The Legend of Trolltunga

By Bill Girvin

Wiglaf, the last remaining relative of the deceased heroic king of Geatland, Beowulf, was in for the fight of his life against the giant two-headed mountain troll and his vicious flock of ravens in the forbidden and mysterious lands of the Hardanger Kingdom of Norway. At stake was the very survival of those who occupied those strange forests, including Wiglaf's newfound love, Elenora, a lady troll who had rescued him from winter's deadly, icy grip. It would be a historic battle against time in the snow-covered mountainous fjords where good fought evil and the outcome could mean a brighter future and hope for all during the sixth century A.D. - in the northern most country of Europe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781642147834

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The Legend of Trolltunga

Bill Girvin

Copyright © 2018 Bill Girvin

All rights reserved

First Edition

Page Publishing, Inc

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc 2018

ISBN 978-1-64214-784-1 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64214-783-4 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

It matters not how quickly one falls in love,

as much as the essence of the journey

that brought you there.

—Bill Girvin

Chapter 1

Wiglaf, one of the last of the great Geats and the only remaining relative of the deceased king of Geatland, Beowulf, was leaning against a solid sheet of ice in the gloom of an unfamiliar and inhospitable forest. He was doing his best to steady himself and not tumble to the ground as he had already done several times that dark winter’s day. There, in the far northern lands of Norway, where the sun never shines at that time of year, he was slowly dying an agonizing death. His hands were too numb and too frozen to dig into the snowbanks with his mighty iron sword of the divine, Gudbrand. He no longer had the strength to search for more of the much-treasured lowland, broad-leaved silver birch, Norway spruce and Scots pine fuelwood to keep his small fire ablaze. The blustery and relentless northern Artic winds roared over the top and back down the steep icy slopes of the treacherous Hardanger Kingdom, singing a tune to him, letting him know that the end was near. Those raging winds were blown from the mouth of Njord, one of many mystical Norse gods, and came racing between the ageless granite peaks at blinding gale-force speeds, skimming the rock surfaces clean of anything that came close to resembling any form of life. In their path they left nothing more than death and misery to all who dared to visit the forbidden lands of the mountain and woodland trolls during the sixth century AD.

As spring neared, winter’s foulest storm in the past countless centuries came in for one final, chilling blow. The temperatures plummeted far below freezing with snows so blinding it was impossible for Wiglaf to see much more than his blackened hands that he held in front of his weary eyes, examining them closely. As the campfire continued to dwindle and provide only a trickle of light, he couldn’t help but let out a sigh of resignation, seeing the bitter, telltale signs of frostbite growing upward from his fingers toward his arms and heart, turning his nose, fingers and toes into excruciatingly painful icicles. So raw were his hands that as he struggled to pull his reindeer pelt over his head to block out the cold and cling to life for a few minutes longer, it was impossible to tell who was howling the loudest—Wiglaf from his continual agonizing screams or the mighty winds churning around him that bit into his bones, trying to steal his last breath away. It was a battle between the two of them Wiglaf knew he could never win even though he had won so many other battles in life against enemies of all tribes and countless trolls and monsters. Those crusades and exploits had lined his once-youthful and gentle face with hardened, striking features just like the sheet of ice that had formed over the large granite boulder he steadied himself against, doing his best to stay alive. Looking upward, praying to the thunder god of the sky, Thor, that the long winter nights would soon end, he was only greeted by another, even more powerful flurry of snow that practically buried him in a drift up to his neck.

Wiglaf had somehow managed to endure the unachievable and stay alive for the past twenty-seven days in the unforgiving storm that seemed to have no beginning or end. If it did have a beginning, he certainly couldn’t remember it as his state of delirium and high fever that afflicted his body made him believe some troll had tossed his withering soul into a searing pot on a blazing fire and was planning on enjoying him as his next meal. His head was twirling like a wooden top spun from the skilled hands of a young boy at play, spiraling downward, out of control. In the darkness of the winter day, there was nowhere to go except to his knees, with his back against the sheet of ice that covered the sheer granite boulder the size of a small mountain. Oh, the roar that boulder must have made when it came crashing down off the cliff and landed where it now lay, he thought. But who would have heard it? Wiglaf hadn’t seen another soul in over two month’s time since leaving the petty kingdom’s village of Odda while he continued to travel farther and farther away from his homeland. He was literally in the middle of unchartered territory, where few human beings had made footprints in the ground-up dust and kettle bogs that the retreating glaciers and snow melt would leave behind once the endlessly dark winter season was over and the light of springtime, once again, heated the lands.

Will this be my final resting spot? he asked, speaking to the granite boulder as if it was his only friend, with his weary head resting upon its shoulder. If so, then it is a suitable one indeed, for my heart is as frozen and as unforgiving as these godforsaken lands! He was furious and frustrated.

Wiglaf scrunched closer to the base of the boulder, hoping beyond hope to find just the right angle that would help prevent the blustery winds from ending his life any sooner than it was trying to do. He wasn’t ready to die just yet even though he knew death could come at any moment. He was one of the strongest warriors and would fight to the bitter end no matter who the enemy might be—man, nature, troll or beast. He reached for his sword and thrust it high toward the sky, stabbing madly at the storm clouds as they soared overhead with the winds, hidden in the darkness of the winter day. No blood poured from the clouds, but instead, they only unleashed more snow directly into his frostbitten face. A tear formed in the corner of his eye for all that had been lost. It froze instantly.

At the top of his lungs, Wiglaf screamed into the night, slashing his sword viciously at the winds. I fear you not, death, or you, evil and unforgiving blackened forest! In my next life, I will bring revenge back to thee with my mighty sword Gudbrand for all the suffering you have forced me to endure and my sadness for the loss of my king that has brought me to this realm of the dead, Helheim, in the first place.

Wiglaf bowed his head, taking deep breaths that nearly froze his lungs. He was tired beyond words and knew all too well if he closed his weary eyes for just a split second of time, they would never open again. He pulled the dense white-and-brown reindeer fur tighter around his body to let as little warmth escape as possible. If I can hold on just a few more hours, he kept telling himself, then perhaps the warm rays of the springtime sun might break through these heinous clouds! Spring must be near, and the sun will shine again soon and bring me warmth! Then he wondered, But even if I live, where shall I go? Wiglaf had no idea where he was, let alone where he was headed. He was like a ship at sea with no port in mind, drifting aimlessly, hopelessly lost, all because he could no longer stand the pain of looking at his disgraced comrades in arms. These mighty Thane warriors had sworn to fight to the death and now they’d betrayed Beowulf, hero and king of the Geats. Instead of remaining loyal, they had fled like dogs with their tails between their legs into the forest when they should have fought against that dastardly fire-breathing dragon in its lair at Earnanaes.

Whatever happened to the love of one’s king above one’s own self? he asked the iced boulder he lay against, shaking his head in disgust. Why did they not stand by our side and fight?

Never had Wiglaf witnessed such cowardliness in the face of danger. The shame of it all had caused him to look away when his brother men returned from their hiding spot in the forest. The unbearable, disgraceful way they had retreated, in fear for their mortal lives, was the last thing he ever imagined would happen. And now, here he was, far from home, hopelessly lost in the long, dark days and nights of winter in a land he knew little about.

The snow continued to pile up high and smother his body as he cursed each of the coward’s names and thrust his sword one more time at the clouds, screaming out in total despair and anger, thinking back again upon that final battle, just as he had done a thousand times before.

Wiglaf calmed down and managed to take out the last remaining piece of elk jerky to eat, gingerly placing it into his dry mouth between his severely cracked lips. Before managing to do so, he dropped it twice in the snow because his hands were feverishly shaking from the cold. Eating should have been a simple task but wasn’t. There was little taste and only a burnt smell to the charred piece of meat. Chewing slowly, he gazed upward while a slight rivulet of brown elk drool leaked from between his numb cheeks. It quickly froze on his long, silver beard that, over the years, had turned from the reddish hue of a fire’s embers to more the silver color of his mighty sword. Off to his right, a short distance away, he could not see but only hear yet another impressive sounding, cascading waterfall, gushing off the cliffs faster than any raging river could ever run. Over the past several days, he had come across countless other waterfalls, just like this one, and longed for the light of day to see how spectacularly beautiful they all must be. The falls before him now were surrounded, on both sides, by jagged ice sheets and snowbanks higher than the mountainous boulder Wiglaf lay against. He resigned himself to believing these seemingly sacred lands would be home to his last campfire and pitiful meal.

To Wiglaf, this seemed like the only reasonable way his life could end. He wanted to be alone, far away from the land he was born into and the people who had betrayed their king back in the south of Scandinavia. It was there that Wiglaf had stood alone alongside his dying king, fighting the fire-breathing dragon, repeatedly thrusting his magnificently crafted sword, Gudbrand, into its thick green-scaled stomach until the molten fire roared out like lava from a volcano and melted the ground around them. As the fire cooled, it left behind a large red ruby that Wiglaf grasped tightly in his palm as a remembrance of that battle. He would later use it to hone Gudbrand to razor sharpness. The stone would always remain with him, kept securely in his coat pocket, for good luck. Once the dragon was slain and at the request of Beowulf knowing his end was near, there had only been enough time for Wiglaf to retrieve as much of the dragon’s treasure as possible and place it at the foot of the dying king. It was his last undertaking to show Beowulf what would be returned to his people so that their lives could be bettered while his was lost serving them. Beowulf smiled valiantly, reaching up, grasping his shoulder, pulling Wiglaf closer to whisper in his ear, thanking him for all that he had done.

It is your turn now, Wiglaf, whispered Beowulf with his final breaths. "Only you are the wisest and most courageous of my men to rule over the Geats. May your heart remain true and your sword unbreakable. It is my time alone to greet the endless darkness and visit, once again, with my relatives who have died over