Summary; When Willow the (rather erratic) witch banishes Olaf the Troll from Sunnydale,
intending to send him to the Land of the Trolls, she misses her target slightly
and instead sends him to the Asgard.
Inevitably this leads to battle, plunder, and merry sport across the
universe. How will the Goa’uld cope with
the primal force that is Olaf?
Warnings: Nudity,
sex, and bad puns.
Challenge: Faela's ‘Where did Olaf the Troll go?’ challenge at ‘Twisting the Hellmouth’. Willow's spells are notoriously inaccurate; where else but the Land of the Trolls might she have sent Olaf?
“Let the
transposition be complete,” Willow intoned, and Olaf disappeared from the floor
of the Magic Box.
“Where
did you send him?” Buffy asked.
“Land of
the Trolls,” Anya said. “He’ll like it
there. Full of trolls.”
“It’s
hard to be precise, though,” Willow admitted.
“Alternate universes don’t stay put.
He’s probably in the Land of the Trolls, I guess, or at least some place
similar. Definitely somewhere with a
Viking connection. Maybe… Asgard.”
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Thousands
of light years from Earth Olaf materialized out of nothing. “Odin’s beard!” he exclaimed, staring around
the bare chamber in which he found himself.
“Where has that witch sent me?”
In front
of him a small grayish-pink figure opened its big black eyes wide. “Who are you?” it asked. “How did you get onto my ship?”
Olaf
frowned. “This is a ship? Why is there no rocking from the waves?” His frown deepened. “Wait a minute,” he went on. “I know you.
You are Thor, the Thunderer, who claimed to be a god to my people.”
“I am,”
the alien admitted. “That was a thousand
years ago. How is it that you remember
it?”
“I was
imprisoned in a crystal by a witch for many centuries,” Olaf said. “Bah!
Witches! I hate them. First my wife turned me into a troll, and
then I was trapped in the crystal, and then another witch sent me here. This, then, must be your magical flying
longship.”
“It is,”
Thor confirmed, “but I travel to a planet far from yours and not to the abode
of your gods. There are no Valkyries there,
nor is there mead, and I suspect that you will not find it an amenable
environment.”
“Probably
not,” Olaf agreed. “I have heard of your
race’s customs. You gave some of our
heroes mighty weapons, it is true, but you also have a habit of inserting
probes into a place where only those men of a certain disposition enjoy the
experience.” He pursed his lips. “Although,” he added, his tone speculative,
“I have heard that the women of Miklagard are not averse to being ravished in
such a way, finding that it gives pleasure without the risk of begetting a
child…”
“We do
not anally probe humans,” Thor denied.
His large eyes blinked. “Well,
perhaps Loki does, but the rest of us do not.”
“Yes you
do,” Olaf insisted. “Björn Larssen from my own village was
snatched up into your flying longship and, when you returned him, he walked in
an odd fashion for several days thereafter.”
“Please,
do not speak of such things,” Thor begged.
“We have abandoned the custom and told Colonel O’Neill that none of us, other
than Loki, have ever engaged in such practices.
I do not want him to find out that we have been less than truthful.”
“O’Neill?” Olaf scratched his bearded chin. “Máel Seachnaill of the Uí Néill was a mighty
warrior. He captured Thorgísl and drowned him in a lough. Is the O’Neill of which you speak also a great
warrior?”
“He is,”
Thor said. “He has defeated many of the
Goa’uld and has also aided us against our enemies the Replicators.” His small mouth opened and closed. “You are another such powerful fighter, if I
am not mistaken, are you not?”
“I am
mighty indeed,” Olaf boasted. “The
Slayer defeated me, true, but no lesser warrior can stand against me in
battle. Alas, the Slayer stole my
hammer. Curse her and the witches who
aided her!”
“A
hammer? The emblem of Thor?” Thor’s eyes narrowed and widened again. “Perhaps you could be of assistance to us,
and in return we would bestow upon you a hammer like the one you lost, and
would transport you to a realm where you would find such things as you would
find to your taste.”
“Battle,
and plunder, and attractive women with whom to make merry sport?” Olaf’s eyes lit up.
“Indeed
so,” Thor confirmed, “if you will first clear one of our planets of a small
infestation of Replicators.”
“Very
well, small god,” Olaf agreed. “I will
crush your enemies, if first you give me the hammer with which to smite them,
and then you can send me to the realm that sounds like a very Valhalla. And, should I meet this man O’Neill, I shall
say naught to him about your anal probes.”
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The
Replicators spread out across the Asgard base, scuttling over the floors and
walls, converting all devices they encountered into new Replicators. The few Asgards who had not already escaped
fled before them. Their energy weapons
were useless against the insect-like mechanical creatures.
Energy
shimmered as Thor beamed Olaf down into the base. The mighty troll roared and brandished his
new hammer. “Flee before me, metal
spiders,” he bellowed, “for I will crush you.”
He brought down the hammer and put his words into practice.
At once
the Replicators turned on him. A wave of
insectoid robots scuttled at the troll, clacking their artificial mandibles,
and spraying acidic vapor designed to melt down their opponents so that their
component parts could be absorbed.
It was
no match for troll hide, however, nor for the impervious material of the hammer
provided to Olaf by Thor. No technology
to be assimilated by the Replicators but only gleaming solid metal, heavy and
extremely hard, wielded by the strong arms of a berserk troll. Olaf smashed, pounded, and pulverized. The Replicators broke up into mangled pieces
and, when they managed to reform, Olaf simply smashed them again.
After an
hour of furious activity Olaf stood alone surrounded by a mound of flattened
pieces of inert metal. His clothes had
been dissolved away, and his skin had lost its outer layer and was less green
than before, but he was otherwise unscathed.
“The
metal crabs are defeated, Thor,” he called.
“Fulfill your part of the agreement and send me to a paradise for
trolls.” He looked down at the few
shreds of clothing that was all that remained of his apparel. “First, however, provide me with new garments. And, perhaps,” he added, scratching at a
patch of skin inflamed by the acid, “even a bath, for it is a thousand years
since my last.”
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Cephnet
was a minor Goa’uld who, although he ruled his own sparsely-populated planet,
had never qualified as a System Lord. He
had made it only into the margins of Egyptian mythology, as the god of the
bronze hooks used to remove the brain from bodies prior to mummification, and his
sacred animal was the gerbil. He had no
great conquests to his name. He did have
a retinue of Jaffa soldiers, of course, and a slightly dilapidated Ha’tak ship
with an under-strength flight of Death Gliders.
And a harem.
That was, perhaps, his crowning achievement. Forty of the most beautiful women in the Milky
Way galaxy, all pandering to his every whim (he had even, centuries ago,
imported bamboo-chewing animals from Earth, especially so that the girls could
whim to his every panda, but the pandas had failed to breed in captivity and
died out). The harem girls were trained
in dance, in the art of conversation, and special instructors taught them
pelvic floor exercises. They were
required to dress scantily, and alluringly, but tastefully; admittedly that
taste was according to Goa’uld standards and involved lots of bare skin,
semi-transparent material, and gold. The
overall effect was very pleasing to male eyes, however, especially if those
eyes belonged to a 16-year-old D&D player.
Certainly
the harem girls were pleasing to the eyes of Cephnet. He stayed on his backwater planet, hoping
that the System Lords would ignore him and not conscript his mediocre forces
into their armies, and occupied himself with debauchery and minor-league
oppression of his human subjects.
Occasionally he would allow one of the other minor Goa’uld, someone weak
enough not to be a threat and cowardly enough not to risk trying to assassinate
or depose him, to visit for a luxurious vacation in exchange for
resources. Were it not for this, his
only off-planet source of income, he would have buried the Stargate and gone
into isolation.
He had a
deadly fear that one day he would be visited by the Tau’ri of Earth,
particularly by the dreaded SG-1, and that they would destroy his little
paradise. Consequently he maintained a
constant guard on the Stargate. A
company of Jaffa, fully armed and armored, instructed to be alert at all times. Of course after several years of nothing
happening that state of alertness was less than optimal…
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The
Stargate activated. The Jaffa guards
reacted as one. Thirty heads turned,
thirty jaws dropped, and thirty pairs of eyebrows shot up. For a long moment there was no other movement
and then Jaffa leapt up from where they were relaxing on the grass, tossed
aside various war simulation board games, and frantically started donning the
uncomfortable sections of their armor that they had set aside once sure that
neither Cephnet nor his First Prime Bra’strap were likely to drop in for an
inspection.
The
orders that Cephnet had given the guards at the Stargate were contradictory. The last thing that Cephnet wanted to do was
to begin a conflict with a System Lord and so the guards were instructed that,
in the event of a powerful Goa’uld and his retinue arriving, they were to form
up as an honor guard and respectfully escort the arrivals to Cephnet’s audience
chamber. On the other hand if warriors
of the Tau’ri emerged from the Gate then the Jaffa were
to attack immediately, without restraint or mercy, and fight to the death to
defend their lord from the dreaded Colonel O’Neill.
The mutually incompatible orders, and their low readiness state, slowed down
their response to this incursion through the Gate. Not that any orders could really have prepared
them for this invader…
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Olaf
strode out through the Stargate, his hammer resting on his shoulder, and looked
around him. The momentary disorientation
that normally afflicted people after Gate travel had almost no effect on the
abnormally resilient troll. He was ready
for action long before the startled Jaffa could react effectively.
“Ho, Jaffa,” he boomed out. “Take me to
your leader.” He made an impressive
sight, towering almost seven feet tall, and clad in silvery scale mail armor
from an Asgard museum. His greenish skin,
his bright orange hair and beard, and his horns made it clear that he was no
human race the Jaffa had ever seen before.
“What – who are you?” asked the commander of the Jaffa unit, hastily fastening
up pieces of his armor as he spoke. He
snatched up his staff weapon. “You
cannot be a Tau’ri, as you have horns, but what species are you? From what world have you come?”
“I am Olaf, mightiest of trolls, known by some as Olaf the Troll God,” Olaf
replied, continuing to stride forward as he spoke, “and I have come from Earth
to conquer your world.”
The
Jaffa commander raised his eyebrows and stared past Olaf at the Stargate. He saw no-one else, and the event horizon had
shut down and disappeared, and he fixed his gaze on Olaf once more. “To conquer our world? Then where is your army?”
Olaf
snorted. “I am my own army, puny one.”
“Puny
one?” The Jaffa bridled. “I am Teac’up of the Jaffa, boastful
interloper, stronger than any save only First Prime Bra’strap.” He began to raise his staff weapon. “Surrender, fool, and perhaps you will –
awk!”
Olaf’s
left hand shot out, closed around the Jaffa commander’s neck, and lifted him
into the air. The staff weapon clattered
to the ground as Teac’up clawed at Olaf’s arm in a futile attempt to free
himself. The Goa’uld had bred the Jaffa
for strength, and the commander was half as strong again as any normal human of
his size, but unfortunately for him Olaf was not only much bigger but had five
times the proportionate strength of a human.
Teac’up was helpless in his grasp.
One of
the Jaffa troopers fired his zat. He
missed his target completely. This
spurred the others into action, however, and two more zat shots and a blast
from a staff weapon followed. They were
better aimed but Olaf dealt with them by interposing the hapless Teac’up
between himself and the energy bolts.
The Jaffa commander convulsed in death and went limp. Olaf hurled the body at the Jaffa troopers,
swung his hammer down from his shoulder, and charged.
A couple
of the Jaffa managed to fire their weapons before Olaf reached them. Unfortunately for them they were in too much
of a hurry to take aim. Once Olaf was in
amongst the troopers they had no chance.
His hammer blows were irresistible and the numbers of the Jaffa worked
against them. Almost as many were struck
by their own hasty shots as by Olaf’s blows.
In less than three minutes most of the Jaffa were down and the rest were
running for their lives.
Olaf pursued
them, brandishing his hammer, and roaring in triumph. “You do well to flee, Jaffa,” he taunted
them. “I will pillage your pyramids and
granaries. I will crush your warriors,”
he added, as he burst in through the doors of Cephnet’s palace, “and I will
make merry sport with…” His voice trailed
off as he caught sight of some of Cephnet’s attendants, “…your extremely
attractive harem girls.”
The
girls panicked, screamed, and fled; some, however, smiled at the compliment
even as they ran for their lives.
Olaf
clubbed the guards in the entrance hall into unconsciousness and pushed on
further into the palace. Servants
scattered before him and a few Jaffa tried to bar his path. Their wild staff blasts achieved nothing
except damage to furnishings. Olaf
pummeled them, rammed the head of one of them through the wire of a gerbil
cage, and amused himself by wrapping a bent staff weapon around the neck of
another.
The
doors of the innermost chambers opened and a squad of Cephnet’s elite Gerbil
Guards trooped out, in full ceremonial armor, and with their heads covered by
their Gerbil Masks. Cephnet brought up
the rear and made sure that the guards were between himself and the potential
danger.
“What is
the meaning of this intrusion?” Cephnet demanded, in his most impressively
booming Goa’uld voice.
“I have
come to conquer your world, puny Pharaoh,” Olaf replied. “I have already told this to your
thralls. Some reached here ahead of me,
I know. Did they not tell you?”
Some of
the Jaffa from the Stargate had indeed made it to the palace before Olaf
arrived, and a couple had even dared to brave the presence of the Pharaoh to
confess their failure to their god, but Cephnet had simply not believed their
incoherent babblings. “One man to
conquer a world? Are you insane?” He did not wait for an answer but addressed
his Gerbil Guard. “Capture this fool
alive. I wish to know who sent him on
this idiotic mission.”
The
guards lowered their staff weapons and began to raise their zats. Olaf acted first. He seized the Jaffa around whose neck he had
wrapped a staff weapon, lifted the man into the air, and hurled him at the column
of Gerbil Guards. The living bowling
ball crashed into the tight formation and mowed down the Jaffa like
ninepins. Most of them went sprawling.
Cephnet’s
First Prime, Bra’strap, leapt aside and avoided the fate that the others
suffered. He fired a zat bolt at
Olaf. Even though he was moving as he
fired he was still more accurate than any of his fellows had been and would
have struck Olaf squarely had the troll not moved his hammer into the energy
beam’s path. The highly reflective surface
deflected the bolt and it struck the Jaffa who was stuck in the cage of the
sacred gerbils. The man slumped
unconscious to the floor, his head came free, and the sacred animals escaped.
Olaf
closed with Bra’strap and knocked the zat from the First Prime’s hand. He aimed a punch at Bra’strap’s jaw but was
distracted when his foot came down on a gerbil.
Bra’strap dodged the punch and back-pedaled towards his fallen staff weapon.
Olaf
paused to pick up the flattened gerbil.
“Not delicious pork, and not a plump juicy baby,” he observed, “but
appetizing enough.” He gobbled up the
morsel. “Not bad,” he commented, “although
it would have been better skinned, roasted, and garnished with grated puffin.”
Two
Jaffa warriors of the Gerbil Guard, Ptsah’ut and Wahl’mah’t, picked themselves
up from the floor and tackled Olaf as he was chewing the gerbil. “Blasphemer!” Ptsah’ut cried. “Slayer of the sacred gerbil!” He attempted to punch Olaf as Wahl’mah’t was
simultaneously grabbing Olaf around the legs.
Olaf
didn’t even bother blocking or avoiding the punch. Ptsah’ut’s fist connected with the troll’s
rock-like jaw and the Jaffa uttered a cry of pain as two of his fingers
broke. Olaf bent down, snatched up Wahl’mah’t,
and threw him at some other members of the Gerbil Guard who were scrambling to
their feet.
Bra’strap
had used this respite to retrieve his staff weapon. He twirled it and attacked. He brought the weapon down on Olaf’s head
with all the force he could muster.
“Ouch!”
Olaf exclaimed. “That was a blow well
struck, rodent-headed one.”
Bra’strap
permitted himself a small smile and struck again. This time Olaf’s hammer blurred as he swung
it to intercept the blow. The
hammer-head caught the staff in the middle and snapped it in two. Bra’strap staggered, thrown off-balance by his
weapon’s destruction, and Olaf retaliated with a punch.
Bra’strap’s
helmet absorbed enough of the force of the blow to enable the First Prime to
stay conscious and on his feet. He used
one end of the broken staff to strike back.
Olaf could see that the other Gerbil Guards were beginning to recover
and he acted quickly to neutralize the First Prime. He smote Bra’strap’s helmet with the hammer
and knocked it off to reveal Bra’strap’s head and face. Olaf delivered a short jab with the hammer,
holding back to avoid killing the man, and Bra’strap fell to the floor stunned.
With the
First Prime dealt with Olaf charged the rest of the Jaffa. He used his hammer against armor and his
fists and boots against unprotected body parts.
In moments most of them were unconscious. Olaf pressed on towards Cephnet.
The
Goa’uld backed away, alarmed at the defeat of his Gerbil Guards, and raised a
hand. From his kara kesh ribbon device a
powerful wave of kinetic energy emanated.
It felled Ptsah’ut, who was attempting to attack Olaf once more despite
his broken fingers, and lifted Olaf from his feet and hurled him back to crash
into a wall.
“Hah! The interloper is defeated,” Cephnet
declared. “Thus shall fall all those who
oppose the mighty…”
Olaf
climbed quickly to his feet, showing no sign of being even stunned, and faced
Cephnet again. “You count your chickens
too soon, false god,” he said. Cephnet
began to raise his hand once more but this time Olaf was first to act and
hurled his hammer directly at the Goa’uld.
Cephnet uttered
a very non-regal shriek of panic and put up an energy shield with his kara
kesh. It stopped the hammer but the
sheer force of the impact, transferred through the shield to the ribbon device,
sent Cephnet stumbling.
Olaf
charged, trampling on some of the prone Jaffa guards and kicking others out of
his way, and reached Cephnet. They
traded punches. The Goa’uld’s enhanced
strength proved no match for Olaf’s might and a roundhouse blow sent Cephnet
reeling back ten paces. He turned and
ran for his life towards his inner chambers and the harem. Olaf, after
pausing briefly to snatch up his hammer, followed in hot pursuit.
Cephnet’s
private chambers were lavishly furnished and decorated. The traditional Goa’uld motif of excessive quantities
of gold predominated, with white silk draperies, and low couches of ivory and
gilt. Heaps of cushions provided
lounging areas for the beautiful harem girls and now served as something of an
obstacle course for Cephnet in his flight.
Phishnet,
Cephnet’s Lo’taur and head girl of the harem, backed away into a corner and
called out to Cephnet. “What is
happening, Lord? What should we do?”
“Help
me!” Cephnet shouted in reply. “Delay
this alien creature while I get to the ring transporter and make a tactical
retreat to my ha’tak.”
“As you
command, Lord,” Phishnet responded.
“Rho’na! Mit’ra! Attack the creature!”
The two
girls named, both slim and leggy brunettes of surpassing beauty, obeyed the
command. Most of Cephnet’s harem girls
were unmodified humans but these two were Jaffa. Athletic, agile, and with a reasonable
working knowledge of the Jaffa martial art of mastaba, the two girls leapt at
Olaf. They punched and kicked but their
blows failed to hurt the mighty troll.
They did
impede his progress, however, and Olaf was loath to smite such delectable
specimens even in self-defense. He found
another way of dealing with them; he seized them, one after the other, and
tossed them through the air to land on cushioned couches. The landings jarred the breath from their
bodies and before they could recover Olaf had resumed his pursuit of Cephnet.
Phishnet
tried a different strategy. She was not
a Jaffa but a normal human, as was usually the case for a Lo’taur, and lacked
the strength and athletic ability of Rho’na and Mit’ra. If their attack on the intruder had failed
there seemed little point in her emulating them and being defeated even more
easily. Instead she slipped off the
golden cups that served her as a brassiere, revealing her breasts in all their
glory, and moved to intercept Olaf.
“Tek’ma’tek
matte, handsome and… virile… warrior,” she purred. “Sit down and let me see your mighty muscles
close up.”
Olaf
smiled broadly. “I would enjoy examining
you closer too, beautiful maiden,” he said.
His gaze ran over her golden tan skin and locked on her nipples, prominent
circles of a rich brown that a modern Earthman would have compared to
chocolate; a simile unknown to Olaf, although he would certainly have agreed
that they looked very lickable.
Phishnet
took hold of his arm. “Then let us do
so, warrior,” she said, trying to steer him towards a couch.
Olaf
almost succumbed to the temptation and forgot his primary objective. At the last moment a sound attracted his
attention and he wrenched his gaze away.
Cephnet was standing in an area of the room that was marked out in a
circle, free of cushions and floor coverings, and pointing his kara kesh hand
device at a wall pillar that was beginning to glow.
Olaf had
received a basic briefing on Goa’uld technology from the Asgard. He realized what Cephnet was doing,
calculated that he had no chance of getting there in time before the ring
transporter was activated, and hurled his hammer with desperate speed.
The
hammer struck Cephnet just as the rings were descending. The Goa’uld Pharaoh was thrown back by the
impact and his head and body left the circle.
His legs were still partially within the ring when the transporter
activated. Cephnet landed on the floor
with his legs severed at the knee.
Cephnet’s
cry of pain was echoed by screams from Phishnet and several of the other
girls. First Prime Bra’strap, still
bare-headed and unsteady on his feet, rushed into the chambers with an equally
groggy Ptsah’ut, Wahl’mah’t, and a couple of other Gerbil Guards behind him. They gazed in horror at their dreadfully
injured ‘god’.
“Tao’ve’nu!”
Bra’strap exclaimed. “Impossible! You have defeated Lord Cephnet.”
Olaf
disengaged Phishnet’s fingers from his arm.
“Indeed I have. Now I shall
finish him off.”
“We must
stop him!” Ptsah’ut gasped.
Bra’strap
had retrieved an operational staff weapon from one of the incapacitated Gerbil
Guards. He raised it half-way but then
hesitated and did not fire. “Must we?”
“What do
you mean?” Phishnet asked.
Rho’na,
who had regained her breath and risen from the couch onto which Olaf had thrown
her, posed another question. “How can
Cephnet be a god, when he has been defeated by a single warrior armed only with
a hammer?” she wondered.
“And
when he has been terribly injured by his own magic transport device,” Mit’ra
added.
“This is
blasphemy!” protested one of the Gerbil Guards who accompanied Bra’strap,
Wahl’mah’t, and Ptsah’ut.
“They
voice my own thoughts, Pter’ri,” Bra’strap said. “Cephnet is na’onak – not a god, but merely a
ruler who has technology beyond ours.”
Meanwhile
Olaf had reached the area where Cephnet lay and was approaching the maimed body
with his hammer held high.
The
Goa’uld symbiote was completely unable to repair the amputated limbs and knew
that the human body was forever crippled.
Useless, even if it survived the injury.
The obvious course was to abandon that body and take a new host. It was impossible to enter a Jaffa body as
long as the Jaffa carried an immature symbiote and that was one reason why most
of the members of Cephnet’s household, apart from the Gerbil Guards, were
unaltered humans.
One of
the prime functions of a Goa’uld’s Lo’taur was to serve, knowingly or
unknowingly, as an emergency refuge to which the Goa’uld could move in the
event of major damage to the host body.
Phishnet would be unsuitable as a long-term host, as his subjects were
too accustomed to the Pharaoh being a male and the social structures of the
planet were organized on that basis, but her usual position in his close
proximity made her an ideal temporary shelter.
Now, however, she was too far away to be reached unobtrusively. Closer at hand, though, was a host body that
had already proved its physical superiority over all others on the planet…
Cephnet disengaged
his tendrils from the nervous system of the host, unwrapped himself from around
the spinal cord and brain stem, and drilled through flesh and skin to emerge
from the host. The symbiote’s eyes were
not as sharp as those of the abandoned host but it seemed to Cephnet that Olaf
was looking away, no doubt distracted by the comely females of the harem, and
Cephnet coiled himself and then sprang for Olaf’s throat.
Just as
he made contact, before he could penetrate the skin and burrow into the soft flesh
below, Olaf’s mighty hand closed around the symbiote’s body and squeezed.
“Urgh!”
Olaf exclaimed. “The guts of this
creature are disgustingly slimy. I must
wash my hands.”
“You
have slain our god,” Phishnet said.
“He was
not much of a god,” Olaf said disparagingly.
“Cowardly, puny, and pathetically fragile.” He went to the body of Cephnet’s late host,
dying quickly from loss of blood, shock, and the additional damage done by the
symbiote as it vacated the body, and wiped his hands on the Pharaoh’s
robes. “And horribly squishy.”
“You
are, therefore, our new god,” Phishnet went on.
“I shall send one of the girls to fetch perfumed hot towels for your
hands, Lord.”
“I am no
god,” Olaf said, “although some of the trolls gave me that title because I was
the only one strong enough to wield the Hammer of the Gods. I will claim the throne of kingship but not
godhood.” He pursed his lips and frowned. “I have promised the Asgard that I will not seize
the throne if the people of this world are opposed to the idea. Nor will I make merry sport with women who
are unwilling.”
Bra’strap
went down on one knee and bowed his head.
“I acknowledge you as king, Lord, for you are the mightiest of
warriors.”
“And if
we do not make you our king,” Ptsah’ut added, following Bra’strap’s example and
kneeling, “then there will be much warring before one amongst us can establish
himself. We would be weakened and easy
prey for another Lord to invade and conquer.”
“I also
am in favor,” said Wahl’mah’t, “but we must consult with High Priest Djer’b’l.”
“Indeed,”
said Bra’strap. “Pter’ri, go and summon
the High Priest.”
One of
the girls brought damp towels in response to Phishnet’s command. Phishnet took them from her and cleaned
Olaf’s hands of the messy remnants of Cephnet.
“You are tall, mighty, and extremely muscular,” Phishnet told Olaf, “and
much more to my taste than was the late Cephnet. I would be delighted to engage in merry sport
with you, Lord. I hope that you will
retain me in the position of Lo’taur and senior harem girl.”
“A
Lo’taur is a slave, is that not so? I
will not make a thrall of one with whom I wish to have merry sport,” Olaf said. “You may remain senior girl, certainly, but
as a free woman. Those who wish to leave
the harem may do so. I shall make much
merry sport with those who stay.”
“I shall
stay,” said Rho’na, “for if your skill at merry sport matches your skill at war
then we shall have great pleasure.”
“And I,”
said Mit’ra.
“I too,”
a girl named Sekhsmad chimed in, as did Khismititi, Pha’nee, Hotliy’khmee, Phukhme,
and a dozen others. There were some who
asked to be released from harem duties, and some who were undecided, but roughly
half of the girls wanted to stay and seemed enthusiastic about the prospect of
merry sport with Olaf.
A girl
by the name of Pto’tal’skankh, who had been a particular favorite of Cephnet,
hesitated for a long time before speaking up.
Eventually she declared that she wished to remain with the harem, and
she congratulated Olaf on his accession, but her voice was flat and her smile
was forced. In all the excitement,
however, none noticed her insincerity.
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“What
will become of the sacred gerbils, Lord?” asked Djer’b’l the High Priest.
“In the
land of California, which I visited for one day before being sent through space
by the witch Willow,” Olaf reminisced, “they place cooked meats between two
hemispheres of bread and garnish them with vegetables. This they call a ‘burger’. I think that the gerbils could serve
admirably as the meat portion of this dish.”
Djer’b’l
sighed. “As you wish, Lord Olaf,” he
said. “I shall slaughter and cook the
sacred rodents and turn them, as you command, into burgers.”
“If
gerbils are no longer sacred,” Bra’strap said, “what animal shall form the
pattern for the helmets of your personal guard?”
“A
turtle, Lord Olaf?” suggested P’ter’ri.
“Or perhaps a crocodile? You
could make a small change to your name and become Olafler the Crocodile God.”
Olaf
shook his head. “I would rather have
something from my homeland,” he said, “a beast of the cold Northlands, if I am
to have a sacred animal at all. Let me
think. Bulls have horns, as do I,” he
mused, “and wolves are suitably ferocious.
So, too, are bears. Hah! I have an idea. Tell me, Bra’strap, First Prime of Olaf, does
the armor of the Jaffa protect them against the weapons of this time? When I fought them at the Rainbow Bridge, and
again in the palace, warriors who aimed poorly struck their colleagues and
felled them despite the armor.”
“Indeed
the armor is little protection against the beams of staff weapons and zat’n’ktel,”
Bra’strap confirmed. “It is mainly for
use against rebellious members of our own people.”
“If the
people of this world rebel against my rule in numbers too great for me to fight
them myself, then I will have failed as a king, and I will relinquish my
throne,” Olaf said. “I will not send you
to crush the discontented. Therefore
there is no need for armor that does not protect against the weapons of the
System Lords.”
“That is
logical,” Bra’strap agreed, “yet your personal guards should wear something
that makes them stand out from the common soldiery.”
“Or to not wear something,” Olaf said. “Among my people the fiercest warriors,
feared by all, were the berserkers, also known as baresarks. Let me tell you how they gained that name…”
- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -
Olaf
thrust deep into Sekhsmad and groaned as he came, spurting deep into her,
filling her up. She was already
convulsing in her own orgasm and she broke into gasping giggles as she felt him
coming. Beside them Phishnet sprawled
semi-conscious, satiated, a trail of semen drying in the valley between her breasts. Rho’na and Mit’ra lay together, legs
entwined, also smeared with Olaf’s sperm, exchanging slow languorous kisses and
playing with each other’s nipples whilst watching Olaf fucking Sekhsmad.
This
sport was merry indeed. Olaf was not a
sophisticated lover but his equipment was built to the same proportions as his
massive body, he was strong and tireless, and he was dedicated to ensuring that
the women enjoyed the activities as much as he did. So far that had definitely been the case.
Olaf
planted a deep kiss on Sekhsmad’s mouth, ran his lips down her body and made
her squirm, and then withdrew from her.
“That was extremely pleasurable, beautiful maiden,” he said, and kissed
her again. He rolled aside and paused to
gather his strength before moving on to the next girl.
“My
turn!” cried Pto’tal’skankh. She had maneuvered
her way into the initial group of girls to spend a night with Olaf, ahead of
some others such as Phukhme or Hotliy’khmee who had spoken up before her and
might have expected to be first in the queue, with a combination of charm and
aggression.
“Give me
a moment to recover, beautiful one,” Olaf said.
“I shall
excite you and revive your flagging lust,” Pto’tal’skankh declared. She bent over Olaf, kissed his belly, and
moved her hands to his balls. She
tickled and caressed, causing his flaccid cock to begin to swell and stiffen,
and then suddenly she seized his balls in her hands and squeezed with all her
might.
Olaf
roared in agony. His hands shot down to
his testicles. Pto’tal’skankh snatched
her hands away before Olaf could grab them and instead Olaf clamped his hands
protectively over his injured balls.
Pto’tal’skankh
sat up, put a hand to her hair, and pulled out a golden hair-grip to reveal a
five-inch stiletto blade. She raised her
hand high, a twisted smile of triumph on her pretty lips, and then brought the
dagger down aimed directly at Olaf’s throat.
Rho’na
and Mit’ra had disentangled themselves from each other at Olaf’s cry. They launched themselves at
Pto’tal’skankh. Rho’na seized the would-be
assassin’s arm and halted the dagger.
Mit’ra stood up, lashed out with a leg, and kicked Pto’tal’skankh full
in the face.
Pto’tal’skankh
fell back. Rho’na took a two-handed grip
on Pto’tal’skankh’s arm, twisted it round, and wrenched the dagger from her
grasp. Mit’ra stepped in close and
hammered her elbow into the side of Pto’tal’skankh’s jaw. Pto’tal’skankh went down as if shot.
“Urrgghh!”
Olaf groaned. “I am sore hurt.” He propped himself up on an elbow and gave
Rho’na and Mit’ra a somewhat strained smile.
“Thank you, brave maidens, for you saved me when I was helpless. You are true warriors, shield-maidens like
those of old, and worthy of great praise.”
“Lord
Olaf!” Phishnet’s eyes were wide with
concern. “Are your magnificent genitalia
damaged? Does this mean the end of merry
sport? Shall I have ice fetched?” She turned a fierce glare on the unconscious
Pto’tal’skankh. “Treacherous bitch, I
shall see you flayed alive for this.”
“Fear
not, lovely Phishnet,” Olaf reassured her, grimacing and fondling his bruised
balls, “for great are the recuperative powers of trolls. It is painful but I shall recover. I doubt that I shall be capable of more merry
sport tonight but tomorrow I shall pleasure you again.” He nodded.
“Yes, perhaps ice, carefully applied, might bring relief.”
“Alas,”
sighed Khismititi, the other member of the group of harem girls chosen for
Olaf’s first night, “for I shall have to wait until tomorrow for my turn. Pto’tal’skankh has robbed me of the delights
that Phishnet and the others have experienced.”
She aimed a kick at the prone assassin.
“Curse you, bitch, and may your punishment be great.” She turned back to Olaf. “It is a great shame that our pleasures must
end for tonight because of this traitor.
Don’t you wish your choice had been Hotliy’khmee?”
- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -
“Olaf is
a barbarian who slew our rightful god,” Pto’tal’skankh said, addressing those
sitting in judgment over her. “It was my
duty to avenge Lord Cephnet.”
“Why was
it your duty?” Bra’strap asked. “I was
his First Prime, and Phishnet his Lo’taur; if it was anyone’s duty it was
ours.”
“You
failed in that duty,” Pto’tal’skankh accused.
“We
decided that attempting to carry it out would benefit no-one,” Bra’strap
defended his choice, “and, even had we been able to slay the mighty Lord Olaf,
it would have led to civil strife and then to our occupation by a lord from
another system.”
“At
least that lord would have been a Goa’uld,” said Pto’tal’skankh, “and not an
ugly barbarian with horns. He does not
even wear eye-liner!”
“No man
with such great big… muscles… can be regarded as ugly,” said Phishnet.
“What
did you hope to gain from such an act?” Bra’strap asked. “You must be insane if you thought that by
slaying our ruler in such treacherous fashion you could claim the throne.”
“I would
have been rewarded by whatever Goa’uld lord came to take over the planet,”
Pto’tal’skankh said. “At the least I would
have been given the position that Phishnet clearly does not deserve.”
Olaf
shook his head. “Foolish maid, I know
kings, and I know that no ruler would trust one who had carried out such a base
deed,” he told her. “You would have been
heaped with rewards in public and then quietly slain.”
“Indeed,”
said Bra’strap. “Such is my opinion
too.”
“She
openly confesses her guilt,” High Priest Djer’b’l said. “What shall be her punishment? She deserves death.”
“I
promised the Asgard that I would not be a harsh ruler, if I succeeded in my
conquest of this planet,” Olaf said, “and that I would not sentence people to
death for lesser crimes than murder. As
she failed to kill me, thanks to the intervention of the brave and loyal Rho’na
and Mit’ra, I cannot have her executed.”
“Imprisonment,
then,” suggested Djer’b’l, “or a sentence of hard labor. Mucking out the gerbils, perhaps.”
“I
propose banishment,” said Olaf.
“A good
idea,” said Bra’strap, “but where to? If
we send her to a world ruled by the Goa’uld she would undoubtedly give them
information that could be used against us, out of spite if nothing else.”
“I
suggest that we send her to my friends the Asgard,” Olaf said, “where she can
aid one of their scientists, one Loki, with his experiments.”
Bra’strap
looked around the gathering and saw many heads nodding. “Very well, Lord Olaf, so shall it be.”
- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -
Pto’tal’skankh
approached the small grey alien. She
kept her gaze low and her posture as humble as possible. She would have to learn the ways and desires
of this being before she could manipulate him.
“I am here, Lord Loki, and at your service,” she said. “What is your will?”
Loki
pulled a latex glove over his hand.
“Excellent, excellent,” he muttered, his tiny mouth curved up in what
was probably a smile. “Face that bench,
human, bend over, and spread your cheeks.”
- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -
“Hah, Bra’strap,” Olaf greeted his First Prime. “I have plans for a new device, or rather an
adaptation of an old one, that I believe will increase the effectiveness of the
Jaffa in battle.”
“I am at
your service, Lord,” said Bra’strap. He
turned to Pter’ri, with whom he had been discussing training, and dismissed the
other Jaffa. “We shall finish our talk
later, Pter’ri.”
“Ah,
Pter’ri,” said Olaf. “I saw your name
written down earlier today. Until that
moment I had not realized that on this word the ‘P’s are silent.”
Pter’ri
nodded. “That, my Lord,” he said, “is
because we have very advanced plumbing.”
- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -
Colonel
Jack O’Neill cast an appraising eye over the Jaffa guards who had met SG-1 at
the Stargate. “Your uniforms are
somewhat… unusual,” he commented to the Jaffa officer in command, as they were
escorted to the palace.
“You can
say that again,” Major Samantha Carter agreed, managing to restrain herself
from licking her lips.
“We are
the elite Baresarks of King Olaf,” Ptsah’ut replied. “We wear no armor and thus are always ready
for battle. The armor does not protect
against staff weapons and so, as King Olaf pointed out, it does nothing but
slow us down.”
Jack
nodded. “Good point,” he said, “although
in most armies they tend to wear a little more in the way of clothing. This king of yours sounds like a smart guy.”
“He is,”
Ptsah’ut confirmed. “His skill in battle
is unmatched. All hail Olaf!”
“Fascinating,”
Daniel Jackson murmured. “An intriguing
mix of Viking and Egyptian styles. This King
Olaf has obviously had a great deal of influence on the culture in a very short
time.”
“I’m
more interested in his military influence,” said Jack. “Notice how this area has all been cleared
recently, so we were out in the open and totally exposed, surrounded by
defensive positions laid out so they only give cover in one direction. If an attacking force captured them it
wouldn’t be a whole lot of help. They
still wouldn’t have any protection from the defenders.”
“Indeed,”
said Teal’c. “These soldiers appear not
to follow the normal tactics of the Jaffa yet their dispositions seem an
effective use of small forces. Olaf
might truly be a useful ally.”
“That’s
what we’re here to find out,” Jack said.
They
reached the palace and were led inside.
“The Taur’i from Earth have arrived,” Ptsah’ut announced.
“King
Olaf will be with you in a moment,” High Priest Djer’b’l said to the
visitors. “In the meantime, can I offer
you refreshments? A Burgerbil, perhaps?”
Jack
O’Neill’s eyebrows went up and down. “A
Burger Bill?”
“Our new
national dish,” Djer’b’l explained. “A
grilled gerbil in a bun, garnished with salad and relish, with melted cheese
optional.”
“Uh, no
thanks,” Jack said, and the others also declined the offer politely. As it transpired there would have been no
time to eat the proffered food. In
little more than a minute the inner doors opened and figures came forth.
First
were two girls, tall and slim, fair-skinned but with raven-black hair. They wore horned helmets, like those of a
movie Viking, and had highly polished shields strapped to their left arms. Swords hung at their left hips and zats rode
in holsters at their right. They had
knee boots on their feet and wore bikini-style panties of a translucent silken
material. Other than that they wore no
clothes whatsoever.
Jack
gave a low whistle and muttered, under his breath, “Hello, Norse.”
“Fascinating,”
Daniel breathed softly. He raised a hand
to his glasses to check that his eyeballs weren’t touching the lenses.
The two
girls took up positions at the left and right of the door and stood on guard as
their king, accompanied by a beautiful woman in scanty clothes of gold and diaphanous
silk, entered.
The
members of SG-1 stared at the massive figure of King Olaf. “At least he’s wearing clothes,” Sam
muttered.
“Greetings,
people of my own world,” the king said.
“I am Olaf, once of Sjornjost when Erik Weather-hat was king at Uppsala,
but now king of this planet.”
“Ninth-century
Sweden,” Daniel muttered.
“You’re
from Earth?” Jack said, incredulity evident in his voice and expression.
“I am,”
Olaf confirmed, “and once I was as human as you, although not as tiny, until I
was transformed into a troll by my witch of a wife. I was transported to the realm of the Asgard
by another witch, one Willow Rosenberg of Sunnydale, California, and the Asgard
sent me here as a reward for my freeing them from a plague of metal insects.” He grinned widely at Jack. “You are the renowned Colonel O’Neill? Thor has told me much of you. Welcome to Valhalla.”
“Valhalla? I thought this world was called Cephnebjedetopolis,”
Daniel said.
“Was it? That explains why there was much rejoicing
when I decreed that the name was to be changed,” Olaf said.
“No-one,
save only Cephnet, could pronounce it,” the beautiful woman put in.
“My
chief wife, the lovely Phishnet,” Olaf introduced her. He waved his hands to indicate the girls who
stood at the sides of the doorway. “My
Valkyries, Rho’na and Mit’ra.”
“Pleased
to meet you, ladies,” said Jack, trying to keep his gaze from fixating on the
rosy nipples of the Jaffa girls or the spectacular valley between the breasts
of Phishnet.
“If you
don’t mind me asking,” said Daniel, “why the shields? Is it a cultural thing?”
“When my
hammer deflected the blasts that came from the weapons of Cephnet’s soldiers,”
Olaf explained, “it occurred to me that perhaps other reflective surfaces might
do the same. After a little
experimentation we created these shields.
They are too bright to use in open battle, for they can be seen at a
great distance, but they are effective within buildings and on ships.”
“Right,”
said Jack. “Is that how you beat the
Lion Guards of Maahes, the Crocodile Warriors of Petesuchos, and the Rabbit
Warriors of Unut?”
“And the
Gazelle Guards of Anuket, who fled before us at great speed,” Olaf said. “In fact we did not need to defeat Unut’s
Rabbit Warriors, for they surrendered out of sheer embarrassment before battle
started, and then rose in rebellion against their Queen for sending them to
battle in such silly costumes.”
“No man
can fight bravely when dressed as a rabbit,” put in Olaf’s First Prime
Bra’strap.
“Indeed,”
Teal’c agreed.
“Okay,”
said Jack. “So, you’re interested in an
alliance.”
“Perhaps,”
said Olaf, “or perhaps merely a trade deal, such as we now have with Anuket. We have much to discuss and it is best that
we do it while we feast. They do not
have ale on this world, alas, but wine is plentiful. We shall eat, and drink, and make merry…” he
met Sam’s eyes and smiled, “…sport.”
The End