BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS JOSH MILLARD Revenge

THE FEROCIOUS WAVES crashed against the rocky cliffs as the sombre crowds prepared for the execution of the thief. The blustery winds blew the long hair and clothes of the Vikings. On the edge of a cliff stood two men, and a little further back was another with his wife. They were clothed grandly, with lustrous crowns encrusted with glimmering jewels nestled on their flowing blonde hair. Just behind them was a child of about nine, and his mother, whose expression was a mixture of depression and bitterness. She watched as her husband was pushed closer and closer to the edge. The man shivered in the cruel gale as he was led to his death.

A few days before, Grendel (brother of King Bjørn of the Danes), had been caught stealing large boxes of vegetables from the farmlands. It was nearing the perishing winter, when those foods could not be grown and had to be stocked up in their hundreds. The man was almost at the edge of the precipice. He looked down, watching the sea smash the shore, and jumped.

His widow screamed as the king turned to address the Danes. She rushed to the edge, but all that she could see was scarlet fluid spreading out into the waves, becoming fainter and fainter by the second, until it finally dispersed. She dragged her son behind her, his hand clenched tightly on hers as if she was afraid that he too would be picked from the cliff. Tears stung the child’s eyes as he watched the sea swarm around the jagged rocks, frothing like the mouth of some ferocious beast.

Several hours later, smoking coals flickered in their gilded braziers as the warriors of King Bjørn feasted inside the magnificent Heorot the Hart. It was a grand building constructed from timber collected from the woods. A depiction of Yggdrasil, the World Tree, clambered up the front of the building and up to the roof, where a wolf’s head crafted from gleaming silver snarled fiercely, baring its sharp fangs at all who passed through the oak doors. Soft snow swirled down from the ash-grey clouds in a blizzard; it had already blanketed the emerald grass that surrounded the hall.

Standing surreptitiously on the thatched rooftop were two figures. The taller of the two was Frigg, the former wife of the late Grendel. By her side was her son, Grendel, named after his father. Their faces were both hard and expressionless, but their brains were working hard to figure out a way to kill their hated king and his family. In both hands, Frigg gripped a shining pair of wickedly curved blades with ruby-encrusted hilts. Her son clasped a small dagger of gold in his right hand. It was opulently decorated with gemstones, and the leather handle was shaped like a dragon head. His mother silently beckoned for him to sheath his weapon. As he did so, she slipped a small vial from the folds of her cloak. It was filled to the top with a carmine liquid streaked with black. She uncorked it, before crouching down over a gap in the roof. As Grendel got closer, he saw that they were standing directly over the main table, behind which the king and queen were seated. Their thrones were luxurious, with lavish materials draped over the backs.

Before he could stop her, Frigg gently tipped the bottle so two drops fell from it. They fell through the air and landed in the goblets of golden mead belonging to the king and his consort. The liquid rippled as it was struck by the poison, before turning to the serene surface once again. There was no trace that the drink had been contaminated. The vengeful pair on the rooftop held their breath as the two rulers below sipped their beverages. After a few seconds, they wobbled a little, before sinking into their chairs, lifeless.

Women screamed and warriors roared as they charged towards the regal carcasses that were slumped in their thrones. Their coronets tumbled onto the stone floor, sending cracks along the gold as it fractured from the impact. Smoke filled the room as the thatched roof blazed. Grendel had torched it just after he and his mother had climbed down from the roof.

They were now miles away, riding in a cart of rotting wood led by two galloping horses, whose skin was a lovely shade of chestnut. Their manes glistened with sleet as their hooves disturbed the sheets of snow that smothered the ground. They cackled in glory as they recounted their violent act of retribution repeatedly in their brains. Little did they know, they had been watched this entire time, and the dead king and queen’s deaths were to be avenged, not by blood, but by something much, much worse.

Above the slate-grey clouds, a council of gods had gathered in Asgard to decide what to do with the murderers. Golden spires rose grandly above marble colonnades and slithering vines bursting with vibrant flowers and luscious and exotic fruits. The kingdom was bathed in the kaleidoscopic light of the Bifrost, a rainbow bridge that led to the divine realm of the Norse Gods. Heavenly figures were seated in regal thrones that were designed to signify them and their power. At the head of the meeting sat Odin, the ruler of Asgard and father of the gods. His silver beard and hair flowed over his leather clothes. An eyepatch covered his right eye, but it didn’t completely obscure the ancient stains of dried blood from his trip to Mirmir’s Well. Also present were Frigg, his consort; Thor, his son; Aegir and Ran, the sea gods; and many other gods and goddesses.

“Gods of Asgard!” Odin’s voice was thunderous, and washed over his peers. They stopped their conversations almost immediately, and looked at him expectantly. “We must find a solution about what to do with these wicked people. They must be erased from existence in the most agonising and revolting way that can possibly been imagined. As the All-Father, I do not have enough time or sanity to think of a punishment appalling enough. Who would like to suggest one?”

“Strike them down with lightning!” bellowed Thor.

“Slaughter them in war!” yelled Tyr.

“Bombard them with arrows!” screeched Skadi.

“WAIT!” All of the Asgardians turned to see who had shouted. All eyes turned to the goddess Sif. Her stunning, golden locks cascaded down her back like a flowing waterfall of lustre. She was clothed in a shimmering robe of fine