Alexander Fox

PREVIEW: The End/Beginning of Everything

Copyright © 2021 by Alexander Fox

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First edition

ISBN: 978-83-962046-2-2

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
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To Natalia –

– For believing in me that I will write this book.

Contents

1. Acknowledgement

2. Prologue: The end begins

3. Notes

4. About the Author

Acknowledgement

I would like to wholeheartedly thank the creators and developers of all the fantastic digital tools, thanks to which non-coders like me can put a book, website, or various graphic materials together.

A tip of the hat goes to the beautiful people behind Reedsy, Grammarly, Canva, IngramSpark, and Wix.

Very special shout-outs also go to the teams of the Polish-English dictionary Diki and Reverso Synonyms.

Prologue: The end begins

The night was wrapped in velvety blackness. The wind howled in the woods, pressing down the trees to the ground. Some of them crushed under its might, the snap of wood lost amidst the gale. The sea ferociously battered against the rocks in the fjord.

All wildlife huddled in their burrows, dens, and nests. It was a night not even the most rapacious thug would dare to poke his moss-covered head to ambush the chubbiest of all travellers.

The Æsir[1] themselves would think twice before leaving their halls on a night like this. If anybody still believed in gods these days, that is; days filled with merchant coin clank, petty court quarrels over a quarter of an inch of nothing but rock plots, and men skilled more in teasing their tangles than in wielding an axe. Only Máni[2] shone a light on this spectacle of horror, evidently taking twisted pleasure in watching how the shadows menacingly danced in the tree branches.

Yet, high on the fjord, a feast took place in jarl Björnson’s castle, another day that quickly descended into drunkenness. However, it wasn’t just an ordinary celebration of a son joining the long list of Björnsons in the Björnson’s lineage, the birthday of the domain’s long in the tooth sovereign, or a drinking spree that broke out lose only to disperse the boredom of days that all looked too similar.

Every tenth autumn, the Björnson house celebrated their rival’s ultimate fall, their name blotted from the memories of the oldest skalds and the seizure of what they have been calling their home for decades now. They ate, drank, and sang – of wild adventures, the most heroic of all duels, the perfidy, the mischiefs, the ruses, and, of course, how the head of the enemy clan got chained to his forfeited walls, much to the enjoyment of ravens.

They also raised their horns to jarl Björnson, back then a young bear cub only, but one that flowered into blood-thirsty manhood. Nobody, not now, not then, was able to recall what ignited the conflict.

The once-powerful jarl, who could shatter an oak trunk with his bare claws, sat now, his grey, shabby chest panting. He swept the hall with his remaining red-shot eye. He twitched his wilted ears to the din, which, although bursting with music, youngsters hurling insults, and women’s twitter, couldn’t silence the rancorous wind outside.

“Wretched weather!” he thought. “As if the sky was to fall on us and the ocean to devour what little would remain. Who knows, maybe that would be a change for the better,” he snorted. “Is everything alright?” Brigida, jarl Björnson’s newly-wed wife, asked. But the old bear didn’t reply. He seldom did. She dropped her gaze for a moment to show her submission. The young sow, whose life broke before it truly began, self-soothed herself by thinking what she would do if she only had the courage. Her inner eyes burned with ire that never caught flame.

A servant emerged next to jarl Björnson, a black barrel-shaped mole sniffing the air, her blind eyes closed, and short furless hands rubbing each other. “Master,” the mole began hesitantly, “A guest has arrived and asks your reception.” As if she could sense the jarl’s bloody gaze, the mole tucked her head lower into her shoulders. “Repeat,” he ordered coldly. “A wolf by his appearance,” the mole began, clearing her throat, “Arrived at the gates, wishing to speak to you on the occasion of the Björnson house’s triumph.” “Is that what he said?” the jarl interrupted. The mole didn’t respond, all too frightened.

“Go on,” the jarl grunted. “The watch keeps him on the spear tips’ length. They say he looks like a beggar, my jarl, no shirt on his back, bare feet, just rugged pants around the waist. White fur.” “Bad omen!” Brigida gasped. The jarl didn’t even look her way. He will deal with her insolence later.

“What shall we do with him?” the servant asked. A sudden flash lightened the window recesses, and a peal of thunder followed after a heartbeat. A few stewed maidens cried aloud; noble boys, even more boiled, rushed to their rescue.

“Anyone cocksure enough to bang on my door on a cursed night like this deserves an admission,” jarl Björnson replied. “Bring him in,” he ordered. “Maybe we’ll have fun this evening after all.”

Heavy rainfall hit the battlements, making Brigida shiver. “Very, very bad omen!” she said to herself in the depth of her aghast, lonely mind.

Two spear-wielding dogs, clanking in heavy chain mail, brought in the caller. Soaked to the skin, he approached the jarl’s table. A puddle began forming below his feet. Droplets sprang in every direction as he twitched his long, white ears. He didn’t bow in greeting. Jarl Björnson raised his eyebrow, clenched his fist. Everybody in the hall lowered their voices. Nature was raging outside.

“Hail jarl Björnson,” the stranger spoke, his tone neither raised nor meek, yet oddly powerful, as it could pierce the thundering wind so that even the mouse maidservants in the farthest corner could hear it. “And salute to his house on this special day,” he stressed the last three words, “It is an honour to be here.”

The jarl’s majordomo, a thick hog whose face was sprinkled with crimson dots, all the more vivid as he was steaming with anger, stood from the table and was about to yell at the intruder when the old bear waved his hand at him. Gold bracelets rang. The majordomo froze halfway. “Sit,” the grunter was commanded.

Jarl Björnson looked at the white wolf, seizing the guest up. “What’s also honourable is to respect a custom which says to offer a gift to the householder. The heftier, the bigger the occasion. Have you entered my castle barehanded?” The jarl leaned rearward, resting his girth against the creaking back of a chair.

“Take his pants!” Björnson, one of the jarl’s offspring, shouted, “That would be a show!” An outburst of nervous laughter broke out here and there but came to an abrupt end since the chieftain himself did not join. “Your mother was stupid,” jarl Björnson thought, giving his son a black look, angry that he had to avert his eye from the wolf. The young Björnson sat down, still pretending he made a jest of the evening. “But wise enough to quickly pass away. You, on the other hand, are even more brainless, you faceache.”

The wolf stood silently, again looking the jarl in the eye. “How about then?” the jarl pressed. “There is only one thing I can offer,” the wolf responded, “A good fight.” The jarl burst with gloomy laughter and hit the table with his clenched fists. Brigida cried in terror. The jarl’s horn, full of the finest mead, cracked on the floor. “Silence, woman! Who do you want to clash with, pray?” the jarl swayed forward.

“I heard,”’ the white wolf began, “That your daughter, Sigrid, could best you, even in your prime.” Jarl Björnson grabbed his belly and started to laugh. This time it was his honest laughter, the strength of which could crash the hall’s ceiling. The entire party joined in, mocking the newcomer mercilessly. Some threw food scraps at him.

The jarl once more bent over the table. Staring at the wolf with his watery eye, he said only one thing, “Deal.” The great bear then nodded at his daughter.

Excited, the guests tossed the tables beside the walls to make room for the brawl. Sigrid was the spitting image of her father. Only taller, broader in the shoulders, and with bulkier arms. Uglier, too. She stretched her limbs; bones cracked, knuckles snapped.

The white wolf faced her on the opposite side of the makeshift arena. He said nothing, looked her right in the eyes. “Want some handicap, you bag of bones?” Sigrid spat at the cobblestone, clearing her throat. “I can take you down with one arm behind my back. Or, for that matter, standing on one foot.” The crowd cheered the jarl’s championess. The stranger did not say anything.

“Ah, yes, the silent type,” Sigrid went on, ruffling through her mane. “But you break into tears so easily when I, well, break you. Which shouldn’t take long!” She rushed at him in a marked attack. He didn’t move a muscle, not even flinched an eye. “Struck with panic already?” she laughed.

Sigrid barraged into a flurry of punches and knee strikes. The thin air was the only thing she hit with her whizzing clawed fists. Avoiding her spine-breaking blows as if by a sixth sense, the white wolf danced around her. He didn’t block or counter, just moved swiftly as the gale on the other side of the walls. Sigrid tried throwing her entire mass at him, after which she tried marking attacks to catch him with another combo. All to no avail.

She stopped, panting heavily. The exertion got Sigrid’s muscles pumping painfully. Her eyes were dashing from side to side in a daze. The blood pounded in her temples. She hurled once more at the wolf, her moves noticeably slower, frantic, whole effort desperate.

More and more panic-stricken, Sigrid couldn’t believe what was happening. The sheer brute force made her crush opponents like twigs in the past, while Sigrid’s endurance was second to none. No bear, bull, or ox could match her. If she only wanted to, she could catch a fox by the tail!

“Enough already of this pitiful game of tag!” her father screamed. “Finish it!” he roamed. Sigrid took a deep breath, tensed all her muscles, drew her sinew, and launched the final onslaught on the white wolf. “By the gods, finish it!” yelled jarl Björnson.

She made but a half of step, with her leading arm raised above her head when the white wolf jumped up to her and delivered a single punch. Sigrid spat blood from her wide-open mouth, her bulging eyes rolled inside out, and her blocky body sagged to the floor.

Silence fell on everybody. Jarl Björnson’s mouth was wide open, his eye twitching. It seemed not even the wind and the sea outside dared to make a sound. The stranger appeared to fill the entire hall.

He started moving towards the throne, blocked by none. How could they? Each gasp for air came with strenuous effort. Eyes rolled with pain as the white wolf passed the noblest of noblest pairs and reached for an item sitting in the middle of a shrine. He moved past the sacred barrier which the jarl himself crossed only once in his life as a young cub and ever since then had hellish nightmares.

The wolf took the Gjallarhorn[3] and waited, his ears listening out for something. Then a howl cut through the night, so tormenting, so heartbreaking, that the havoc nature caused earlier could be yearned for as the soothes of all ballads. The wolf answered by blasting through the horn.

He then stood in front of everybody, his white fur glaring like gold dust in the bask of the sun. He wore a feathered helmet and a leaf-decorated scale armour. A sword was hanging around his waist in a beautiful scarlet scabbard. The wolf’s eyes were pure emerald, shining from within.

He left the shrine with the Gjallarhorn. He approached the still unconscious Sigrid and pulled her up like she was nothing but a baby bear. As he was about to leave the hall, the stranger looked over his shoulder. “Ragnarök[4] has arrived,” he said and vanished.

“Strange,” Brigida thought. “I feel nothing.” She looked at her husband. The old bear was standing in a stupor and trying to mumble something out of his drooling mouth.

“I feel no fear,” the notion mauled her mind like a war hammer. “No. Fear,” she said aloud.

Jarl Björnson slowly looked her way. “No. Fear!” her mad scream echoed throughout the halls as she dashed for the jarl’s dagger.

Notes

Prologue: The end begins

[1] Æsir (plural of Áss) are the gods of one of the two pantheons in Norse mythology.

[2] Máni is the moon personified in Norse mythology (brother of the personified sun, Sól).

[3] Gjallarhorn (“hollering horn” or “the loud sounding horn”) is a horn associated with the Norse god Heimdallr (the “Shining god” and “Whitest skinned” of all the gods) who will blow into Gjallarhorn, sounding the beginning of Ragnarök (the twilight of the gods).

[4] In Norse mythology, Ragnarök is a series of events, including a great battle, foretold to lead to the death of many significant figures, among them gods and goddess, and natural disasters rupturing the world. After Ragnarök, the land will resurface anew. The surviving and returning gods will meet, and two human survivors will repopulate the Earth.

About the Author

Well met!

My name is Alexander Fox.

Who am I? An indie author who’s just published his first book.

Like you a reader (who wrote what he’d like to read himself).

An editor with ten years of experience under the belt in polishing others’ English in the transport & logistics field.

A dog lover (caretaker of one lady of strong character who’s been saved from an animal shelter and who absolutely adores long walks in the woodland).

A fitness enthusiast now (a fluffy doughnut in the past).

A gamer (“PC!” said the witcher giving him the evil eye. Well, at least that’s how Henry Cavill answered #likeaboss).

A beer and whisk(e)y taster (self-proclaimed, that is).

A master’s in philosophy.

An ethical vegan.

Very many thanks for stopping by!

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https://www.endbeginning.com

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