esident Strengur's heart sank. Fragarach was in Buckingham Palace, a closely guarded treasure of the British Crown. The Spear of Longinus was supposedly in a Vienna museum, but rumor had it the real one was secured in the Vatican. And Gungnir, Odin's personal weapon, hadn't been seen in thousands of years. Finding them was impossible.
"There are always ways," the mysterious Northman said with a knowing smile.
Meanwhile, the serpent had moved. It appeared off the coast of Reykjavík, Iceland's capital and largest city. Panic erupted. The joyous symphony of the port city turned into a cacophony of screams and sirens.
In the emergency meeting, the President and his cabinet watched in horror as the colossal head rose from the waves. "Commodore, can you kill it?" Strengur yelled, his composure shattering.
"No," the Commodore replied flatly.
"The Northman has vanished," the Vice President added, having been retrieved from a hedge. "We can't find him."
Just as despair began to set in, a new light appeared in the sky. A flaming chariot, pulled by two magnificent celestial steeds, descended from the clouds. The horses' manes glowed like miniature suns.
"It's the Sun Chariot!" someone in the room whispered. "The chariot of the sun god Sól!"
But the figure driving it was not the sun goddess. It was the Northman. He had arrived in a manner far grander than anyone could have imagined. He pulled on the reins, and the chariot stopped high above the city. His voice boomed, carrying across the whole of Reykjavík.
"Turn around! Close your eyes!"
President Strengur and his ministers obeyed instantly. Many citizens, however, were frozen in awe. When the Northman unleashed his power, a brilliant, artificial sun bloomed in the sky, far brighter than the real one. Thousands who stared directly at it screamed as their vision was seared away.
Leo, in full control, was channeling his Sun domain, mimicking the 'Eternal Radiance' attack that had almost killed him. The two celestial horses, a grand illusion, pulled the divine sun downwards. The air sizzled, the clouds evaporated.
In the sea below, the great serpent Jörmungandr sensed its doom. It let out a furious roar and dove deep, trying to escape.
But the divine sun slammed into the ocean. The sea itself boiled, an unimaginable amount of steam hissing into the atmosphere. The impact was so immense it vaporized a huge section of the ocean, creating a temporary, gaping crater in the sea floor. Jörmungandr shrieked in agony, its massive body writhing. Wounded, it fled into the deep.
The Northman gave chase for a time, then pulled back, allowing his quarry to escape.
The first act of this grand and glorious performance was over. The stage was now set for the finale.
Aboard the Russian cruiser Kirov, Commander Kudryash was baffled by his new orders. He had been sent to the North Sea to hunt a "sea monster" from Norse mythology. "Are you sure this intelligence is not in code?" he asked his superior over a secure channel.
"The intelligence is accurate, Commander," Admiral Fyodorovich replied, his face grim on the monitor. "The serpent is real. It was just driven from Reykjavík. Your mission is to track it. Do not engage. I repeat, do not engage."
Just then, the Kirov rocked violently. "What was that?" Kudryash yelled.
"Serpent!" the communications officer shrieked. "It's coming right for us!"
Kudryash looked out the viewport and saw an impossible beast, wounded and enraged, charging his ship. It crashed into the cruiser, and the sound of groaning, tearing metal filled the air. Before they could react, the serpent dove under the ship, wrapped its colossal body around the hull, and squeezed.
"ABANDON SHIP!" Kudryash roared, as his men leaped like dumplings into the churning sea.
The Kirov, a marvel of human engineering, crumpled like a tin can. Explosions ripped through its hull, and with a final, dying groan, it was pulled beneath the waves. The serpent, having sated its rage on the machine, let out a triumphant roar and vanished back into the depths.
Chapter 16: An Offer He Can't Refuse
The international backlash was immediate. The sinking of the Kirov was an act of aggression against a global superpower. But who was the aggressor? A mythical beast?
In a top-secret meeting in Moscow, Admiral Fyodorovich gathered Russia's top scientists and mythological experts. "Gentlemen," he began, "our task is to devise a method to capture Jörmungandr."
The scientists were aghast. "Admiral," one physicist said, "based on the energy readings from the Reykjavík incident, the 'sun' that struck the creature was equivalent to a tactical nuclear detonation. The creature survived. Its physical durability is beyond anything our material science can comprehend. Capturing it is impossible."
Frustrated, Fyodorovich turned to the mythologists. They squirmed in their seats. One of them, a bald man with a wig named Yevgeny Nabokov, was goaded into speaking. "In the myths, Admiral, Jörmungandr is destined to be slain by Thor, the god of thunder, during Ragnarök."
"And?" Fyodorovich pressed.
"And... that's all we have. The myths are about culture, not combat tactics," Nabokov mumbled.
Another expert, a man named Petrov, saw an opportunity. "Perhaps we are looking in the wrong place. We should seek the help of another supernatural entity."
"And where would we find one?" Fyodorovich asked, his patience worn thin.
Petrov launched into a long, rambling story about a personal encounter he'd had sixteen years ago with a forest spirit, a Leshy, in the Komi forests. He claimed he was saved from the spirit's tricks by a mysterious man. "He had blond hair, piercing grey-blue eyes, and a rugged face," Petrov described, embellishing details he'd seen from the grainy footage of the Northman from Iceland.
An idea sparked in Fyodorovich's mind. The official report from the Nordic countries stated that they could not identify the Northman. He wasn't a citizen of any of their nations. But if he had been in Russia...
Could he be one of them? A Slav?
"Show me his picture," he commanded. An aide brought up the image of the Northman from the Icelandic security cameras.
Petrov, realizing he had bluffed his way into a very dangerous corner, began to sweat. He was about to confess when Fyodorovich's phone rang. It was the President.
"The Nordic countries are convening an emergency security summit," Fyodorovich announced after the call. "They have invited us to discuss the Jörmungandr threat. All operations are on hold." He then looked at the assembled experts. "I have recently acquired some excellent instant coffee. I would be honored if you would all stay and share a cup with me."
It was an order, not an invitation. They were now under de facto house arrest to prevent any leaks. "Petrov," the Admiral said, clapping him on the shoulder. "You're coming with me. The President is very interested in your relationship with this... super-powered individual."
Petrov felt his life expectancy plummet.
The air at the security summit in Iceland was thick with tension. The leaders of the five Nordic nations and the President of Russia sat around a table, their goal singular: kill the World Serpent.
"It is quite simple," President Strengur of Iceland announced, repeating the Northman's demands. "We need three weapons."
When he named the three legendary artifacts, a stunned silence fell over the room.
"Fragarach is in Buckingham Palace," the President of Denmark finally said. "I can make a personal request to the Queen."
"The Spear of Longinus is in the Vatican's possession," the Finnish President added. "But they will never lend it out."
"I will borrow it," the Russian President, Alexander, said, his voice firm. The Northman's apparent Slavic connection, however tenuous, was a lead he had to follow. But the revelation of a faith-based schism had complicated things. He needed to know which side to back. A trip to the Vatican was in order. "And Gungnir," he added, "I know where to find that as well. But I will have one condition. If I succeed, the five Nordic nations will become six."
The Northman, who had been observing the meeting from the side, gave a slight nod. "All Northmen who live under the light of the gods are brothers."
On his private jet, President Alexander dialed the Pope's personal number. "Your Holiness," he began, his voice uncharacteristically respectful. "An evil heretical force is encroaching upon the Lord's lands. As the shepherd of his flock, when will you take up arms to defend his lambs?"
The Pope, John XII, was baffled by the call. What was the iron-fisted Russian president rambling about? But he was a politician as much as a priest. He knew this was code. "The heretics have occupied the Holy Land for too long," he replied, choosing a suitably vague but supportive historical metaphor. "It is time they were driven out."
Alexander's blood ran cold. The Pope was talking about a holy war. A war between gods. He had been right to be cautious. "Your Holiness," he said, changing tactics, "these heretics threaten the Lord's children. They seek the Spear of Longinus. What should I do?"
There was a long pause. "I will lend you the spear," the Pope said finally.
It was a test. A way to arm a proxy without getting directly involved. Alexander understood perfectly. He had his answer.
"Praise be to God," he said, making the sign of the cross. He would not be joining this divine war. But he would happily provide the weapons.