Here is another story in my series Where Did Olaf Go?, originally inspired by a challenge at ‘Twisting the Hellmouth’, in which Willow misses her intended target when she banishes Olaf the Troll from Sunnydale and sends him into another fandom. This time it’s Stargate SG-1. Summary: When Willow’s misfiring spell sends Olaf not to the Land of the Trolls but to the Asgard this leads, inevitably, to battle, plunder, and merry sport among the stars. How will the Goa’uld cope with the primal force that is Olaf?
7,700 words. Rating R for sex and moderate violence.
Olaf Through The Stargate
“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 said. “Alternate universes don’t stay put. He’s probably in the Land of the Trolls, or at least somewhere similar, anyway. Maybe Asgard.”
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. “Bjorn 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.”
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.”
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…
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…
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 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 ribbon device. 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 hand ribbon 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.
“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…”
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?”
“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.”
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.”
“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.”
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 clear grey eyes and smiled, “…sport.”
Disclaimer: the characters in this story do not belong to me but are being used for amusement only and all rights remain with Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the writers of the original episodes, and the TV and production companies responsible for the original television shows. BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER ©2002 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. All Rights Reserved. The Buffy the Vampire Slayer trademark is used without express permission from Fox. ‘Stargate: SG1’ was created by Brad Wright and Jonathan Glassner and is owned by MGM Television Entertainment and Gekko Productions.