The Saga of Jorgund's Curse

For nineteen days and nineteen nights the One Without Name had stalked unerringly north in the strange twilight beyond the lands of men; on this, the morn of the twentieth day, a sky of eternal night hung before him - punctured only by the endless storm battles that the giants had fought since the beginning times. It was here he would find Jorgund, it was here he would find vengeance and here he would reclaim his name. Hegynn and Magynn, the two white wolves with which had forever travelled with him, snarled at the unnatural lands that extended ahead of them. This was a place of old gods and dark things, and although men may have forgotten what lay in the lands without light, wolves were not so foolish.

“Quiet, boys.” He said in a firm voce that spoke of earth and ice, “I know this is no place for man or beast, but forward we must press and I shall hear no more of your protests”. The dogs ceased their yammering and received a scratch behind their ears.

Behind them a flock of ravens squawked over the mammoth that the One Without Name had slain for food and shelter on the previous eve - a young upstart of a bird leapt forward to claim an eye and was pecked to death by his rivals for the trouble. This was a hard land of scavengers and killers, and only strength held sway here.

It had been three full cycles of the moon since Jorgund, largest and most feared of the frost giants, had hammered so fatefully at the oaken doors of Ashraen – a tall and proud greathall that stood on the fertile Skratt Coast. The beast had travelled that far south cloaked amidst the maelstrom of a great blizzard that had brought strife and destruction throughout the lands of men.

As the people of the Ashraen hall had huddled together near the great fire, murmuring at each high wind that whistled and tore at their roof, the knock had come – ‘boom... boom... boom...’. With the fourth knock the doors flew open, flapping wildly as the squall brought snow and terror amongst those who resided within. Silhouetted against the gray and white of the sky outside stood the shape of a man whose head near touched the lintel – over ten feet high. The giant strode forward and his terrible features became evident in the light of the fire that flickered and spluttered as though in a furious rage, his skin was blue and covered in blossoms of ice that shimmered and shone in the dim light. A beard of icicles hung from his chin, occasionally dripping melt water down the patchwork of furs that clad his monstrous bulk. Each of his enormous breaths made the air sparkle as the condensation froze to crystals.

“I have stalked to here from afar; I seek to fight your hero-king Ograr.” He spoke with glacial force, “My name is Jorgund giant of ice; where is Ograr whom I seek to slice?”

The occupants of the hall cowered in mortal terror – all aside from young prince Thragg, only begotten son of Ograr, whose father had taught him not to fear such evil. Although he was but a boy, he alone stood before the Frost Giant with his small horn-handled dagger held aloft with as much menace as he could muster.

“King Ograr and his warriors fight in other lands; they are far away, but not so far that they won’t destroy you if you do not leave now, fiend!” Thragg said with a strength that masked his fear. What he had said was true – the Ashraen contained only the women, children and old folk that peopled these lands. Ograr the legendary hero of song and tale, slayer of monsters and tamer of wolves, was far away on another adventure.

Jorgund chuckled with a laugh like creaking ice, “What shall I call you little knave? You speak so fine with words so brave.”

“I am Thragg son of Ograr and I fear no giant!” the young prince yelled, hot with pride.

“Ah! Now I see – a fool you be.” Jorgund smirked with a horrible grimace of fangs and pallid lips like great blue worms, “Ograr has slain so many of my kin; now he’ll know the pain of such a thing.”

Giant hands that were colder than ice grabbed Thragg before he could so much as take a breath. Desperately the young prince stabbed at his captor, but the tiny blade barely chipped the layer of hoarfrost which armoured the blue flesh. Cackling with his creaking laughter Jorgund powerfully squeezed the life from the boy. The young prince squirmed and screamed but it was all for naught, his bones were groaning and snapping under the immense pressure; soon Thragg lay lifeless and the giant tossed his ragdoll corpse to the floor. The others in the hall shuddered at the terrible sight but dared not do a thing to help.

“Now I have done this deed so fair - I and Ograr are close to square, but my wrath is not yet sate and so my vengeance will not yet abate” growled Jorgund as crushed several more victims within his icy grasp, “With these deaths I have now brought, I cast a curse of violence wrought – Your lord Ograr shall lose his name, his deeds and legends shall carry no fame. No person shall know who he is and none shall recall that name of his.” As he uttered his curse all in the hall began to forget why they were there, and all they had ever known of their king. Jorgund turned to leave and as he stomped out of the hall he yelled over his shoulder - “Tell all who come of my work, a simple message not to giants irk!”

Ograr was actually in lands far to the east where he was leading a host of men in a successful campaign against the Formoiri – strange and deformed goat people who occasionally plagued the lands of men and held enormous hordes of wealth ripe to be plundered. Ograr was, at first, deeply perplexed when his men suddenly appeared to forget his name and refuse to accept his orders – he assumed he was the butt of some grand jape. However, when the joke didn’t stop, and his men started to ride off forgetting the reasons they had been brought together, he started to suspect that foul magics were at work.

Fortunately his wolves, his enchanted axe and his horse still remembered their master well, for the curse had only been uttered such as to affect people. Fearing the worst he made great haste home with Hegynn and Magynn padding along beside. They covered hundreds of miles in each day and, when the horse finally broke a leg, he thanked his old friend for his efforts and slit its throat in mercy. He continued crossing the terrain on foot with a little loss of pace, and only a week after the curse had first reached him, he began to recognise the paddocks and fields of home.

When he finally reached the great doors of Ashraen he found his hall empty and untended. His treasures had been looted and great snow drifts leant against the pillars. Ograr’s hardened eyes took in all of this, but were most drawn with horror and rage to the tiny, crumpled corpse which lay near the long cold ashes of the fire pit. His stomach knotted and rose to his throat - with a great cry he ran to his son’s side “THRAGG!”

For three days he clutched his cold, dead heir - mad with grief and sobbing great oceans of tears. As their master wept inconsolably, Hegynn and Magynn each took shifts standing guard and howling in sympathy, whilst the other would hunt game that Ograr would occasionally eat mindlessly. On the fourth day he awoke as though from a stupor and swore vengeance on whoever was responsible.

Ograr buried his son in a simple grave and set off into his lands. He soon found an old fishwife that he had known since he was a boy and who had sheltered in the Ashraen on the night of the blizzard. She did not recognise her king at all and even when she was told her his name she would simply forget it again immediately, instead she insisted on calling him ‘stranger’. This was how he became the One Without Name.

Still, as the giant had commanded, she told the ‘stranger’ of that night – “Jorgund was a fearsome figure and as dangerous as he was ugly; over ten foot tall he stood and so cold that he made the air steam. The only one brave enough to stand up to him was our young prince - Thragg son of ... son of ... erm...” she was stricken with confusion for a moment and then continued, “Anyway, he paid with his life for his pluck and so did several others – the giant called it revenge and lay a curse on these lands to be kingless. Who will protect us now?” she asked with melancholy rhetoric, “Anyway stranger, I have told you enough of my troubles. I think it is just as well that you be moving on.” She clearly did not trust the wild looking warrior who stood before her, flanked by terrifying white wolves, and besides - she had fulfilled the obligation Jorgund had placed upon her.

Not wishing to frighten the old lady, whom he had known for many years, the One Without Name had thanked her as politely as he could and walked away as she had requested. Following his vow of vengeance he began his journey at a brisk pace. As Jorgund had said, he had met giants before in battle, but only those that were young and that had arrogantly wandered too far from their own kind. He also knew that they lived in the land of eternal night far in the distant north, and that it was there he would find Jorgund.

It was not an easy quest – he had to range much farther than he had ever gone before and pass lands that were no friends of Ashraen. In an odd way, however, the giant’s curse had a blessing – even his enemies did not know him such that he went anonymously and relatively unmolested through otherwise hostile places.

The nameless hero passed for weeks through the highlands and along the roads of the glen-folk with whom, as a king, he had fought so many battles. As he roamed further the roads began to vanish, giving way to marsh and peat land which took many damp and dreary days to cross.

Eventually the wild pines of the endless forest rose ahead of him – underneath this dark canopy and atop the undisturbed carpet of fir he fought his way through endless hordes of the feral dog-men and the other strange shadow-creatures that so rarely saw an open sky. North even beyond the pines he reached the lands of always snow, the great tundra where the winter falls never cleared and only the hardiest of beings eked out a living from the frozen soil.

Here in the far north their progress slowed - huge snow drifts that were nearly impassable stood as mountainous dunes that rippled across the landscape. Food was scarce in these lands such that their empty stomachs gnawed at their resolve and the high winds and great storms made it near impossible to navigate.

After many days of this hardship finally the One Without Name reached the Last Hearth, the mythical and northernmost settlement of man. This hall had once held proud tales and sagas of its people that told much of the lands of eternal night, but only a few songs now remained. That had been the last roof beneath which he had found shelter and received welcome of sorts. It had been a shabby and ramshackle home, and he found the blood honour of those old heroes to have met only taint and detriment in their descendents who were near mad.

The leader of the Last Hearth had declared himself Lord of Ice and Regent of the Giants which they worshipped as near-gods. Those same monstrous creatures seemed to leave the men alone in exchange for this humiliating worship and tribute – the final, satisfying and total defeat of an ancient enemy. When eventually the One Without Name had explained his intention to kill Jorgmund they had run him off as a heretic with a combination of fury and fear.

So it was that after twenty more days of hard journeying the man and the wolves found themselves at the cusp of the eternal night, with the dead mammoth behind them. This was a strange land – a forest of razor sharp ice trees dominated their path. Near deafening thunder continuously echoed across the night sky and creatures seemed to move as shadows on the edge of vision. Fortunately their destination was only at the very edge of this land.

One of the few songs that the Last Hearth still sang had spoken of the cave of Jorgund which stood behind the Stilled Cascade – a frozen waterfall that had flowed from the river Thrane near the border of this dark region. The nameless hero had stalked along this frozen riverbed for hours before finally seeing the Cascade looming above him – it had fallen a thousand feet as water, but now hung as ice jagged and grotesque in its unnatural beauty. At the base of this remarkable wonder a dark cave opened like a black maw with icicle teeth. The wolves’ fur stood on end and their hackles raised in alert.

“Jorgund!” The One Without Name yelled, “Come out and face me you coward and child killer!”

Groans came from within the cave and that creaking laughter echoed across the valley in which the river lay.

“A nameless wretch comes seeking my head, anger overwhelming him now his son is dead?” Jorgund boomed mockingly as he strode into the dim moonlight outside his cave. “You’re efforts are pointless and skill is trash, my icy armour no mortal weapon can smash”

“My weapon is not of mortals, fool giant” said the One Without Name as he brandished his great axe – Dredyll Wyrm forged by the ancient dwarves with the knowledge of the gods. As he roared his berserker battle cry the wolves leapt forward biting and flummoxing the slower giant. Before Jorgund could even reply with violence the nameless hero leapt, axe held high - with mighty force he brought it down cleaving the giant clean in two. With a clap the giant fell and melted away to nothing.

With the curse broken, Ogran returned back to Ashraen where he ruled as a legendary king for many more years. Although Thragg was not forgotten, more heirs were born and many more adventures and songs are told of their line.

(Word count: 2500 on the button)

Notes: This piece is an attempt to write in the style of the epic sagas and poems such as Beowulf. As a result many of the sentences are quite wordy (to conjure the feeling of the classic structure, the giant's dialogue rhymes for similar purposes) and also the ending is very abrupt with the hero vanquishing the monster in a couple of lines (again this fits with the pattern of stories of the time and not with modern sensibilities). Finally, you may well end up sympathising with the monster to some extent, in that both the hero and the giant act out of vengeance and the evil is not as clear cut in modern works; this is again in the pattern of early works, see Grendel’s mother in particular.