***
The ancient stones in the Circle of Wind stood firm against the elements, as they had for millennia. A fierce wind cut through the icy air, while above spears of lightning cracked the sky; vast tendrils of light acting as the harbinger for the thunder that was to follow.
In the distance the sound of hooves grew ever closer, their pounding rhythm providing a rumbling counterpoint to the storm overhead. Then, as sheet lightning turned night into day, they appeared over the nearby hill; four giant horses, and on their backs four mighty warriors, their weapons drawn, challenging the elements to meet them in battle.
One held a giant broadsword, its steel blade shimmering as it reflected the storm’s light. One held a mighty axe, its worn edges bearing the hallmark of many battles. The third whirled a spiked ball and chain above his head which, if he wasn’t careful with it, could take somebody’s eye out. And the last wielded a huge war hammer… which he nearly dropped as the spiked ball and chain nearly took his eye out.
‘Will you please watch what you’re doing with that thing, Agnar,’ Grundi the Windy screamed.
‘Sorry,’ shouted Agnar the Hammered, ‘the old spiked club was much easier to handle.’
‘Perhaps it was,’ Smid the Merciless (né Pig Herder) yelled, ‘but this looks so much better, you just need to keep practicing. You’ll soon get the hang of it.’
‘That’s easy for you to say,’ Grundi shouted, ‘you’re not riding next to him in constant fear of accidental decapitation.’
‘Look, if it’s causing that many problems why don’t you swap with him, Grundi,’ Olaf the Berserker interjected.
‘You mean I can have the hammer? Aw, that’d be great!’ Agnar said. ‘Please, Grundi, I’d love the hammer.’
‘Oh, go on, then,’ Grundi said, ‘You can have the hammer, for health and safety as much as anything else.’
‘Aw, thanks Grundi!’ Agnar shouted. ‘I’ll take good care of it.’
As they entered the stone circle, the four warriors reared their horses and clashed their weapons together, sending sparks fleeing into the darkness. They swiftly dismounted, each of them taking a ceremonial position in front of one of the large, moss-dappled stones. And then, in silent salute to the gods, they raised their weapons skyward once more.
‘Smid, would you do us the honour of saying the words?’ Olaf said.
‘I would be honoured indeed, Olaf.’
‘Odin I beseech thee, accept my gift of wind,
It’s from the heart of my bottom,
It’s a gift I won’t rescind,
I fart for all your glory; I fart for all your might,
Give me the strength to not follow through,
And I’ll fart for you; I’ll fart for you all night.’
‘Well said, Smid,’ Olaf observed, nodding appreciatively.
The four warriors pulled their pants down, pointed their bottoms to the sky and methane mingled with the cold night air. ‘Someone’s a bit fragrant tonight,’ Agnar said.
‘Ah, that’ll be me,’ admitted Grundi. ‘I ate the Curry of Worry at the Diner earlier and I’ve felt something nasty brewing for a while.’
‘Right, let’s head off to rehearsal,’ said Olaf. ‘We need to work on the set list for tomorrow night, and sort out the timing to the new ending of “My Sword is my Sword”. It isn’t quite there yet.’
‘Agreed,’ said Smid.
And so, they pulled their pants up, mounted their steeds and rode off into the night. Overhead, the storm began to recede, either of its own volition or perhaps propelled by Viking flatulence.
Meanwhile, less than a hundred yards from the Circle of Wind lay the boarded-up entrance to the ancient cheese mine of Hairy Growler. Hardly anyone had ventured inside its dark tunnels and stalactite-encrusted caves for many years; that, however, was soon to change.