For Want of Red Slippers
Koli scrubbed at his shaggy blond hair and adjusted his glasses before continuing to read.
‘You must find the one who’d become Fenrir. Find her. The one holding all our hope. Find her. Before Odin destroys us all. Find her now, Utlendast-Loki.’
Koli pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezing shut. Fimbulwinter. Spirit animals. Gjallarhorn announcing Ragnarok. Thor, Odin, Fenrir... It was all something like the Norse prophecy the described the end of the world, only it was written like a letter to address this Utlendast-Loki. What did they mean it was unreadable? It reads just fine. Too fine, actually. Damn thing’s giving me chills.
Bang! Ting-ting.
Koli started and looked over as a hammer fell on an anvil.
Bang! Ting-ting. Bang! Ting-ting.
Nearby, a grimy, shirtless, heavily-bearded blacksmith hammered a glowing length of metal. He stood under a thatch roof, his furnace and anvil enclosed by a low wall of clay.
A woman laden with furs scowled as she moved to pass him. She spit at his feet. “Utlendast swine,” she said, stepping into deep snow to pass around him.
Koli’s gaze followed her, his awareness occupying a backseat as snow continued to fall around him. Some kind of Renaissance fair? Just when did the museum start this up? Or maybe... Maybe, I’m being punked?
He discovered he was in something like a lane, hut-type structures forming a row to each side. Several tribal folk rounded onto his trail in a sprint.
“Raid!” one of them yelled.
An axe-wielding warrior with a wolf headdress converged on his lane, emerging from the left as the blacksmith charged with a sword from the right.
Koli flinched as warmth spattered across his face. Steam expelled with his breath as he raised his hand to his cheek. His fingertips came away red. Punked. Yeah. Any second now. They’ll tell me it’s a joke.
The warrior wrenched his axe free of the blacksmith’s chest, then brushed passed Koli to clash with another fighter.
Any second now.
Bawuur!
A horn sounded and he turned to see a mountain range beyond the village. Its peeks were hidden, a blanket of clouds sitting overhead to imply its base was something akin to the tip of an iceberg. He somehow knew the horn blast had come from somewhere up the mountain, but it sounded like it had come from everywhere.
“Gjallarhorn,” someone yelled, which was echoed by others as the raiders slowed, a storm eye seeming to move over the entire village.
‘Find her now, Utlendast-Loki,’ he heard echoing in his thoughts.
Something tells me Dorthy’s not in Kansas anymore.
Reddit Writing Prompt:
While at the museum, your tour guide says that they’ve found a mysterious scroll in a dead language that hasn’t been translated. But when you see it, you can read it perfectly.
