In battle order bright,
They sped while seething flame
From rapid hoofstrokes came.
Leading his gleaming band, rode Surtur,
’Mid the red ranks of raging fire.”
Valhalla (J. C. Jones).
The gods now knew full well that their end was near, and that through weakness and lack of foresight they were laboring under great disadvantages; for Odin had but one eye, Tyr but one hand, and Frey nothing but a stag’s horn wherewith to defend himself, instead of his invincible sword. Nevertheless, the Æsir did not show any signs of flinching or despair, but, like true Northern warriors, donned their richest attire, and gaily rode to the battlefield, determined to sell their lives as dearly as possible, and harboring no thought of surrender.
The great battle.
While they were mustering their forces, Odin once more rode down to the Urdar fountain, where, under the wilting Yggdrasil, the Norns sat, with veiled faces, their torn web lying at their feet, obstinately refusing to utter a single word. Once more the father of the gods whispered a mysterious communication to Mimir, then he remounted Sleipnir and went to join the waiting host. On Vigrid’s broad plain the combatants were now all assembled; on one side the stern, calm faces of the Æsir, Vanas, and Einheriar, on the other the flashing host of Surtr, the grim frost giants, the pale army of Hel—Loki leading Garm, Fenris, and Iörmungandr, the two latter belching forth fire and smoke and exhaling clouds of noxious, deathly vapors, which filled all heaven and earth with their poisonous breath.
“The years roll on,