My new friends led the way, grunting in affectionate greeting as they gifted me their packs.

“Don’t slow us down,” one helpfully suggested, tapping the dagger at his side as a sign of good luck. He was almost as tall as Njord, seeming taller for his strange hair—cut short on either side, but leaving a tall tuft down the middle. It was like a rooster’s comb.

image [https://i.imgur.com/WoifiAz.jpeg]

“Good idea! What’s your name?” Tying two of the sacks together, I balanced them on my shoulders.

“Birger.” He shared the loveliest scowl with me, the tattoos over his brow matching his eyes. “Any other questions…?”

“Don’t the sides of your head get cold?”

He tapped the knife for luck, again, clutching the pommel… then slowly let go of his lucky dagger. “Watch it.”

Watching that blade did seem pruden . As he left, I noted a trace of runes inked on his neck, and on his hands before he slipped on his gloves. These tappers must’ve spent half their earnings on protective runes. The lucky knife had them on its scabbard, and likely over the blade. My packs were like wind chimes, covered in taufr, mostly pendants of Thor’s hammer. But I wasn’t looking at the ‘mostly,’ as something heretical caught my eye amongst it. Of all the symbols of Thor, Odinn, and all the more forgettable gods… there was the S-shaped snake of Loki.

After adjusting the packs, I hurried to catch up with the others.

Still in the thicket, I trudged my way down the branch (or branchling), following the others towards the great-branch it stemmed from. There was no need to be quiet, surrounded by thousands of twigs from all sides, so I decided to sing for my compatriots: The Branches of Yggdrasill, a song to scare mischievous children.

Yggdrasill, yfir - öllum heimi

Oh Yggdrasill, over all the Earth!

stofn stendur sterkur - heimr styðr

Your trunk stands strong to hold up the world.

vil ek nú syng - súl Mimis

I sing for the Pillar of Mímir!

hverr heimr haldist - á limi

Every realm is held up on your boughs,

Þar Þríf Þursgreinur - tind himins

the great-branch offshoots reach heaven's peak,

'Ru greinir goðar - að ganga

from them grow branches we walk in ease.

má kvisti klifra - með ótta

Beware their twigs if you dare to climb,

Sá's hlaupir á hrísi - mun falla

to jump on twiglings will bring your fall—

Mjórr sprengi sproti - á spíru

those sprouts which bloom across the spire.

Next were the verses about the nine worlds… but a stick came flying at me from Birger. I ducked behind a protective sprout-tree which was growing out of the branchling, as thick as a mortal tree’s trunk.

“We don’t need nursery rhymes!” He threw another stick. Turning, I used his pack to block this one. Satisfied, Birger rejoined the others, Njord chuckling with him.

Well… I liked that song. “Would you prefer I sing of Loki’s binding with the entrails of his son?” I called out down the branchling, to Birger.

He whipped around, hand on dagger. “No.” He spoke softly… yet loudly confirmed who the heretic was.

Stepping around and pushing through the many bushy sprouts and twigs springing from the branchling, these packs I was gifted started to weigh me down with their generosity. The greedy sprouts would catch hold of them. So would the many surrounding twigs of the thicket, which closed in around us. It was like a jungle path from the far south, or the golden land of the never-setting east. And despite their many protective runes, the others didn’t bother to cut a trail through this jungle, easily weaving through without their packs.

I whistled my way along, dodging the sticks Birger threw. Soon we reached the base of the branchling we’d been walking on, where it connected to the much thicker great-branch. This branch was so wide, you could sprint laps on it—with only half a chance of tripping and falling to your doom.

“Let’s rest a bit.” Stonebear, the dwarf, sat on a twigling that had fallen onto the branch, part of it held up by another twig. People fear twigs falling on them in the thicket, but it was actually more dangerous here where the twigs were thinner, seeing as there’s little to catch them.

Sighing triumphantly, I presented the many packs down at Stonebear’s feet. He nodded, as if acknowledging me took years off his life. The others came to get their things, checking the contents thoroughly. How rude… as if I’d steal anything obvious.

Ragnhild approached me, walking with a sway as if her lower half was drunk. Njord caught her by one of her horns, and yanked her back to their spot in a patch of thick moss. She looked sullen, but gave me a little wave. Njord, seeing me return the gesture, also joined in—by drawing a line across his own neck.

I’ll keep that in mind, I smirked to myself, liking the suggestion.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

While they checked their baggage—Birger looking increasingly frustrated—I hopped up to perch on a high twig growing from the branch.

Looking through a gap in the thicket… I saw trees walking.

“There are some Etnar over there.” The others didn’t seem concerned by my report.

“Ignore them.” Stonebear was massaging his smelly dwarf feet. “They’re just pilgrims.”

BIG pilgrims. The smaller ones could pick up Birger and throw him to his end, while the larger ones were almost three Njords stacked on top of each other—they could step on him! Not that I’d step on someone with horns.

Flocks of birds circled, many resting in the branches of the tree giants, from flitting sparrows and blue tits to fierce hawks and majestic crows. A living-tree waved one of its immense, hand-like branches, shooing away the birds that had perched on its long nose. The etunn in the lead had a crown of leafy branches that had been meticulously trimmed, the leaves shivering with every vast stride. Above its head, a great eagle nested atop the crown like a living crest, presumably the etunn’s pet.

“It’s GONE!” Birger raced at me, clambering up the twig. He was ready to catch a leg and pull me down. Seeing him coming, I pulled both legs up just out of reach of his clawing hand. Thrusting them out and away from Birger, I gained momentum and swung around the twig.

Birger saw me, in that instant, preparing to swing to his left. He adjusted himself with his right hand, and drew his knife with his left, slashing quickly at me as I leapt off the twig. I recoiled from the slash, but not enough to evade it entirely. Landing on another part of the branch, I checked my arm. He had a good blade… good enough to idly cut through my thick, warm jacket.

“You stole it, you snákur!” Birger paused before charging again, realizing I was using Stonebear as a shield.

Holding up my arm, blood slowly dripped through the tear for all to see. An impressed whistle came from one of the tappers, amidst their rolling hum of excited noises.

Seems I was on my own.

“A snake? I thought Loki’s thralls liked snakes!” I leapt up to a twig as Birger circled around—the knife now in his right-hand—and swung to the opposite side of Stonebear. Birger quickly set his dagger in his teeth, unconcerned about tasting my blood, and swung and leapt after me. As he came off the branch, he quickly took the knife out of his mouth. He stretched his empty-hand forward for balance, and to grab me.

Running around to the opposite side of Stonebear, I reset our positions.

The dwarf looked left and right, pipe in hand, left and right; torn between the threat to my precious life and the hilarity of my thrilling antics. The others, too, enjoyed the spectacle, whooping and jesting as Birger chased me.

“Come back here you bleyða!” He looked around for something to throw at me.

“Can’t you ask nicely?”

If I get him to jump again, I could throw my knife into his belly.

“Þegi þú, you heimskingjar!” Left and right, Stonebear looked between us as if I, too, was a heimskingi. I’d forgotten dwarves have no sense of humour.

“That bófi stole my taufr!” Birger was going to charge again, but he too remembered dwarves have no sense of humour, halting under Stonebear’s glare.

I gasped. “Me!? Steal?”

“I’ll kill him! You stole it!”

“It must’ve fallen off when you threw sticks at me,” I shrugged, leaning against a twig.

“That was pure silver!”

Another voice rang out from amongst the amused onlookers: “Why don’t you ask Loki for more silver?” A blonde norseman drank from his wineskin between peals of laughter. “Serves you right for serving The Trickster; he’ll make you a poor man.”

Birger turned from me to some older grievance. “You’re an idiot, Erik, who bows to Thor while stealing sap from his father! What if he finds out what we’re doing?”

“Gods don’t care about every detail… I’m a little vague in my prayers when it comes to matters of tapping the tree. And it’s better than sacrificing to a prisoner who can only thrash about and cause earthquakes.”

“You steal from the gods, but are still happy to be their thralls! Loki is free, the gods are nothing without him. He will overthrow Asgard and give it to mankind!”

“Þegi þú!” Stonebear rose to his full dwarfish height. “Birger, you know we don’t care about your fíflskapr.”

“You won’t be saying that when Ragnarǫk comes…. you’ll wish you earned Loki’s favour then.”

“Ragnarok isn’t coming….”

“The signs are all there! If you just…. Forget it. Crow robbed me, so I’m going to kill him.”

“It appears followers of Loki don’t think much of their oaths… he’s your blood brother. And you drew blood from him.”

Birger froze. “He robbed his blood brother! You expect me to work with a thief?”

Said the sap-thief.

Stonebear added more opium to his pipe and took a deep huff. “We’ll get you a new one out of Crow’s share… since he lost it.”

“You think that makes things right? I have no taufr to protect me!”

“He’s new. And you’re covered in runes, you’ll be fine. Now, why don’t you go on ahead and set up the ladders, since you feel so spirited.”

“Why should I—” Birger noticed Njord stand up, nearly one and a half Stonebears tall, above even his rooster-comb in height. “Fine! I don’t mind hard work.” He walked past Stonebear, towards me. I had a hand on my knife, just in case.

He flashed his blade, aiming for the neck or face… but stopped short, putting it in his scabbard. Hissing at me like some mangy cat, he walked up the branch, away from the trunk; oblivious to how close to death he came.

Waving goodbye to the furious Birger, I slid up beside Stonebear. “Was he always this good natured?”

“You made him worse.” Stonebear puffed his pipe at me, the sweet smell of opium mixed with terrible dwarf breath.

“Do you want me to go and help him?”

“No! Keep your distance from him. And stop poking the bear.”

“He’d be a lot happier if I let him stab me.”

“Yes, well…” Stonebear stopped short of saying he’d also be a lot happier if Birger stabbed me, and so would Njord. I could tell from his beady dwarf eyes. “Thank Odinn he didn’t.” Stonebear finished, sparing my delicate feelings.

“And for the sap he’ll gift us.” I held up my Valknut taufr, the three interlocked triangles of Odinn.

“...Indeed. You best pray that none of us are sacrificed to Odinn during this venture.”

“My blood brothers are always in my prayers, Stonebear. Just as Torsten is.”

Suspicion flickered in his sidelong glance. “Torsten? You met him?”

“Yes, and what a kind and generous host your brother is!”

“It doesn’t sound like you met him.” He shook out his pipe.

“Oh, don’t you get along?”

“We do. Now enough with the questions. Ragnhild, come over.”

Ragnhild bounced over with a smile. “Can I do anything for you, Stonebear?”

The effect was not lost on Stonebear. Being a norn-blood, she was about as tall as a karl—so Stonebear was at chest height. “I need you to go with Vidar, to the elevator,” he said, struggling to look up at her eyes, as she struggled not to titter. “Take only the basics. Go to the cache near Trollsrest, and set up a route for us to climb up to you.”

“Anything for my brave protector Stonebear!” She draped herself over him, giving a little peck on his cheek.

“Yes, yes… enough of that.” He said, as if he didn’t just hand her the easiest job.

Being a man, it seemed, was a mistake on my part. Is this why he doesn’t like me?

“See you later, Crow.” Ragnhild put honey to words, waving with her fingers more than her hand. “Don’t let Birger kill you.”

Stonebear made a gruff noise. “Yes, Crow… try not to die.”

Yup, that’s why.