Wrath of the Last God

It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark. Thyra staggered breathlessly through the snowy woods, her ceremonial paint smeared across her face. Behind her an orange glow colored the nearby trees. The rooftops of Lundr were burning and screams of the dying filled her ears.

A loud, booming voice rang out through the darkening forest, “Spread out! Bring me that craven witch!”

Thrya brushed the sweat drenched black hair from her face. She could not stop now. The marauders would spare none of her fellow villagers to find her. Help would not come from nearby villages for fear of a similar fate as Lundr. With her village burning and help out of sight, Thyra knew where she had to go. The sacred grove. 

Her legs moved with primal speed, like a wolf chasing down its prey. Though in this circumstance, she was the prey, and the wolves pursued her. Thyra had been raised in these woods her whole life. She was sure she could navigate them in the blackness of night, and she was even more confident her hunters could not.

The sacred grove was not far from the outskirts of Lundr. Thyra had made this familiar trek many times on thoughtful walks. Her mother and father taught her to honor the gods of old with prayers and sacrifices from an early age. Often she had pondered the nature of the woods, and the gods who created them, on the many well worn paths. Even after her parents had passed onto Valhalla, Thyra continued to devote herself to the ancient ways of her people. 

The trees, the paths, and even the light of the moon were intimate to the young woman. The resounding shouts and dancing torchlights behind her were far less familiar–far less nostalgic. With the mob of murderous hunters a slight distance away, Thyra stepped into a circle of large stones. 

The small glade was surrounded by several of these ten foot tall carved rocks, each bearing a distinct mark. Thyra approached the first stone to her left with gasping reverence. She bowed her head and raised her hands toward the stone in front of her, “Oh Freyja, I come to you in my hour of need. Let me not suffer this dreadful fate.”

The thunderous voices and foreboding flames were getting closer, and Thyra feared she would not receive deliverance from Freyja in time. She moved on to the next stone and beseeched a different recognizable deity. “Balder, god of light: shine down upon me as darkness surrounds me.”

“Over here, my lord!” One of the hunters shouted.

Another called out, “She is praying to a pile of rocks!”

Thyra had been found.

Slowly, the host of armed men emerged from behind the grove’s sacred stones. Their torches cast ominous shadows against the hallowed ground. Each marauder’s eyes were fixed on the desperate woman as they prowled in on Thyra’s position. Her prayers quickly went from attempts at calm petition to pleas for urgent deliverance.

As meager foot soldiers surrounded her, one large man with a thick blonde beard stepped out from the ranks. His armor was adorned with strange emblems of two intersecting lines, the vertical one longer than the other. His shoulders were draped with a heavy fur, most likely a bear pelt he had not gained the hard way. His brash stride wreaked of false authority, “Do Magnus’ eyes deceive him, men? Is this bleating goat truly Lundr’s pagan priestess?” 

“Heimdall, cast your all vigilant eyes upon me in the face of my enemies,” Thrya continued her prayers to the next stone, not paying the band’s leader any modicum of deference.

Magnus circled Thrya’s position as her petitions proceeded, “When we were sent by the Archbishop to investigate a claim of heathen worship, I thought it far-fetched that such rumors would be true. In this day and age? A woman of Lundr still leading her people in the old, former ways. Blood sacrifices. Heathen orgies. Crying and wailing before trees and stones. Nonsense!”

Thyra’s heart began to warm, and her face became tear-stained in the torchlight, “May your life-giving power flow through me, my lady Idun.”

The brutish leader and his men swayed with a tense readiness at the sound of the woman’s unceasing prayers. Magnus unsheathed his broad sword and scraped its tip against the ground, now a mixture of wet snow and coarse earth. “There is no place in this new world for your kind, priestess. The Church has authorized me to convert your iniquitous lot to the one, true God or remove your wretched head from your shoulders.”

Thyra’s appeals went on, “Tyr, let loose your blade of war.”

Her life had been threatened more times than Thyra cared to recall. Death did not strike fear in her heart, neither did this swaggering fool and his men. The only thing she feared was extinction. The ending of her people. The destruction of their way of life. The thought that all her mother and father had taught her would fade from memory into unwritten history.

“We have come to this backwater fjord to purge these lands of your pagan stain–in the name of Holy God! How dare you regard the Sons of God as common street whelps?!” Magnus bristled, his temper beginning to boil at the woman’s insistent prayer.

She had yet to give him a glance or a direct word. For the sake of her people, Thyra would not give the foreign marauder the satisfaction. He and his brotherhood of pious cut-throats deserved punishment, not courtesy, “Vidar, utter your silent vengeance here and now. For the corpses spread over Lundr: I implore you!”

“Seize her!” Magnus yelled as Thyra attempted to move to the next stone near the end of the circle.

Two soldiers quickly grabbed her by the arms and pinned her against a large boulder in the middle of the ceremonial circle. “Shut your damned lips before I shut them for you, priestess,” Magnus threatened.

Thyra’s words did not stop for a moment, “Loki! Great deceiver of gods and men. May your schemes—”

Magnus swiftly lowered the pommel of his sword and smashed it across Thyra’s mouth. Her prayer halted at the sudden hit. Blood pooled inside her mouth, and she felt several teeth come loose. You’ll pay for that. Though dizzy and fairly certain she was concussed, Thyra knew she must continue. She spat out the mixture of blood and teeth onto Magnus’ boots and continued her invocations. This time to the King and Queen of the old ways.

“Odin, King of the Gods, wise wanderer, write your poem of victory over this place. Please, Father, hear me!”

The soldiers holding her tightened their grip as Magnus again thrust the pommel of his sword downward with ferocious anger. Thyra’s jaw was surely broken. Her nose and mouth poured blood from the bludgeoning blows. Her mind slowed from the disorientation, but her soul begged her onward. The Queen–surely she would hear the words of one of her daughters. 

“My Queen … Frigg, originator of all things. Deliver me … Mother, please,” Thyra said, her shoulders slumping as it seemed all vigor was gone.

“Ha! Your pagan gods have failed you, foolish girl! These stones have no power anymore. Rocks they are, and rocks they will be until time’s end,” Magnus bragged.

Thyra’s heart sank with her shoulders as she questioned the god’s silence. Am I a fool? Have the gods failed me? Or have I failed them? Her body slumped onto the ground as the guard’s grip loosened. They sensed the fight had gone out of their captive; she would surely submit at last.

The soldiers bellowed and sneered at the defeated woman kneeling before the last stone. Thyra’s eyes slowly raised to gaze at the only remaining god she might petition. The thought of summoning one more invocation to her bloody, cracked lips pained Thyra to her very soul. Even to a god as powerful as He. Then Magnus spoke his final venomous insult, “Does the rancid she-devil have one last prayer in her?”

Yes, she does. Even if this prayer was her last, she would never submit to corrupted men like these. Thyra’s mouth strained and began to utter Magnus’ doom, “Sovereign of the Storm. Master of the Hammer. Hero of Mankind. Almighty One—“

“Almighty?!” Magnus pulled his sword to separate the woman’s head from her shoulders as he had wanted to do, “Magnus alone is mighty! There is no strength in these stones. Die with some dignity you unholy bitch!”

“THOR! RAIN DOWN YOUR WRATH!!”

Immediately, the ground trembled and the clouds darkened, blotting out the moon and its light. The tempest formed along the shores of the nearby fjord, and the snow turned to drops of rain. In the distance, the faint spark of lightning struck the churning water. Then there came the sound of a low rumble like the drums of a distant army approaching a doomed city. The rumble gave way to a deepening roar and then the boom of thunder.

Magnus opened his mouth to speak, but could not summon words before the sacred grove was bathed in an eruption of white hot lightning. Several of the marauders vanished instantly into piles of smoking ash. The others were blown back against the large, ancient stones. Broken bones and internal bleeding were their spoils for coming to this place, but their ultimate reward was yet to come.

Amidst a cloud of smoke and sparks there stood a colossal figure, his head lowered. He had not been there before Thyra’s prayer but had appeared out of nowhere or from the heavens. Could it truly be him? Thyra wondered, her face forming a smile despite the blood drenching her face and clothes.

Magnus and his remaining men stumbled to their feet as the mysterious figure fixed his gaze on Thyra and no one else. His eyes sat deep within a face which was covered with a red braided beard and coarse, crimson hair atop his head. His figure was hulking but not grotesque–strong and sturdy. It had to be him! After all, Thyra saw what he held in hand.

Gripped in his powerful palm was the legendary hammer, Mjölnir. The divine weapon of the gods used to grind their enemies back into the dust from which they had been formed. Thyra’s eyes darted to the hammer and then back to the figure’s eyes. He has come to save me. Thor has answered my prayer.

“Who in the hell are you?!” Magnus shouted at the figure.

Thor’s eyes turned slowly to the proud mortal. His piercing eyes now fixed on Magnus the Mighty, gripping Mjölnir tighter.

“Conjure all the depraved black magic you wish, priestess. This fool will die, with our spears and swords buried in his guts. Then you will suffer a fate worse than death,” Magnus threatened as he directed his remaining men to move in on the mysterious individual.

Thyra’s face formed into a full smile, “You should have never come here, Sons of God. The corpses of Lundr testify against you, and Thor has come to execute their justice. You, Magnus, are about to discover the true meaning of might. Prepare to die.”

The soldiers who encircled Thor sprinted in on him, spears and torches flashing violently through the air. Each marauder was spurred on by Magnus’ booming commands of “Bring me that hammer!” and “I want this bastard’s head!” Thor quickly calculated that there were less than twenty soldiers who remained in the pompous mortal’s ranks. If Magnus the Mighty had truly planned on subduing the God of Thunder, he should have brought an army of thousands. At least then it would have been a fair fight.

Thor swung his mighty hammer at the oncoming band which sent several flying into the forest beyond the runic stones, smashing them against ancient trees. Broken spines, shattered skulls, and even some skewered on the tree limbs with crude ferocity. Those who had not yet become acquainted with Mjölnir’s vengeance halted and backed away from Thor. Magnus raged as he too gripped his weapon tighter.

Without words, he too charged the hulking figure, sword held high in the night air. The god did not flinch at the threat of attack though Magnus had hoped his aggression would summon fear to Thor’s heart. Wishful thinking. Thor reached out and grabbed Magnus’ arms before he could lower them to strike. Grasping the attackers forearms, Thor squeezed.

The grinding of bones and flesh resounded within the circle, but even the gruesome sounds could not drown out Magnus’ screams of pain. “Ahhhhhh! Get … him! Ahhhhhh!” Magnus wailed.

In truth, the soldiers feared both figures. To them, Magnus and Thor were both worthy of terror. At this realization, many of them turned and ran out of the circle. Most protectors would be satisfied at the signal for withdrawal, not Thor. Not the Scion of the Storm. Releasing the howling Magnus, Thor raised his hammer to the sky and without words, conjured otherworldly lightning yet again. The bolts exploded out from Mjölnir and struck the retreating soldiers, smiting them with impartiality in the rush of retreat.

Piles of ashes and scorched clothing was all that remained of them now. Thyra’s smile had become a sickened chuckle. At the sight of the soldiers’ brutal deaths, she convulsed with righteous laughter. Blood, tears, and pain forming a mask which could tell the tale of this event perfectly if need be. However, Thyra was certain she would live to tell this tale herself. Thor would prove his might and end Magnus’ brutal conquest with a final strike of his hammer. This Thyra hoped and prayed.

Magnus writhed and scratched the ground underneath him. His wrist and forearms were shattered into a bloody, mangled mess thanks to the mighty god’s unrivaled strength. Crawling toward the edge of the circle, Magnus hoped in vain that he might escape the fate his men had been dealt. 

Not for a second had the God of Thunder feared or even flinched at Magnus’ boasting. He slowly walked behind the sniveling coward. 

Thyra knew Magnus had no more hope; she cackled at the irony. Magnus the Mighty, groveling and whimpering along the floor of her people’s place of worship. The self-righteous murderer had come to Lundr to extinguish one of the last flames of the old ways, and yet it was his zeal that would be quenched. Thor reached down and grabbed Magnus’ wrists again, forcing a loud shriek out of the once mighty warrior.

“No! No!” Magnus cried, “Please, I promise I’ll leave … Never to return!”

Thor’s countenance was unchanged at the man’s plea. The thunder and lightning crackled and roared above as the god effortlessly brought Magnus to the boulder in the middle of the circle–the same boulder that had been used to restrain Thrya mere minutes ago. Thor slammed the broken mortal onto the rock with little more than a light toss though to Magnus it felt as if he had been thrown from a sailing vessel and smashed against tumultuous waves.

At this, Magnus’ fearful cries turned. The self-righteousness in him rose to meet his inevitable doom. If this was his end, he would curse the pagan god on the way to his eternal reward. “Damn you! I condemn you and your priestess bitch! A thousand curses be on your head, champion of heretics and heathens!”

Thor’s unflinching face did not display the fury in his heart. Raising his hammer high above his head, Thor called upon the rising storm. As the legendary Mjölnir was thrust toward the boulder and his victim, lightning engulfed the hammer’s face. The renowned weapon landed with inescapable power on Magnus’ weeping face. The lightning and the fury of Thor’s wrath ended Magnus the Mighty abruptly and without remorse. His ashes scattered on the icy wind.

The forest went silent yet again, no more did the clamor of metal resound or the glow of torchlight radiate through the trees. In the stillness, there stood a woman and a god.

Thyra approached her savior with her eyes lowered in reverence. He had saved her from a fate worse than death. How can I ever thank him? What can a woman of the world offer a god? The woman’s heart sank at the thought that she would not be able to pray enough or offer enough sacrifice to repay Thor’s salvation. As she came within his reach, the awe-inspiring Thor did something Thrya had not expected–he touched her face.

Though he had just slain Magnus’ band of marauders and summoned the full savagery of the storms at his command, Thor’s touch was gentle. His fingers brushed Thyra’s beaten and bleeding face with tender kindness. Every bit as cruel and unyielding as the God of Thunder had been to the Christian invaders, now he was benign and soft to her. Thyra’s eyes rose to meet her protector’s. 

Amidst the mess of red hair and blood splatter covering his face, Thyra saw his eyes again. No longer filled with ferocity and contempt, now replaced with comfort for the woman who had called upon his name in her hour of need. In this time of his followers' mass extinction, she had not wavered. She had trusted in his power and the power of the old ways. Thyra’s heart swelled with joy, and for the first time in a long time, her belief was rewarded.

Tears ran down her cheeks as she smiled back at the god of legend her mother and father had taught her about when she was a child. The faith of her mother and father was confirmed. The souls of Lundr’s dead had been avenged. The holy horde that came against her had been met with defeat. The God of Thunder had rescued her.