Chapter Twelve
A Proposal
S ometime later, which Leonard found was the best way to describe the vague way time behaved in Niflheim, he and Merlin had eaten their fill of boar’s meat and gravy bread and drank their fill of rich red ale and were sitting on a bench near one of the dying pit fires that dotted the room. Merlin pulled a chunk of his disgusting chew weed out of his robes and offered it to Leonard, who shook his head and stuck out his tongue for emphasis. “No thank you. That leaf is vile beyond measure.”
Merlin shrugged. “Suit yourself, more for me.”
Leonard leaned back against one of the longhouse’s support poles. “Sir Ronald used to, on occasion, puff on a pipe. I liked how it smelled and thought I might give that a try someday. What about you?”
Merlin snorted. “A wizard smoking a pipe? That’s probably one of the biggest clichés in my business. I say no thank you to such a hackneyed visual.”
“I had no idea you’d react so strongly to such a simple pleasure,” said Leonard.
“Says the one who can’t stomach the idea of chewing a chunk of dried leaves.”
Leonard shuddered. “It’s not so much the leaves as it is the spit that comes along with that nasty habit. Your objection to puffing a pipe rests solely on how you think it makes you look. That’s nothing but pure vanity as far as I’m concerned.”
“So noted,” said Merlin, flatly.
The two friends sat quietly and watched several of Hel’s men tossing daggers and Viking axes at a chewed-up stump positioned on the far side of the longhouse. It appeared to be some sort of contest going on—a contest that involved swigs of ale after every toss. Leonard’s eyes grew wide when he spied a scabbarded sword roughly the size of the one concealed under his cloak hanging on a nearby wooden post. A short sword! Leonard stood and grabbed the sword and made his way toward the stump.
Merlin’s brow furrowed. “Where are you going?”
“To practice!”
As Leonard approached the group of blade throwers, some of them took notice, turned toward him and hefted their weapons.
“Still want to fight, eh?” said a gray-bearded man who snatched the sword from Leonard.
Leonard held up his hands in a placating manner. “Not at all! I was hoping to join you and practice throwing that sword.”
Graybeard looked toward his goddess, who was lounging on the fur-clad throne. She drummed her right hand on the armrest for a moment and then nodded.
Graybeard tossed the sword back to Leonard. “Goddess says it’s all right, so it’s all right. Let’s see what ya got.”
“Great,” said Leonard as he unsheathed the sword. Taking a deep breath, he brought the sword back over his shoulder and was about to bring it forward when Graybeard stepped in and grabbed his elbow.
“Hold on, now, that’s no way to throw a sword!”
“It’s not?”
“No! First off, ya lose half of your power with the sword tumbling end over tip like a dog’s fetching stick. Second, the way a sword is weighted and balanced means that you’re more likely to hit your target with the broad side of the blade or the pommel, not the sharp tip,” said Graybeard. “If you’re going to the trouble of throwing a sword, you want to make sure it sticks deep into what you’re throwing it at, right?”
Leonard nodded. “Right.”
Graybeard straightened Leonard’s arm and had him hook his fingers around the short sword’s grip and cross-guard. “You throw the sword the same way you throw a spear, except the grip's different. Now bend the elbow, turn at the waist, thrust the sword forward, and release it. Give it here, and I’ll show you.”
Leonard handed over the sword, and with practiced ease, Graybeard hurled it tip first into the stump, causing the other men to cheer and drain their tankards of ale.
“That was impressive,” said a genuinely impressed Leonard.
Graybeard waved him off and retrieved the short sword. “Just a lot of practice and nothing more. Here, you try it.”
Leonard took the sword and, with some help from Graybeard, managed to place his fingers in their proper positions. He took a deep breath and hurled the sword just like his instructor . . . sort of. It flew correctly for several feet, then seemed to lose all forward motion and dropped to the ground, clattering across the wooden floor before stopping at the base of the stump.
Graybeard rubbed his chin through the thick gray hair of his beard. “Well, not bad for a first throw, I suppose. Pick it up and try tossing it a few more times.”
Forty throws later, Leonard collapsed on the bench next to Merlin and rubbed his now sore arm.
“Good job, young Leonard,” said the old wizard.
“I don’t know about that. I hit everything but the target.”
“That’s not entirely true, you stuck the sword in the stump one time.”
“One time out of forty. That’s not exactly a high score. I think we can safely say I stink at sword throwing.”
Merlin motioned for him to move closer. “We need to figure out how we’re getting out of here,” he said in a low whisper.
“You mean, she’s not going to let us just leave?”
“You, maybe, but not me.”
“Why not?”
“Because once, a long time ago, I asked for her hand in marriage.”
Leonard’s jaw dropped. “You what?”
Merlin shook his head and spit a gob of chew weed spit into the fire, causing a small plume of sparkling smoke to shoot up. “In my younger days, I was struck with a severe case of wanderlust. I’d travel somewhere, stay a while, then move on.”
“And you picked Helheim as one of your destinations? Why?”
“Why not? It was distant, mysterious, and made all the more attractive because no one ever went there.”
“I wonder why?” said Leonard, sarcastically. “Seriously though, Merlin, I would never choose to come to such a place.”
Merlin stood and paced. “Well, then pat yourself on the back for being so much wiser than I was at your age. What can I say? Bleak and desolate places have always attracted me.” He stopped pacing, then sat back down. “As have eligible young goddesses who are rumored to sit on a throne of gigantic gemstones.”
“Aha!” said Leonard, pointing an accusatory finger at Merlin. “Now we’re getting to the bottom of the real reason you came here. Come on now, spill it. How did you come to ask the goddess Hel for her hand in marriage?”
“When I got here, everything looked as you and I saw it when we first arrived—a grand hall made from the ivory white bones of the dead, a dazzling throne made entirely of sparkling gemstones, all ruled over by an elegant and sophisticated goddess of great power—”
“—but then . . .” Hel’s voice interrupted. “He discovered that things in this land weren’t quite as they seemed.”
Leonard spun around to find the goddess leaning against another of the wooden support columns. “And, although surprised at first, found he preferred the warmth and coziness of a wooden longhouse over the cold sterility of a palace made of bone—”
“—and the everyday comfort of a good and approachable woman over a cold and unattainable goddess of ice and gemstones,” said Merlin.