find one from me.” He regarded the diminuitive creature with cold eyes, one of them blodshot from the blow he had just taken. “And assuming I can find something else to eat, you will remain unharmed.”

He leaned in close, narrowing his eyes, his lips drawing up in a sneer as he pointed a thick finger at the sprite. “But if you try anything, I will crush you like the insect that you are. I have had my fill of magical trickery for this lifetime.”

With that, he grunted and lay back to stare up into the clear winter sky, and awaited his healing.

11

Wayfarers
(ATTN: Blunt)

Adrenaline returned to Clive’s limbs once more, as he leapt a dead log and re-entered the lower levels of forest.

Still almost a mile away, he fell into a steady pant as he jogged. He sould only see black clouds spilling into the morning sky.

The brush of tree limbs signaled that Skarn was keeping up. The Viking was no doubt still amazed by what he had taken in, and his trust in Clive was nothing short of surprising.

Thoughts skittered across Branson’s mind as he slid low underneath the low branch in his way, dusting his jacket with powdery snow.

“Tell me… what has happened?!” Skarn shouted in between deep breaths, keeping pace with the ex-Marine.

12

Liberation
(ATTN: Eucalyptus)

The curious wind howled anrgily, and as Ormstunga and Ilya landed, they were pushed quickly to the ground. Powerful gusts, unlike anything nature could offer, held the two firmly against the cold surface.

Ilya tried speaking, but over the piercing whistle of rushing air, Ormstunga could hear nothing.

While his mortal senses failed him, the wizard could still perceive… something. A powerful presence was among them, something beyond mortals or once-live men.

Wincing a bit in recognition, Ormstunga realized, he was in the loathsome presence of one of the gods of Asgard.

The helicopter was lifted upward, rolling into the sheer side of a lower mountain. The explosion barely registerd on blistered ears.

Eventually, the winds abated enough for the two servants of evil to stand.

“Surely it is nearby!” Ilya stammered, shaking of the frosty layer tha covered him.

Ormstunga was also sheeted in a layer of light ice, but it melted away as though burned by the missing sun.

“Turn back, fools!” bellowed a deep voice. It was carried on the wind, as though the speaker was all around them.

While tangling with the gods directly was suicialm even fr the undead, Ormstunga knew that they were as susceptible as mortals when cunning was applied.

Ilya opened his mouth as if to address the disembodied voice, but Ormstunga quickly covered it with his gray hand.

13

Relentless
(ATTN: Unicorn)

Prottignrari woke suddenly. The caw of a raven startled him from his slumber, shooting him up from the cold grass.

He found himself still in place next to the same river, still far beyond the rocky towars of Utgard. But no longer was the furry squirrel tumbling across his view, and no longer did he ache.

Protti stood, surprised at the ease with which he did so. He felt fully restored, well rested… perhaps even better than before his brief clash with the thunder god.

He scoured the immediate area, but was alone. Other than the uncommonly large raven which circled into a wide arc away from him.

The gods are watching, he mused to himself. His eyes fell upon an unnaturally straight row of brown pebbles, leading further out to Jotunheim’s warmer reaches, and away from the cold heart where he had once lived.

14

Liberation

Prostrating himself on the frozen ground and gesturing for Ilya to do likewise, he begins to speak. “Greetings great one, oh powerful force of nature. We two are merely seekers of knowledge in this vast wilderness. The Vanir have much to give and may we be blessed by it. We have not meant to offend you and pray that we may be of service to you. We wish no ill feelings or misunderstandings.” The cold means little to the grey man and is nothing compared to what awaits him under the gentle ministrations of Mistress Hel should he fail. “The stars have told me that this is a place of great power and I have journeyed far to see this for myself. This man, my servant, and I would gladly do your bidding but we only want to know why. Share with us your knowledge oh Great Njord.”

15

—MIDGARD—
Stars Fall In
(ATTN: Rath)

Carrington MacMagus sat quietly behind a steaming cup of coffee. He had isolated himself into a quiet corner of the world, but never felt less safe.

The Americans had finally drawn a serious enemy, and a major city lie demolished. He clicked off the news report, as there was nothing else the BBC anchors could offer.

He walked into his clutted living room, still scattered with bags from his last excavation. While trapsing through Denmark, he had unearthed a strange artifact.

What first struck him as a mere ice sculpture had quickly proven to be much more. The transparent battle axe was gigantic… too much for him to carry with just one hand. The ornate and otherwordly markings caught his eye immediately.

And so he brought the unmelted blade back with him. Clearing it with customs had cost him wuite a bit, but the discovery was just too great a treasure to leave in someone else’s hands.

After days of internet searching, scrolling through old tomes of his own and other’s libraries… Carrington was still at a loss.

Somehow, he felt the blade was connected to the great worry in his mind. But he was not yet sure of just what.

The powerful weapon lie wrapped in olive green cloth. He had no idea what to do with the thing, or where to look next for his answers.

Then it appeared.

Carrington blinked in near-disbelief at the furry creature that stood on his porch. It was only knee-high, and offered a bright set of eager eyes. It seemed harmless… yet it had sought him out…

Not a naturally occuring creature, the suirrel-like creature was nonetheless very real. MacMagus nearly fainted as it addressed him in his own language…

“Mortal, you must fly, 'tis no longer safe here!”

16

Relentless

Prottigrnari knew what he had to do. He needed to get his prized axe Hjalmstallrklofa back, at all costs. It was no mere weapon in his hands. It was a part of him. Without it, he might as well lay down and die, for his infamy throughout Jotumheim would vanish without his symbol of might.

For the time being, however, he needed to arm himself until he could recover his axe. There was no telling who had pilfered his weapon, and he needed to be prepared. Protti was not a smart giant, but he knew better than to go into a fight without an equalizer.

Tearing a thick branch off of a large tree nearby, he set about fashioning a simple, yet powerful weapon out of the thick, sturdy wood. Shedding the smaller branches away, he formed the haft of his weapon, then ground one end of a log into a sharp point, driving it onto the end of the handle he had crafted.

Hefting his new maul, a sharp hammer-like weapon roughly 7 feet long, and with a head 2 feet wide, Protti cracked a smile. This would do, for the time being.

Turning to face the warm land beyond, Protti began once again to trudge throught he wilderness, following the pebbles that were left by the squirrel-creature. He would fine his axe, or he would die trying. Either way, someone was going to die before this was all over.

17

—MIDGARD—
Stars Fall In

“Mutant squirell from hell!” McMagus jumped back, knocking over his coffee and spilling it all over his lap. The large handgun, more of a cannon, really, found its way into his shaking hand as he pointed it at the still animal.

The good doctor stared at the large furry animal. Paranoia set in. He was seeing things again. Then it blinked. His delusions never blinked. This was real.

He arose, and looked at the growing stain on his slacks, shaking his head. There was no time to change, however, and he moved into the manor. He grabbed a knapsack of clothes and slung it over his shoulder.

Behind him, the small sprite followed him. He entered the north library, and removed The Hobbit from its place on the tall shelf. The wall swung away. He passed through the security clearances with determined ease. As he entered the elevator at the end of the hall, he turned and re-armed the devices. Anything passing through them now would be cut to ribbons.

The sprite bounded through the clearances and joined him in the elevator. It looked up at him with black eyes, and blinked again.

Carrington hit the down button. They arrived in the elaborate subbasements to the sounds of Wynernacht–he had programmed the security system that way.

He hit the four key rooms in rapid succession. Computer-his laptop, battery, satelite modem all went in the fire/water/bulletproof case alongside his clothes. Research-Nearly fifteen years of work–academic papers, notes, ancient Norwegian maps–all of this was left behind as he grabbed only what he would need. The maps and notes didn’t matter anyhow. All his work had been collected meticulously in a series of small journals, the key volume attached to his waist. Bedroom-some additional clothing flew into a Kevlar knapsack, as well as his CD player, a few CDs, and on a whim, Terry Brooks’ Running With The Demon. Weapons-fresh MAGAZINES for the Desert Eagle, knives around his ankles, and finally, the large broadsword across his back.

He took another secret passage up from the weapons room to a stall in the back of the barn. He grabbed some supplies for Wallace and moved to the horse’s stable. The great animal whynnied–it was almost as if he saw the look of fear and excitement in Carrington’s eyes.

“Don’t spook him,” he said to the squirell. He entered the stall and loaded the horse after calming him. He grabbed the cloak from the wall behind Wallace and mounted the great beast. The door flew open, and the doctor headed out onto the misty field. The doors to the barn slammed shut as the sprite exited. Carrington looked back.

“The house is now armed with 1.21 tons of explosives,” he said. It’ll create a large enough blast to level the home and the surrounding area, once I set the permiter traps. I’m well aware that the world will end, my furry friend. Are you coming?"

18

As he waited for the creature’s response, the Doctor remembered something.

“BLAST!” he bellowed. He reached into his jacket and disarmed the house, got off the horse, steadied him, and went back through the barn, down the secret passage, and down into the subbasements. He went into his research library and stared at the great ice weapon that had befuddled him so.

Then he picked it up, went back up through the weapons room, into the barn, and got back on the horse. He armed the house one more time and flung the arming device as far as he could. It disappeared into the mist.

“Now,” he said to the furry creature, which was grinning slightly. “Are you coming?”

19

MIDGARD – Wayfarers

Gunnar undoes his seatbelt more from instinct than from concious effort. He has to get away – too many flammable things around to risk staying put. He makes sure Fenris is still secure in his boot, grabs a few pieces of clothing and some cloth napkins, and staggers out of the hole in the side of the plane into the Alpine weather.

He barely notices the cold as he starts tearing the clothing into strips and wrapping it around his wounds. Nothing too deep, but nothing to let simply leak all over the place either. He trudges through a modest drift of snow, probably nothing to give him trouble had he not just fallen from a couple of thousand feet.

Once what feels like a safe distance away, he turns and looks back at the wreckage. His bandmates, his friends, are most likely dead. Wynternacht is most likely finished for good – Gunnar isn’t about to turn his band into Lynyrd Skynyrd.

Then again, he thinks, this’ll probably kick the latest album a couple of dozen spots up the charts.

He laughs, then feels guilty. He knew Ben was dead, but what about Dizzy? Or Ironbar? Was he just going to run off and not even see if they were alive?

He draws Fenris – can’t be sure all the terrorists are dead, and besides, he may need to cut some people free if things are bad enough in there. He sets his jaw and walks back into the hell he just dragged himself out of.

20

Wayfarers

“Well, see, that metal bird, as you put it, is something we use to carry people over land and sea, it’s a mean of transportation. And it has crashed…I mean fell from the sky. There are still people inside, and it could go up in flames at any time.”

Skarn nods, understanding the basic problem, but can’t help adding:

“But how does something so big manages to fly?”

“Simple really it’s…look forget it, now is not the time for a lesson in physics, okay? I’ll tell you later.”

In the distance, Clive sees a human shape crawling from the wreckage, and apparently going back inside. He starts running faster.