A white ford mustang, the colour of hot ash, rode up the long road to Mordhaus. A red dodge ram follwed, loaded with many bulky items, secured under a black leather sail. Overhead the thunder rumbled, rythmically, almost as if in time with the engine of the first vehicle.
"Yous thinks you's great, Skwisgaar. You's saying you's fastest in world? You's wanting duel? I gives you duel!" Huginn was saying, finally fed up with the snide remarks about rock from the metal men of dethklok, the sneering jabs from his brother Skwisgaar about pretentious young boys. Behind him his sister stood skowling, agreeing with his sentiments. "Yes, we's gives you duel! All you's metal dildoes!" she shouted, having gotten the text message earlier. "We's brought our bands. Our brothers, real brothers. Who no leaves their home. Who no leaves their blood." At that the door slammed and two people strode in.
The first was a man with long blonde hair and a big curly beard. Though he was as large as Nathan Explosion, he was all muscle. Not big, bulging monstrosities, but the hard, flat muscles of a man who had spent his life using his hands and arms. Callouses covered his hands matching those of Skwisgaar. "Snorri Biggurson. Guitar," he grunted, ignoring everyone after and staring straight ahead at something only he could see.
The second was a woman even shorter than pickles, though curves covered her in all the right ways. She was large, alluring, and one look at her grey eyes made you realise it was the silk sheath covering the steel blade. Her arms had deceptively powerful muscles beneath the soft exterior. "Siobahn Northhammer. Drums. When I don't break them. Or skulls." she said, glaring at Murderface who was already trying to sneak a peak and moving closer. He was smart enough to stay where he was, and quiet.
"We are the true children of the north," Huginn said, "Do you still remember the old tongue Skwisgaar?" Muninn carried on, followed by Siobahn who simply said "We are Mjolnir," and a growled "Hammarin forn," from Biggurson.
Exactly twenty-three days later, on a desolate plane in the frozen north, billions of people were gathered. Dethklok had announced a concert. Not just any concert, they were performing with another band. Most of dethklok's fans had never heard of the name mjolnir, but they came. And more. From offices, garages, hospitals and army bases. From the streets, the parks and the offices of government, strong men and woman came. They were the last of the rockers, the last of those who had not been conquered by metal. Not even the royalty of pop or the gang bosses of hip-hop had remained in the face of metal's gods, but they remained. They were strong, they led. They were not mindless sheep literally slaughtered on the stages of metal.
They stood in the mass of dethfans, silent, between two stages. One of black onyx and flame, the other of steel, smoke and grey granite. Here the truth would be shown. The dethfans went insane as dethklok made the stage, the vikings just stood there staring at mjolnir setting up without haste. Violin, cello, guitar and specially reinforced drums would face against guitars, drums and pure hate. Mjolnir all sang, they all felt the power of old.
Mjolnir started slow, the strings plucking to the lamenting guitar, the drums beaten as if with the last of siobahn's strength. This was a fight long fought, and it could be felt. As the song ended, the vikings in the audience could still be heard chanting along, fists hitting chests. In the swirling clouds above, ancient faces formed looking down on the last of their memories.
Dethklok answered with, for them, low levels of darkness. The world's largest mosh pit formed as they sent their fans forth, the vikings forming ranks in a bunch taking all comers. Teenagers in white powder and black makeup couldn't believe it as woman accountants, old middle-school teachers, young mechanics, bikers with celtic tatoos and off-duty soldiers all managed to take on any who dared stand before them. Among the dethklok supporters, shadowy shapes and skeletons, the shades of those who had died at dethklok concerts, rose to do battle as well.
For their second piece Mjolnir started off slow as before, but quickly gained tempo. The sky above grew dark and thunder sounded. Among the knot of vikings, all still standing though some were bleeding by now, a man apeared. Dressed in chain armor, he held a happer that gave off sparks and made all nearby feel their hair stand on end. Thor Enriddi, the one who rides alone, stood with his people fending off the dead and damned. Above, a one-eyed old man smiled as he looked down.
Not to be beaten, Dethklok went for the end-game. "Awaken, awaken, awaken,"
Nathan started and the ground started trembling. Above, the gods of old seethed that these mere mortals would dare summon a troll not once, but twice! As the beast rose from its prison far away and came on, the dethfans fought all the harder, they would not allow these weirdos to stand among them as if they owned the place. Their gods called for them to go forth, and they did. Thousands lay bleeding and unconcious already as the rest climbed over them to get at the army in their midst.
To finish, mjolnir aimed at the fastest guitar in the world, and named him prodical son. Lost, but to return.
The low hum of the cello sounded like a horn of old, calling attention, demanding it. Had any cared, they would had been amazed that Huginn could sing the lead while playing the violin. Normally the instrument didn't allow for vocals. As the allfather heard their tale of lost brothers, their plea for an end, he shed a single tear. The single drop of water fell to the ground and sprouted a mighty tree. Higher, higher still, grew the black tree without leaf or shoot. From the greatest branch suddenly hung the corpse of a man. Missing an eye, an offering of himself to himself, Odin Allfather, Wodan the master of crows hung. To him came not heimdall the allseeing. Not tyr the even-handed. Not Baldr the once-dead. To him came Loki. Trickster, giant, traitor, brother. Father of the end times, Loki came and cut down his brother from the world tree. He drew his sword and mounted his steed, his son, the six-legged horse of the gods. Odin called his wolves and drew his spear from the bough of the tree itself. His ravens making music to make the stones stand to, The gods and giants went to war against the dead, the damned and the monstrous.