The rivers of Norsca were perilous things, at turns still as glass and then tumultuous as the storm, but that would not stop the group on the longship that day. Only the very strongest had been chosen to accompany Thor on the venture to retrieve those stolen from them, their party barely half a dozen strong. It was not even enough to properly crew the longship, certainly not enough to row against a current should it be necessary, but with Thor leading them, it never would be.

Tyra stood alone at the rear of the ship, shading her eyes against the setting sun as she kept a hand on the tiller, taking her turn to steer. She had been quiet in the days since they had left Vinteerholm, seemingly happy for a break from the constant responsibilities and discussion that came with being chief. She would be relieved soon by Gunnhilde, the Valkyrie even now sleeping below decks.

The sun’s light was weak that afternoon, and the chill in the air spoke of overnight snow. Wolfric wore a mammoth hide cloak as he polished his sword, still enraptured with it as he had been since Thor had blessed it. The bandage that had covered his missing eye had been replaced by a leather patch, and on it was scratched a lightning bolt. He was speaking quietly with Eirik, one of the two warriors who had been deemed worthy of accompanying them, a big blond man who bore a bigger axe - though not as large as Stormbreaker, of course.

The other warrior, Halvar, was sleeping below as well; a slight man, more akin to a fisherman than a fighter at first glance, though that would be remedied the the first time he was seen in battle, opening throats with his dagger and handaxe with an uncanny speed. His red beard had received an appreciative nod when Thor had first seen it, though again, it was of course not as impressive as his own.

Thor himself stood at the stern of the ship, axe in hand, speeding the vessel on with his flight. There had almost been an accident as they were leaving Vinteerholm, the ship and its steering not quite able to keep up with his strength or speed, but there was little need to talk about that in his opinion. The wind tugged at his beard as they coursed down a wide river, lessening the distance between them and those who had been stolen by the Aesling raiders.

The journey would be dangerous, but it would be undertaken nonetheless.

In hopes of making the voyage less dangerous, they had taken a longer route to their goal, first sailing upstream, past the remains of Gunnhilde’s village, before following a smaller offshoot west that Thor was shocked their longship could navigate, threading through the thalwegs of mountain valleys that perhaps would have been impossible without Thor propelling the ship onwards. The effort had been driven by an ill-omened area to the south that none of his companions had wished to speak of, telling only of the despicable ratmen who were said to dwell there beneath the earth, and of the fate worse than death that awaited those foolish enough to risk it.

A brief portage had been needed, but then they had made it to Lake Lagodash, and blooded warriors they might have been, none of the Baersonlings had been shy about showing their relief to leave it behind them, much preferring the dangers of their chosen path. That had been two days ago, and it was that day they had left the lake behind in turn, now sailing west, more than halfway to their destination.

Soon it would be time to discuss their plan of attack, but for now, Thor found himself enjoying the journey despite its dangers. There was something to be said for quiet contemplation - though not too much - and it had a way of steadying the mind. He had done much pondering of his circumstances during it, the quietness of the streams and rushing of the rivers giving him quiet moments that had been absent for the most part since his arrival in this new world.

A whistling in the air broke his line of thought, and before he knew it, a bolt had pinned his beard to the prow of the ship. It had once bore a dog’s head, but no longer, not since Thor had taken it for his own. He blinked at the bolt as it quivered there, sticking out of the wood.

“Lord Thor?” Wolfric asked, breaking off from his conversation with Eirik by the middle of the ship.

“My beard!” Thor said, indignant. He pulled the quarrel from the defaced head of the ship, and a few hairs drifted free. He ceased his flight, and the ship began to slow, his feet returning to the deck.

“We are attacked?” Eirik asked, taking up his axe. His voice rumbled, low and deep.

The banks of the river were quiet, and there was not a sign of whoever had fired the bolt.

“Alright, who did that?” Thor shouted, startling birds from nearby trees as his voice echoed across the water. He stormed down to the middle of the ship, the mast at his back.

There was no response.

The ship continued to slow, carried on only by momentum, and Tyra lashed the tiller to the stern. Her hands were at her axes, and she joined him in scanning the banks.

“A warning shot?” Wolfric wondered, hand on his sword. He was half crouched, ready to duck into cover.

There was another whistling in the air, and Thor snapped his head to the side. Rather than pin his beard to the mast, it only severed a few strands on its way, thudding into the post with a thunk. Thor was starting to have flashbacks to the first time he had grown his beard out, before Loki had waged his war against it and he had settled for something more sculpted.

Over the years, Thor had gained a hard earned sense for when someone was trying to kill him, when they were trying to scare him off, and when they just wouldn’t mind if he died. This was probably the middle option, but he wouldn’t rule out the last. That didn’t change the fact that his ears were near to steaming at the repeated insults.

“What kind of base envy drives someone to assault another man’s beard?” Thor shouted at the silent banks, leaning over the side of the ship and causing it to rock. “To stoop to such a low act?! Let it be known that Thor, Defender of Beards and Mankind, challenges such small people to show themselves!”

He had barely finished speaking when three more bolts erupted from the trees from completely different locations. All were aimed squarely at his beard, and would have pinned it to the side of the ship had he not jerked back with an outraged shout.

Steam began to whistle from Thor’s ears, and Stormbreaker rushed to his hand. “Seven strands you took from my beard, and seven strands I’ll have from you in turn! Best pray to your gods that they’re from your head!”

Over the rail he went, leaping the distance between ship and bank in a feat impossible for any normal man. He landed amongst the trees, ready to deliver a hiding with the blunt side of his axe - but there wasn’t so much as a hint of a foe to be seen. Not a disturbed leaf to be seen, nor a snapped branch to be heard. It was like the trees and stones themselves had been the ones firing bolts at him.

The others watched from the ship as he prowled through the trunks, seeking but not finding. Loki would have found them in an instant, he was sure - or been invisible at his back, ready to strike. He spun, swiping through the air with the back of his hand, but there was nothing. No invisible foes, no beard envying-enemy. Just the forest, and him.

After a minute of peeking around trees and poking at stones, he began to feel a touch foolish, conscious of the eyes of his companions upon him. He gave a dismissive scoff, and leapt back to the ship, setting it to rocking as he landed.

“It seems they wanted the beard, but could not handle it,” he said, projecting his voice. “I suppose that’s only to be expected-”

Again, the whistling of a quarrel, but this time Thor was ready. He turned and seized it between his teeth as it flew past, snapping it with a crunch. Head and fletching fell to the deck, and he spat out the middle of the bolt to join them.

“Let that be a lesson to you!” he said, stroking his beard protectively. “Time to go,” he said to Tyra.

She nodded. “Best not pick a fight with the dwarfs we don’t need.”

“Dwarfs?” Thor said. “Surely not. The dwarfs I knew would never resort to such small and petty-”

“Let’s really not pick a fight with the dwarfs,” Wolfric said.

“My grandchildren don’t need that,” Eirik agreed. He was covering his own short blond beard with a large hand.

Thor grumbled, but frankly he had put a lot of time into his beard, and wasn’t eager to see it gone before he was ready, not when it had been so many centuries since he had the chance to grow one unhindered. Tyra went to the stern, and he to the stem, and they resumed the journey without further incident. If he tucked his beard into his shirt as he put his weight against the prow of the ship, that was no one’s business but his own.

X

In time, they came to the lands of the Aeslings. By Tyra’s reckoning, Vinnskor, the northernmost village of the Baersonlings, lay a ways to the south, and they sailed on the main body of the River Groene. Skraevold was perhaps only two short days away, and if they were fortunate, the longship carrying their stolen people lay between them and it. There was no time to seek information in Vinnskor, and to sail on as a group would commit them to an assault and rescue on the town itself.

After much discussion, a third option had been chosen. Their ship, even pushed by Thor, could not likely catch their prey in time…but Thor could certainly fly ahead and catch them himself. It was this decision that found him hovering high in the air one cold morning, eyes fixed on the river below. Skraevold was to the north, a smudge in the distance. If he concentrated, he could feel a thread of malignance at its heart even this far away, but his attention was rightly fully on the river below.

He was high enough that the ship he was watching appeared akin to a child’s toy, and he could make out the trophies and coloured shields that decorated its sides. The prow was carved like a hound’s head, but he could not say if this longship was the one that had raided Vinteerholm or not, not with any certainty. All he knew was that there were Aeslings aboard.

They were Aeslings, and likely had poor souls suffering beneath their deck. That was enough for him, and he allowed himself to fall, wind whistling past his ears. A flex of will had his armour glimmer into being, and it brought the storm with it to darken the sky. The earth rapidly approached, and he could see raiders on the ship looking up in wary confusion at the sudden storm. Some squinted up at him, but there was nothing they could do to stop what was coming.

Thor slammed into the longship near its stem. It was smaller than the ship he had commandeered, with the oars on the topdeck, and he slowed enough to ensure he didn’t crash through. Even so, the impact set the ship to bucking like a ship in foul seas, launching the oarsmen from their benches every which way. Some were thrown overboard, but most landed in a mess across the deck in utter disarray.

The Asgardian let them recover, but only so they could gaze upon him and what happened next. As they were struggling to comprehend his arrival, the heavens roared, and a bolt of lightning descended to strike the hound’s head, its brightness casting his features in shadow, save for the glow of his eyes. The Aeslings shied away, shielding their eyes from the sudden brightness. When they looked again, Thor was waiting, and the symbol of their god was aflame. They roared in anger and outrage, and rushed him.

Thor cut the first man in half at the waist, sending intestines flying across the deck. The next man sought to tackle him before he could bring his axe back around, but that would be a challenge even for Steve, and this man was no super soldier. His head was pulped with the backswing, and he kicked the next man between the legs, prying an agonised squeal from his throat as he was launched into the air.

More Aeslings rushed him, and more died. He killed five in the seconds it took the airborne man to return to the ship, and he kicked him again, shattering his chest and sending him flying once more. He could feel the corruption dripping from these men, sense their dedication to the pile of cancer that called itself a god, and he knew them for the scum they were.

The sky darkened further and the deck grew slippery with blood as Thor worked. The sail was splattered with blood as he carved a man from hip to neck, and he spiked another into the deck and through it on the backswing.

“Sorcerer!” they accused as they died. “Witch!”

Thunder boomed, drowning out their wails. Lightning flashed in his eyes. “NAY!” he cried. “I am Thor, son of Odin, God of Thunder!”

“Fake!” a bear of a man bellowed, catching Stormbreaker’s haft between two axes, the effort forcing him down on one knee. “Imposter! Praise Khorne!”

Thor leaned in, putting his strength against the man’s own. It was no contest. “I see no god here,” he growled, “other than me!”

He backhanded a raider that tried to take advantage of his distraction into the ship’s rail, the impact upending him and sending him into the water with a splash. The big man was forced down onto both knees, and Thor kneed him in the face, smearing his nose somewhere above his eyebrows and flipping him onto his back. The enemies were dwindling now, and Thor stomped towards them, crushing the big man’s skull as he went.

By the time he was finished, his beard was flecked with blood, and there was not a single living soul on the deck. The silence after the slaughter was sudden, and the ship shuddered as it scraped against the river shallows, grinding to a halt. There was only the flap of the sail in the wind, and fearful murmurings coming from below.

There was a square hole in the deck below the mast, a ladder set within, and Thor stepped down it. Fearful murmurings had turned to screams at his coming, but they choked off when he made no aggressive moves. The hold of the longship wasn’t high enough for a man of his height to stand upright and so he hunched over as he looked around, axe kept low. As he looked, his expression darkened.

The hold was full of captives, all in chains. The adults, women all, were chained to the hull, while the more numerous children were chained to them. Every woman bore signs of violence, but they stared him down despite the fear writ clear on their faces, clutching the children to themselves.

“I am Thor,” he said, his words filling the hold, “and I am here to protect you.”

None spoke to him, so he made to put words to deed, approaching the nearest captive and reaching for their manacles. She shrank back, pulling the two children chained to her with her, and Thor slowed. The children shared no resemblance with her, but still she held them close, one hand clutching at her torn dress.

“Every raider above is dead,” Thor told her. “There is no one here to hurt you.” He let Stormbreaker float beside him, and held his hands out towards her, waiting.

Every soul in the hold watched as the woman shivered in cold and fear, eyes fixed on the giant of a man who had suddenly appeared. They had all heard what he had bellowed out above during the orgy of violence, but they had suffered, and trust came hard or not at all.

Slowly, like she was expecting to be hurt, the woman extended her hands to him. Thor took them in his own and conjured a warmth in them. From her hands it spread, and colour returned to her pale face. He took hold of the manacles and pulled them apart like they were made of cloth, before doing the same to those of the children. They looked up at him in cautious wonder, and he moved on to the rest.

As he went, a fragile hope spread through them, a hope that their nightmare might be over. It strengthened with every broken chain and manacle, eyes darting between him and his floating axe. When every last one of them had been freed, he stood as best he could to regard them once more.

“The scene above is not one fit for the eyes of children,” Thor said to the hold.

“They’ve seen worse,” one young woman said.

Thor’s jaw clenched. “Even so,” he said.

“What will we do now?” another woman asked, anxious. “If more Aeslings come…”

“Should the entire town of Skraevold descend upon us, you will be safe,” Thor promised. “I will slay them all before any of you may come to harm.”

“Where will we go?”

“Will you take us to safety?”

“South,” Thor said. “And yes. I have come to rescue those stolen from Vinteerholm, but I will not deny you my aid.”

“That’s a Baersonling name,” one woman said, rocking the young child in her arms.

“It is,” Thor said, regarding her. “Is that a problem? Where are you from?”

None answered, until the woman Thor had freed first gave a reluctant answer. “Narberg,” she said. “We were from Narberg.”

“And…the people who lived in Narberg were..?”

“Sarls,” someone said, one of many giving him odd looks.

Thor was accustomed to such looks. “You are innocents in need of aid,” he said, looking around. “Where you were born is of no matter to me or mine. The quality of mercy is not strained.”

The words seemed difficult for them to comprehend, but then wisdom rarely came easily. They were safe for now, moral discussions could come later. He needed to decide what to do next.

The important thing was to get moving.

“Does anyone here know how to steer a longship?” Thor asked.

A number of scoffs answered him, showing the already recovering spirit of the captives.

“We are Sarls,” one woman said.

“Good,” Thor said, hoping that their tribe meant they had some knowledge of ship handling. “Those of you who can, I need your aid to clear the deck…”

A sudden energy filled them all, and they were quick to get to work. The still quiet children were herded into the grasp of a dozen odd women, while two dozen odd more climbed up into the open air to remove what remained of the raiders from the deck, tossing it all overboard. They seemed enthused, pointing out this or that raider to each other with some small glee at their messy deaths, and spitting on their remains. There was little that could be done for the blood, but when the task was done it was a much cleaner sight than before, and Thor was quick to push the ship from the shallows. Soon they were underway, heading south and away from Skraevold. Between the current and Thor’s help, they did not even need to row, only pulling the oars in as one woman manned the tiller.

The storm clouds that Thor’s anger had summoned had dissipated, and the sun shone down on the freed captives. The children were brought up on deck, and all basked in the first sunlight they had seen for weeks, uncaring of the cold wind.

Then, in the distance, another longship approached.

It was larger than the one they were on, and bore signs of hard battle, perhaps only half of its oars in use. Many looked to Thor for reassurance, and he was already raising his axe. It carried him up and towards the enemy longship, crossing the distance swiftly, and he cut off the hound figurehead on his way past. It clattered noisily across the deck as he landed, drawing the eyes of the ten or so raiders upon it, conjuring a fury in them as they looked between it and him. He spread his arms, inviting them to do something about it. They obliged him.

Thor spun, cutting the nearest man’s head from his shoulders. Before it could hit the ground he had completed the spin, twisting Stormbreaker in his hands to hit the head with the blunt side and whacking it into the navigator’s face at the far end of the ship. He cut two more men in half, and then another dropped down on him from the mast with a dagger in hand, only to be backhanded back up with enough force to fold him around the yard, spine audibly snapping. The corpse fell back to the deck as Thor pulped the torso of the next man. Lightning surged around him, chaining between the few smart enough to rush him as a group and they dropped, twitching. Then he was at the rear of the ship, just in time for the navigator to recover from the skull to the face and deliver another, headbutting him hard enough to cave in his forehead.

Rushed footsteps could be heard from below, and Thor made his way towards a nearby opening, dropping down without care for the ladder. A man with an inferior beard blinked at him stupidly, and then Thor seized him by the skull and squeezed, popping his head like a grape. Thor grimaced in distaste, wiping his hand on the man’s tunic, and looked about.

He was on the rowing deck now, and the Aeslings working at the benches stared at him in disbelief, having witnessed his latest deed. The deck was cramped for one of his size, so he threw his axe, sending it spinning down one side and back the other. Not a man had the time or space to get clear, and what had been rows of oarsmen were now rows of bisected corpses, torsos flopped to the ground while the waist down still sat at their oars.

There was still one more level below, and so Thor ventured onwards, almost whistling. He took little joy in slaying inferior foes, but there was some to be found in the knowledge that they would never hurt innocents ever again.

The lowest hold was without even the scant light of the first longship he had taken, lit only by a few scattered flickering candles. As his eyes adjusted quickly, he could make out the forms of those unlucky captives looking up at his arrival.

“Fear not,” Thor said, setting his axe to float at his back. “I am oof.”

Something small and heavy collided with his gut, driving the wind from him even through his armour.

“You’ll not have me for a prize, Umgi scum!” a woman roared, voice loud in the closeness of the hold. Again he was struck in the side, but this time he was prepared, and was less phased by whatever had struck him.

“I am not your enemy!” Thor said. “I come not for prizes, but to free you from a foul fate!” His eyes were adjusted now, and he could make out the hold, and the very short woman menacing him.

“I’ll show you a foul fate you cockless hill dweller,” the woman growled. “I’ll put a claw hammer down your throat and pull up your guts with it.”

“That seems a bit harsh,” Thor said. He parried another blow, stepping back. “Instead, how about I free you all and we go up on the deck?”

The short woman paused, fist cocked back. Her ginger hair had once been set in plaits, but now only one remained, the left side shorn off, along with the lower half of her ear. Dried blood stained her neck, and there was a ring of old bruises around it in the pattern of a rope. “Plenty of room up there to throw a net, isn’t there? Make it easier to club someone over the back of the head with a broken oar?”

Thor had a moment to feel puzzlement over the specificity, before there was movement behind him, and someone clubbed him over the head with a broken oar. It shattered into splinters with the force of the blow. Slowly, Thor turned.

A blond giant of a man, almost as large as Thor, stood behind him. He was frozen, the remains of a broken oar in his hands and an almost sheepish expression on his face. His beard was short, but his braided moustache fell almost to his collarbones. Shirtless, his musculature was a thing to be envied, and Thor fought a frown.

“I’m going to go back up to the main deck now,” he announced, breaking the breathless silence of the hold. He could see now that they were only pretending to be bound by their manacles. “Once you see what I did to the oarsmen on the level above, you may join me if you wish.” The man who had attempted to ambush him stepped aside as he made for the steep stairs and ascended, feeling a little put out. Their reaction was understandable, but he much preferred it when he was known enough to avoid such misunderstandings.

It took perhaps ten minutes for those below to gather the courage to climb above, joining him in the sun and the breeze. It was not yet midday, but Thor found himself humming, pleased with the work of the morning. The first ship he had liberated was drawing near, carried by the current, and they would reach him without need of assistance. He turned to the more recently freed.

The short woman and the large man were at the head of the group, and it was not as that from the smaller ship. Men and women all, not a child to be seen, and they eyed him cautiously, sunken gazes flicking from him to the carpet of bodies he had made of the deck.

“Hello,” Thor said to them. “As you can see, there is no one lurking about with a broken oar, waiting to club you over the back of the head.”

The short woman glowered up at him, gaze mistrustful. There was a sack slung over one shoulder. Despite her height, there was a core of muscle to her evident in her stance. “Who are you then?”

“I am Thor, son of Odin and the God of Thunder,” Thor said. He bounced on his heels a little; already this was going much better. “Who might you be?”

Blue eyes narrowed, but reluctantly she answered. “Eseld. This is Bjorn.” She jerked her head to the blond giant looming behind her.

“I am Bjorn,” Bjorn said. Despite his large frame, his voice was steady and quiet. He raised his right hand, palm towards Thor, and then lowered it.

“Hello Bjorn,” Thor said. He waved back.

“Who is that?” Eseld asked, eyes fixed on the approaching ship. The women and children on the main deck were visible, likely the only thing that was stopping her from suspecting foul play.

“Those I have already freed this day,” Thor said. “Sarls, they call themselves.”

There was some grumbling from the three dozen or so gathered on the ship.

“You would not be the same then?” Thor asked.

“We are Aeslings,” Bjorn said. He glanced at Eseld. “Well. Most of us.”

The joviety faded from Thor’s face. Floating at his back, Stormbreaker drifted forward to within easy reach. “Aeslings,” he said.

Something about his tone made them nervous, and some tried to step back, but there was only so far one could go on a ship.

“You’d be Baersonling then?” Eseld asked.

“No,” Thor said, “but I have lent them my aid, in the wake of an Aesling raid that saw many wronged.”

“Would that we had you to aid us before now,” Bjorn said. There was a sadness in his face, highlighted by the faint lines around his eyes.

Thor’s gaze flicked to Eseld. “Infighting?”

“We could not afford the tithe,” Bjorn answered in her place. “They found another way to take it.”

A considering hum was his answer. It seemed that the tribes were not as monolith as he had assumed. A foolish thought, in hindsight. “Did you raid?” he asked.

“We farmed,” Bjorn said.

Thor’s gaze panned over the small crowd. Though they all had a certain hardness to them, it was the kind that spoke of a hard life and hard choices, not of raiding and reaving. “Then you will have my protection.”

Eseld was still glaring at him mistrustfully. “And we’d have to do what for you in return?”

“Well, you’d need to stay nearby,” Thor said. “I mean to slay more raiders and free more captives, but I cannot protect you if you wander off.”

Grumbling, the short woman continued to glare at him, though she didn’t disagree. The first ship drew near, and the woman at the tiller did something that slowed its speed. Thor clapped his hands together.

“Perhaps we should move to the other ship? This one is rather messy,” he said.

Some eyes went to the carnage on the deck, while others glanced to the stairway leading below, remembering the charnel house Thor had made of the rowing deck. He hid a wince; it was possible he had been overly enthusiastic.

“Reclaim any of your possessions-”

“Already done,” Eseld said, hand tightening on the sack over her shoulder.

“-and let us be off,” Thor finished. He gestured to the women on the other ship, and they came alongside, rocking the ship with a splash.

The captives looked to Bjorn, and Bjorn looked to Eseld. She nodded, grudgingly, but began to climb the side of the ship, clambering into the other one. It was smaller, but there was no salvaging the larger one after what he had done with it. The last of them were soon clear, and he eyed the ship itself. He took up his axe, and with a casual swing, cut down the mast near the base, letting it topple over the open side. Then he threw the axe down through the deck, punching through another and another. When he heard a splash, he called it back, and the deck lurched as the ship began to sink. A quick hop had him free of it, and he landed easily on the deck of the other.

Both groups were eyeing each other uneasily, though the Sarl women were outnumbered.

“I won’t have any fighting,” Thor warned them. “If you have cause to disagree, you will use your words.”

“Aye, god of thunder,” the Sarl woman at the tiller said.

“Don’t start none, won’t be none,” Eseld said.

“Excellent!” Thor said, beaming. The ship beside them chose that moment to knock loudly against theirs as it began to sink in truth, and soon it was disappearing beneath the water, dragging its detached mast down with it by the ropes. “We will continue south until we reach the fork in the river, and lay anchor,” he said to the tillerwoman. “If any raiders wish to get their ill gotten gains home, they will have to go past me.”

They set off once more, the sun overhead and the freed prisoners settling in as best they could, taking the chance to eat their fill for the first time in too long and see to their injuries, of which there were many, though none life threatening. Thor hummed a tune as he set his strength gently against the stem of the ship. He did enjoy doing good works.

X

The ship he sank was not the last to fall afoul of him that day, or the second last, or even the third. All told, Thor butchered the crews of eight more ships, and not a one of them offered him a challenge. By the last, it felt more of a chore than anything, and a frown had set in on his face. Some of it was that he did not care to feel such a way about the bloody work, and the rest due to the state of the captives he had freed. The afternoon sun shone down on the decks of nine ships anchored in a circle at the fork of the River Groene, their decks full of people. There was ample room below on even the smallest longship, but few wished to go down when the alternative was the sun on their face and breeze in their hair.

Thor could not blame them. Some, like the Sarls he had freed first, had been abused only thoughtlessly, the cruelties they endured the grim reality that came with sundered defences and slain warriors. Others though, had been subject to greater malice. It had taken considerable restraint not to paint the decks red on the ship that had bound a young man to its figurehead, hands and feet hacked off. At the least, he had avenged the young man and freed his family, allowing him to die in what comfort could be conjured.

Those taken for slaves were not all from the lands of Norsca, either. Some were from the south, from lands called Kislev and Nordland, and they were at turns skittish and belligerent. It had led Thor to leave each group on the ship he had freed them from, unwilling to be distracted by policing their behaviour, though for the most part his presence was more than enough. Few were those willing to argue with the man who flew from ship to ship and slaughtered the raiders upon them, clad in armour of a kind they had never seen, and bearing an axe of kingly quality. Not when he had all that, and had spared them from a dire fate besides.

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Few, but not all, and Thor glanced over at Eseld on the next ship along. Her ear had been seen to, after some unspoken nagging by Bjorn, and she had armoured herself in plate and chain that was evidently custom made for her. She was still glaring at him.

“East!” came a faint cry, though it was quickly taken up by more. “East, east!”

The warning of another longship approaching spread through the gathered ships, and Thor took to the air once more. When he caught sight of the ship though, his frown was wiped clear. He knew that ship. He descended upon it with a smile and a glad heart; Wolfric and Gunnhilde were there to meet him.

“Lord Thor,” they said as one.

Thor clapped them on the shoulders, and looked past them to see Halvar, the slight man at the tiller. Mismatched eyes looked back, and he lowered his head in respect, tugging at his red beard. “How was your journey, my friends?”

“Easy, with the wind and the current behind us,” Gunnhilde said.

“Tyra rests below now,” Wolfric said. He looked over at the ring of longships that they were approaching. “You have had some luck.”

His frown returned for a moment. “Some,” he said.

“But not as much as hoped,” Gunnhilde said.

“No. I have freed some Baersonlings, but none from Vinteerholm. I fear we were too late.”

“Shit,” Wolfric said. “They couldn’t be behind us still, on another path?”

“Not if they’re still coming,” another voice said.

Thor blinked, looking around, and saw Eirik, the big blond man from Vinteerholm. He had been curled up by the ship’s side, head resting on a rolled up cloak.

“If they are not here yet, they were waylaid,” he said, deep voice rumbling. “If they were lucky, it was the Kislevites. To be a slave there is not so bad, given the other.”

“We will assume they beat us to Skraevold before I begin searching elsewhere,” Thor said. “What I have seen this day has made me disinclined to allow it to stand.” Despite the clear sky, there was a distant crack of thunder.

“The slaves,” Wolfric said, his gaze going to the ships. The people on them were watching as they neared, intent, after Thor did not greet them with violence. “The Aeslings are not kind.”

“Given I found Aesling victims amongst them, they are not kind even to their own selves. What they did to those under their power…there will be a reckoning,” Thor promised.

“And the innocents?” Gunnhilde said. “We cannot bring them with us to Skraevold.”

“Some have fire in them,” Thor said thoughtfully. “And of those, some can fight. But no, we cannot bring them to Skraevold with us.”

“Vinnskor is near enough,” Wolfric said. “Three days, four at most with them. How many did you rescue?”

“Close to five hundred,” Thor said. “But that is four days that those in Skraevold must wait.”

“Six, with the return,” Wolfric said.

“Four, with a tree,” Thor countered.

Wolfric pulled a face.

“Too long,” Gunnhilde said. “But we cannot bring them with us either. A hidden camp, to collect on our return?”

“They could aid us, after the attack,” Eirik said, getting to his feet. “Pick through the ruins, help the rescued.”

Thor felt his frown returning. It was not an easy decision. “Their safety is our priority,” he said, “but so is that of those yet in the grasp of the raiders. We will make a shelter for them as best we can, and then strike Skraevold this day.”

“This night, I think,” Wolfric said.

The thunder god looked up at the sky, taking in the sun. “Aye.” They had reached the other ships now, and an anchor was dropped as they lay alongside one of them. It was the ship of those from Nordland, and they looked upon the four of them with a defiance that sought to hide their fear. “Pass the word. We will put to shore, and establish a camp in the forest for the night. We will strike Skraevold, and collect you in the morn.”

Those close enough to hear wore looks that said they would very much like to argue, but they had also just spent the better part of the day watching Thor gather the ships present now, and rescue them besides. Word was spread around the ring of ships, and slowly they got themselves in order, aiming upstream towards the town. Thor helped where he was needed, nudging ships and pulling them along, and soon they set out.

Progress was slow, but it was progress all the same. Despite their pace, no more Aesling longships came up behind them as the sun began to fall lower in the sky, taking on a red haze. Thor called a halt when they reached the site he had sunk the longship earlier, and the vessels were pulled ashore, snow and dirt crackling as hulls scraped across them.

There was much talk as all disembarked, carrying with them everything they could. Many of those who could fight had taken weapons and armour from the fallen raiders, some bloodier and in more pieces than others, while others carried sacks of food and valuables, often the same that had been stolen with them from their homes.

Tyra gave Thor a nod as she emerged from the ship, fresh from her sleep, and she set about giving directions and whipping the mass of people into some semblance of order. Wolfric and Gunnhilde joined her, Halvar and Eirik with them, and soon they were all marching towards the edge of a nearby forest, only a middling walk away. Snow crunched underfoot, and every breath brought with it a crisp coldness.

“Would that my brother were here,” Thor said as he took in the procession, mostly to himself.

“The one that tried to kill you?” Wolfric asked, walking nearby with a bundle of sailcloth over one shoulder.

“The same!” Thor said. “The work to come, I am most suited for, but he had a cunning that would have aided greatly.”

“We could use someone like him to infiltrate the town ahead of time, find the captives,” Wolfric said.

Those around them were listening as they walked, but Thor did not mind. He found he liked the idea of spreading word of his brother’s quick wit. “Such a thing would be child’s play for him. He could have woven a spell around the ships to hide them from sight, or made our camp-to-be appear as nothing more than an empty clearing.”

“A powerful wizard,” Wolfric said.

“He was,” Thor said, a sad smile crossing his face. “The most.” That petty conjurer Strange would not have compared had the Odinsons approached him with violent intent. “Had he still lived, I would not have been shocked to find him hidden as a raven in the woods ahead, waiting to ambush me.”

Some of those listening looked to the woods worriedly, and Thor felt his lips twitch at the thought that even from the grave, the mere mention of his brother could bring worry.

“Ravens are of the Schemer,” a man with a thick accent said nearby, not quite accusing. His hair was black, and lay thick on his cheeks and his arms.

Distant thunder sounded. “Ravens are servants of my father,” Thor said, deliberately not turning his scowl on the man. “And the Schemer wishes he could conjure a trick capable of fooling my brother. Loki Liesmith, Loki Silvertongue we called him, God of Mischief.” His ire cooled suddenly. In the end, there was one thing he could not trick his way out of.

Whatever his cause for speaking up, the dark haired man held his tongue now, and the crowd walked on in silence. Their goal grew closer, and a faint snowfall began to drift down from the sky.

When they reached the treeline, many were eager to enter the otherwise forbidding shadows, if only to get out of the wind. They were not so large as those around Wolfric’s home, but they were still tall, and large enough to conceal a good number of people comfortably enough, as such things went. The longships had held material enough to construct shelters for the night, and many were happy to sleep in a place that wasn’t the cramped and damp hold of the longship that had ripped them away from their homes, to say nothing of the other, darker acts perpetrated upon them.

There was no dividing into groups by place of origin here, but Thor’s even gaze was enough to dissuade any who might wish to bring up old slights or grudges against their neighbours. There was not a scrap of belief amongst them, not truly, but he was still a large man with a large axe who could fly and hurl lightning. They would bear the presence of each other for the night at least.

Sailcloth was strung up between trees, forming sloping roofs and walls, furs and spare clothes piled for bedding, and Tyra supervised as the gathered food was shared evenly. Thor was using his finger to tap a metal stake into a tree as an anchor point when he was approached by a small group.

Eseld was at the head, Bjorn following her, and a dozen more followed Bjorn. Thor ceased his work and turned, gaze sweeping over them. They were a mix of folk, most from different ships, men and women, but they all had one thing in common as they came to a stop before him. A certain look in their eyes, and weapons at their sides. Thor’s lips thinned.

“You want to join me,” he said, preempting them.

They stilled, but only for a moment, looking to Bjorn, who looked to Eseld.

“Aye,” Eseld said. “We want in.”

“You were captives until recently,” Thor said. “You are weakened, wounded.” He looked from person to person, noting small injuries and the hints of missed meals. Bjorn was still shirtless, though the cold seemed to bother him not.

“I’ve a grudge to settle with Skraevold,” Eseld said, squinting up at him, “and you’re in no position to knock back volunteers.”

“I could raze the town alone, and be back in Vinteerholm for lunch,” Thor said.

“Could you save your people, though?” a man asked. It was the dark haired man who had had questioned him on ravens earlier. “You’ll need hands for that.”

“And you will help with that?” Thor asked. He swept his gaze across them again. “I see the truth in your eyes. You seek revenge.”

“Some need it,” Bjorn said, and his quiet voice drove home the point more than any argument could.

Stormbreaker floated at his shoulder as he thought. Eseld’s eyes darted to it, but she wrenched them away, focusing on his face. At length, he spoke. “If I allow you to join me, there will be a condition,” he said, voice slow and measured. “Those in Skraevold are responsible for great evil, and the gods they follow are a cancer, but if you harm a child, I will slay you myself. Do you understand?”

“Kids can pick up a dagger,” one woman said. There were a series of cuts on her cheek, barely scabbed over, like someone had carved the same design into place again and again.

“If you cannot subdue an armed child without killing them you are not fit to join me,” Thor said. “That is my condition.”

“Done,” Eseld said. She ran her thumb over the hammer at her hip. It was a claw hammer.

“I agree,” Bjorn said, and slowly the others nodded.

“Good,” Thor said. “Eat. Rest. Soon, we fly to Skraevold.”

Bared teeth were his answer, too far from mirth to be called grins.

“Do you not mean sail?” the dark haired man asked.

“No.”

X X X

That night, a storm came to Skraevold. Sheets of rain doused lanterns no matter the cover, and rolling thunder made it near impossible for those dwelling there to hear their own thoughts. Lightning roiled amongst the clouds that had blown in with unnatural swiftness, and anyone who had cause to be outdoors hurried on their way. Those working the docks, sure that more victorious ships carrying tribute should have returned, were finally driven from the piers and the empty ships that lined them. Sentries and guardsmen were quietly miserable, hunching over in whatever little shelter they could find on the walls or by the gates, cold and shivering.

The only ones not praying for the storm to ease were the prisoners, those unfortunate souls beaten, whipped, and kicked into the dog kennels four to a cage, where they could be tormented by the hounds kept on either side of them. The rain had even the mutts curling up in misery, but to the captives it was a sweet relief, cleansing them of filth they wore like a second skin. Elsewhere, in a deep pit with standing room only, hundreds of faces turned upwards, mouths open to taste rainwater so sweet that it should be gracing a prince’s table.

At the main gates, on the side of the town opposite the river, a guard peered out into the darkness from atop the walls. The pouring rain had eased for a moment, and he swore he had seen a figure approaching on the road. He shook his head, pulling his cloak closer about himself. Only one cursed by the Gods would be fool enough to travel that night.

Night turned to day as a colossal bolt of lightning struck to the north, and a deafening boom followed it. It seemed to echo on forever, and the guard pulled his hands from his armpits to plug his ears, squinting at the sudden brightness.

There was a figure on the road.

His pulse quickened as darkness returned, the hammer of rain muted after the thunder. “Did you see that?” he asked the man at the other end of the gate.

“What?!” the man replied, shouting over the rain.

“I said did you see that?!?”

“WHAT??”

“DID YOU SEE THAT?”

“Fuck, no need to yell,” the second man said. “See what?”

“On the road, a man.”

“In this weather? Fuck off.”

The first man would have replied in kind, but two pinpricks of blue-white light out on the road caught his eye. There were about where he had seen the figure, but closer, and drawing closer still. “There! See?”

Squinting, the second man was about to tell him to fuck off again, before he paused. “I see it,” he muttered. “But what…?”

Again, night became day, but something was wrong. Lightning erupted from the ground to strike at the sky, and the force of the thunder was a physical thing rushing through them. Blue forks covered black clouds, arcing and spreading without fading. The guards looked up into the sky, and they quailed in terror as it looked down at them in turn. An enormous figure was writ in lightning, and it was not pleased with what it saw.

Thunder boomed. The heavens roared.

“THOR! ODIN’S SON! PROTECTOR OF MANKIND!”

The figure pointed down at the earth, and the guards at the gate cowered, but then there was only blinding white and a noise like the end of the world had come, and they died, unknowing and afraid.

X

Under the cover of trees near the northern gate, Tyra blinked the afterimages away as the giant in the clouds dimmed, though he didn’t disappear. She thought she had witnessed Thor’s might before, but she was beginning to realise that she had only seen the first hints of it. Her heart raced. That was the God she had chosen. That was the God that would stand with her. A sharp grin stole across her face, and her eyes grew bright with battlelust.

She turned, and saw that her look was mirrored by those at her back, Wolfric and Gunnhilde first amongst them, but also Eirik and Halvar. Even those who didn’t believe were hungry for blood and revenge, the dwarf woman Eseld holding her claw hammer like she wanted to pry open an Aesling’s skull with it. Only Bjorn was calm, but there was something lurking in his eyes that spoke of violence.

“In the name of Thor,” Tyra said, axes slipping into her hands, “we will purge this village.” For a moment, it seemed the stormy giant above glanced her way, but the lightning that made it up shifted and the moment ended.

“For Thor,” Gunnhilde said, eyes fixed on the gate ahead. There was a watcher atop it, but they had turned to gawk at the destruction of the west gate, and they were exposed by the lightning writhing across the clouds overhead. Gunnhilde cocked her arm back, took three skipping steps, and hurled her spear.

The guard staggered as the spear took him low in the back, and would have toppled from his perch had Gunnhilde not called her spear back to her, dragging him screaming with it. The spear slipped free partway, leaving the Aesling to tumble across the muddy ground, screams ceasing as he ragdolled.

“Khazukan Kazakit-ha!” Eseld roared as she charged past them all, and her words were punctuated by a ground shaking blast of thunder.

Within the town, a building erupted, stone and wood and corpses launched up into the sky, and they were illuminated by the repeated flash of lightning from below. Before they could hit the ground, the rest of the group of warriors was charging in the dwarf’s wake, heedless of the sheets of water pouring down.

Despite her short stature, Eseld’s head start saw her reach the gates before the rest of them, and she did not slow, introducing herself to the wooden gates shoulder first. They splintered inwards with a great crack, though they did not break entirely, and Eseld stumbled back, already setting herself for another charge.

Eirik got there first, bringing his battleaxe down on the bowed portion in a mighty overhead blow. Whatever was still holding the gates up broke, and then bare chested Bjorn was there, shouldering them open. He held a morningstar in his right like it weighed nothing, and Tyra pushed forward on his left, ready for battle - but there were no defenders. There was only the rolling shadows, cast back here and there by rippling lightning overhead and in the town, and the pouring rain.

“Where to?” Wolfric asked, stopping beside her. His mammoth cloak kept the rain from his shoulders, but it was trailing down his scalp and over his eyepatch.

A lightning bolt fell from the sky to strike near the centre of the town, away from where Thor was apparently rampaging.

“That way,” Tyra said, pointing to where the bolt had fallen.

None questioned her, and they set off at a jog, Tyra leading the way. The town was starting to stir, the thunderous bellow earlier making clear that it was no mere storm that had descended upon them. A man emerged from a house as they passed, struggling with armour, and Tyra hardly paused as she buried an axe in his neck, her momentum wrenching it out as she continued. The Aesling fell, choking on his lifeblood as it spilled out into the mud, only to be swiftly washed away by the ever falling rain.

Onwards they ran, deeper into Skraevold, even as the tempest that was Thor grew more violent. Those familiar with it could hear the thrum of his axe as it spun through the air, and thunder boomed unnaturally in the rhythm of battle. Something unholy screeched a challenge, but it was cut off abruptly, only for more to rise in a chorus in its wake. Onwards they ran, through dark muddy streets and crooked alleys.

A group of Aesling raiders running the other way stopped as they saw them, but only for a moment. They howled battle cries, and Tyra felt a rage stoked in her heart as they invoked their wretched blood god.

“THOR!” she screamed in return, falling upon the leader. In his face she saw the face of the man who had slain her beloved and taken her captive, and she hooked his shield out of the way with one axe so the other could hack into his face, again and again.

Gunnhilde’s spear pierced two men before knocking over another as it was called back, and Eseld was there to break his skull open like an egg with her hammer. Swift and slight Halvar darted around the fight to get at those behind, axing a man behind the knee and opening his throat with his dagger before he could hit the ground. Soon the Aeslings were all dead or wishing they were, and they continued on, nearing the centre of the town.

From a side street they emerged into a square of sorts, though it could not be called so. Instead of an open space, there was a pit, and around its edges was a wooden cage rising up taller than a man. Torches were spaced around it, but all had gutted out, extinguished by the rain, and the only illumination came from the godly figure above, looking down on them all.

Their arrival did not go unnoticed. Whatever the pit held, it was guarded, a score of Aeslings having emerged from nearby dwellings to defend it. These men were not responding in haste, and they were quick to form up against their arrival. Their numbers were about even, but that did not last, as another dozen arrived across the pit, having been on their way towards the clamour and furor that was Thor. Both groups began to advance around each side of the pit, aiming to fall upon them like hammer and anvil.

“Do Tor!” a black haired bear of a man cried, raising his axe in challenge, but his response was not the one that drew the Aeslings’ eye.

Bjorn had yet to bloody his morningstar, but now he let out a great bellow, charging the larger group. Rain had soaked his hair and moustache, and his features were half cast in shadow by another bolt of lightning from the west. His bellow turned into an unending wordless scream as he fell upon the Aeslings, and with a single mighty blow he caved in the head of the first to stand against him. The corpse began to collapse, but he seized it with his left hand and wielded it as a shield as he laid about, tearing the next man’s face off with the spikes of his weapon. His ferocity cowed the Aeslings back, but only for a moment, and they pushed forward, threatening to swarm him.

Eseld was there before they could, jumping into them and bringing the claws of her hammer into a man’s crown. They cracked the bone and lodged themselves in, and as she landed her victim was brought down, twitching and convulsing. Dawi curses filled the air as she shattered knees and splintered ribs, outright ignoring blows that fell upon her armour and only catching those she needed to. More joined them, the Kislevite first amongst them, and the Aeslings found their advance stymied.

They were not the only foes, however, and Tyra turned on the other group menacing them. Wolfric and Gunnhilde stood with her, and though they were outnumbered four to one, she knew no fear.

“VINTEERHOLM!”

Gunnhilde claimed three lives before they clashed, her spear beyond lethal at the middle distance, and the blessed weapon made the Aeslings hesitate for a crucial moment as Tyra and Wolfric met them. A raised shield was no defence to his sword, cleaved in twain and the arm wielding it with it, taking the next man’s head on the backswing. Tyra hacked and spun, little thought given to defence, only to opening bellies and skulls. The Aeslings fell before their ferocity and the righteousness of their cause, and for a moment Tyra swore she saw wisps of blue-white light steaming from the eyes of her fellows, but then her axes splattered blood across her face and the moment was gone.

The last of the twelve fell, clutching at Wolfric as the man drove his sword through his heart. Wolfric snarled in his face, no mercy to be found for one of those who would have raided his home and slain or stolen his sisters, and he kicked the man away, not bothering to watch the light leave his eyes. But the fight across the pit was not yet over.

“From behind,” Tyra said to them, gesturing on.

“Thor’s groves will be well watered this night,” Wolfric said, eye roving for his next foe.

Gunnhilde only grinned, lining up her target across the pit. She threw, and her spear did not stop until it pierced through the melee to hit the timber of a house on the other side. When she called it back, it was dripping with blood, though the haft was soon cleaned by the ever present rain. Blood seemed to cling to the tip.

“Where are your gods now?!” Gunnhilde screamed, filled with a savage joy, and then she joined her fellow believers as they rejoined the fight.

The Aeslings might have been fearsome raiders and cunning warriors, but they fell all the same, unable to withstand the fury of those they had wronged. One woman accepted a spear through the shoulder to open her foe’s throat, and another man’s arm hung limp, bleeding sluggishly, but that was the worst of their wounds. Bjorn bore a cut across his collarbone, one that would add to the latticework of scars across his chest, but none were dead. They could feel eyes watching them from the wood and stone buildings around the square, but none emerged to challenge them, and they gathered on the carpet of corpses they had made, catching their breath.

“What now?” a woman with a shaved head asked. There was a scar upon her cheek that was bleeding again, though it looked like it had been opened deliberately to mar the scar pattern that had been there.

“I have seventeen more debts to collect,” Eseld said, wiping her hammer clean of brain matter.

“We could go to - to that one,” a wiry man said, gesturing to the ongoing chaos that marked Thor’s presence.

They looked over in time to see some kind of fell creature thrown up into the sky, illuminated by the lightning that struck it.

“I think he has it handled,” another said.

“Look,” Gunhillde said. She was pointing down into the pit, and the rest followed her gaze.

The pit was three men deep, and the sides were slippery with mud, but that was not what drew the eye. Hundreds of faces looked up at them, unblinking in the rain. No, not at them - at the lightning writ giant in the clouds.

“We must get them out,” Gunnhilde said.

“And take them where?” Eseld said. Her remaining braid was dripping, soaked, and blood not her own dripped with it. “We’ve Aeslings to slay.”

“We can’t leave them in there,” Gunnhilde said. “Not in this weather.”

“Thor would cease before they were endangered,” Wolfric argued.

“We’re here. We will help them,” Tyra said, bringing the argument to an end. “The Aeslings would sooner slay them than see them freed.”

None could argue with her words, and thought was turned to deed. Some saw to their wounded, while the rest worked to find the mechanism by which prisoners entered and were removed from the pit. Through it all, the captives were silent, though many began to shift restlessly as they sensed freedom nearing.

Eseld was the one to find it, giving a loud ‘Ha!’ and striking a section of the cage wall around the pit. Something came loose, and a piece fell straight down into the pit, creating a wide ladder to be climbed. There was a ripple of turning heads across the pit as every man and woman looked towards it as one.

“Hold!” Tyra commanded, though her words were ignored by many.

Again, Eseld was the one to solve the problem, calling something in Reikspiel, and the imminent rush to escape was strangled. Slowly, the captives began to climb up the wooden lattice. Many were weakened by hunger and exposure, but still they climbed doggedly, rising to freedom. Gunnhilde and Wolfric were there to pull them up at the last, and they spilled out onto the ground around the pit, making room for others to rise.

Another building erupted in the background, man and beast thrown into the sky with a thunderous roar, though that might have merely been the continuing storm. The chorus of unholy screeches had been ended, but something still fought the God of Thunder as he prowled Skraevold.

“Who - what?” a man asked, as Wolfric pulled him up.

“That is Lord Thor, God of Thunder,” Wolfric told him. The man’s clothes were ragged, but had once been fine indeed, the mark of a southerner.

“Protector of Mankind,” the man said, more to himself, his eyes fixed on the sky. He was slim, his features almost too pretty for a man, and he spoke like he had learned the language from a book.

Wolfric nudged him on his way, making room for the next. Soon, every last man and woman had been freed from the pit. Some looked unnaturally clean for their ordeal, the rain cleansing them beyond reason. The storm raged, and some great beast howled, but there was no fear. The filth began to slip from more and more of those that remained so, as if it was suddenly falling on them for the first time, and all shared a look of awe and fearful wonder. The giant above seemed to look directly down on them, approval in his bearing.

The crowd began to mill, directionless, and Tyra took action. She climbed up a portion of the cage that still stood, shouting for attention. “We go to the docks! Stay behind us, and we will forge a path!”

Again, there was little comprehension, but then one of them began to shout in turn, repeating her words in Reikspiel. It was the overly pretty southerner, projecting his voice to be heard by all.

“You!” Tyra called, pointing at him when he finished. “What is your name?”

“I am Stephan the Bard, of Nordland and at your service,” Stephan said, almost managing to sound grand despite his waterlogged state and gaunt frame. Black hair hung to his shoulders.

“If I give an order, you will translate,” Tyra said.

Stephan bowed, though he had to stop halfway through, holding his ribs and wincing.

Tyra leapt from the cage, already moving to leave the square and head back into the streets. The river was their goal, the river and the longships docked there that might provide shelter from their god’s fury. Eseld was the first to follow, Bjorn following her, having thrown off the sudden rage that had taken him, though by the look in his eye and his grip on his morningstar it was only temporary.

There was no protecting the hundreds of people they had found themselves escorting, not with less than a score of fighters, so they relied on speed. Gunnhilde took the rear, the scar faced woman and bearlike Kislevite with her, while the rest of them acted as the sharp tip of the spear for the wave of humanity that snaked through the shadowed and muddy streets. Only twice did they encounter Aeslings, and both times they were ragged groups, either running towards or away from the ongoing chaos that was carving a path through their home. They were dealt with swiftly, by Tyra and her fighters if they were lucky, by the freed prisoners if they were not. Eyes could be seen and felt watching their progress, but they belonged to those too wise or too cowardly to venture out, and soon they reached the docks.

Whatever guard had been on the ships had long since fled, leaving them free to herd the rescues aboard. Some may have been torn from their homes in the very ships they were now finding shelter on, from the storm and the sight of the Aeslings both, but there were no raiders aboard now, only the captives, those that had freed them, and a rising tide of fervour for the god that had made it possible.

Wolfric stood on the dock as he watched a ring of lightning bolts strike within the town, and he knew that his god stood at its centre. He gripped the hilt of his sword, wishing he could fight by his side. “We should be there,” he said.

“What would we do?” Tyra asked, watching as another ship grew full. She pointed at the next, directing the slowing flood of escapees.

Wolfric grunted, but didn’t argue.

“We should be where he is not,” Gunnhilde said, joining them. “There are more in need of help within.”

“More Aeslings to kill too,” Eseld said, Bjorn ever present at her shoulder.

Tyra glanced between dwarf and man, and Eseld flapped a disgruntled hand at her.

“Well?” Gunnhilde asked, pressing Tyra. The blonde woman was coiled, tense, and it was clear she was on the verge of venturing back into the town alone.

As much as she agreed with Eseld, she knew Thor would want otherwise. “There will be more slaves,” she said. “We go to free them.”

An isolated lightning bolt struck the town, and Gunnhilde pointed towards it. “Lord Thor guides us,” she said, already walking away along the dock.

Wolfric followed, lightning glinting from his wet eye patch as he passed her with a grim smile.

Tyra turned to Eseld. “There will be more foes,” she promised the dwarf.

“If there aren't, I'll go looking,” Eseld said, like it was a threat, before following, Bjorn shadowing her.

Tyra was quick to detail five of her fighters, the wounded included, to stay with the ships. Those of Skraevold had more pressing matters to deal with, like the ongoing calamity making his way through their home, but she was not going to take risks, nor take safety for granted. Not again. She hefted her axes to follow, when a voice called out.

“Wait!” It was Stephan, the southerner, almost slipping as he hopped from a ship to the dock.

“What?” Tyra asked, impatient.

He swallowed, one hand held to his ribs. “May I come with you?”

Tyra gave him an incredulous look. “You don’t have the wind.”

Like a rooster he puffed up, only to deflate. “Not to fight,” Stephan said. “To see.”

She narrowed her eyes, taking in his hunched posture and sharp, underfed features. He was a pretty one, yes, and looked like he could be quick with a knife, but only after a good meal. “You want to see the ones who wronged you brought low. See them hurt as you were hurt.” She understood the desire.

Stephan coughed. “Yes, but…I also need details for my song.”

“Your song,” Tyra said, voice going flat.

“I am a bard, after all,” he said, trying to smile in a winsome manner.

Tyra was little impressed. “Southerners,” she said, like it was an insult.

“My father was Norscan, actually,” Stephan said, a hint of sharpness to him.

What little credit his fire earned him was lost by his lack of understanding. Tyra snorted; it was just like a southerner to treat every tribe of Norsca as one. “Come if you must, but I cannot promise your safety,” she said. “Here.” She handed him a dagger, a cheap iron thing.

The southerner took it with an ease that suggested he might even know how to use it. “How kind,” he said, though his tone belied his words.

Tyra had no more time for him, turning and striding from the dock, heading after those who had already left. Stephan was quick to hurry in her wake, and she found herself annoyed, knowing that Thor would be disappointed if she didn’t protect him. The clash of steel on steel and the pained cries of dead men sounded briefly through the storm, and she hurried on. She would not miss out because a skald wanted a story.

When she reached the fight, it was just in time to see it end, watching as Bjorn beat a man’s face against a stone wall until it was naught but pulp. He turned, unthinking savagery in his gaze, searching for another foe, but there were none, yet the lust for blood would not dim. For a moment, it seemed that the blond giant would attack one of them, but then he blinked, mastering himself. He picked his gore covered morningstar up from the ground, returning to his place at Eseld’s shoulder.

Nothing was said about the man’s bearing as they continued onwards. They all knew what it meant, had guessed from the moment they saw the countless scars across his chest and belly, and the few across his back. Baresark. To be so was to be blessed and cursed in equal measure, and it was better to have one such on your side than against, though at times not by much.

They only came across isolated Aeslings now, lone men skulking about for whatever ill purpose as Thor’s presence in the town only intensified. What he fought, they did not know, but by the furious screams and tortured roars, it was not going well for them. The rain hardly bothered Tyra and her force now, but it seemed to sting and lash at the Aeslings, leaving them to squint and shield their faces, easy pickings to the dozen or so who stalked through their town.

When they reached their goal, many were unpleasantly reminded of their time under the power of the raiders. Kennel cages were laid out before them under the open sky, maybe thirty all told, unpleasant things of iron and spikes waist high at best. It was not only hounds within them, but humans too in half of them, and never fewer than three to a cage though by scant mercy not together. The moment they entered the small open area, the canines began to uncurl, misery at the rain overcome by anger at the intruders, hackles rising. They were ugly beasts, black furred and sharp toothed, and there was only a feral hunger in their eyes.

“Help,” someone croaked. Perhaps the anger of the dogs was enough to make them seem trustworthy, or perhaps it was something else, but they saw in them a fragile hope. “Please.”

“Get them out,” Tyra commanded. Several moved to obey, before she spoke again. “Wait. Kill the hounds first.”

Some of the dogs had started to snarl at her first command, but now they began to snap and growl as they were approached. The bites and wounds on the people crammed into cages where they couldn’t avoid the dogs made it easy to dispatch them, and they were unable to avoid a spear or sword thrust into their cages more than once. Even as they died, they didn’t stop snapping and snarling at their cages, some even frothing at the mouth. Those yet to be killed started throwing themselves at their doors, not to escape their imminent death, but so that they could attack those approaching them. There was no thought beyond violence in their minds, and to kill them was to put them out of their misery.

There were fifteen of them, and it was after the seventh was killed that things began to go wrong. Instead of a rattle and clang, there was a tortured groan of metal as one bashed its head against the gate again. Another got its jaws around the bars of its cage and began to squeeze, and the bars started to groan and give. They began to swell in size, fur bursting as the muscle beneath rippled.

“Kill them, kill them quickly!” Tyra shouted, and she was not alone in her words.

Gunnhilde speared one and then another, but only the first died, the second one only gurgling, still living despite the spear that was thrown down its gullet. The captives beside the mutating beasts began to scream in fear and panic, but there was no time to see to them, only to try to kill, but they were too slow and it was not enough. The first of the mutated chaos hounds burst from their cage, and it lunged at Eseld, even as great horns sprouted from its head in a burst of blood.

Bjorn was there, and he caught the beast under the chin with a mighty blow, but it did little to dissuade it. A second swipe with his morningstar was caught between its jaws, and the hound snapped the weapon in half with a contemptuous bite. Bjorn was ignored, bowled over and trampled as the hound again lunged for Eseld.

Another cage ruptured, the hound struggling through the door, and Wolfric hacked at its neck as it sought to escape. Even his sword took two strokes to cleave its head free from its body, and in that time two more had bashed their way free, covered in gashes from the cage spikes and those striking at them, but the wounds were not mortal, and one man found his leg seized and torn off with a single shake of its head, his screams ringing in the night.

Eseld had set herself, hammer cocked and ready, but she was sent flying by the sheer mass of the beast, unable to deliver a telling blow. She disappeared beneath it, screaming curses, but there was no time to help her, no one free to go to her aid as more beasts escaped.

No one but Bjorn. He had been trampled, but not left behind, grabbing onto the tusks that had burst from its jaw, and he was between Eseld and it. Now he reached up to seize its snout as well, muscles flexing as he roared, seeking to tear its jaw open, to stretch it beyond its limits. All was chaos, a mad struggle to kill the hounds before they could all escape and tear them apart, and above it all rose the howls of what once had been dogs, hungry for blood.

There was no clever strategy to be had, no formation to take that would hold the beasts at bay. Gunnhilde finished killing her target, but two more were free, and they were amongst them like a fox amongst hens. Wolfric saved a man’s life when he tackled a leaping hound, sword taking off one leg effortlessly, but he could not be everywhere. One woman menaced a hound with her spear, trying to force it away from the man whose leg it had torn off, but she found herself victim in turn, spear ignored and her guts torn out with one swipe of a heavy paw. She spun and fell, screaming in agony as her intestines spilled into the mud.

Two of the beasts were still in the cages, but not their own. Rather than escape, they had gone sideways, into the cages occupied by captives beside them, and there was only blood and a fading gurgle as they feasted on the poor souls locked within.

Tyra rushed the beast that had good as killed two of the warriors under her care. “Thor strike you!” she bellowed, one axe rising high, the other held low to slash its throat. The hound turned to face her coming, blood dripping from its canine grin.

Her hair stood on end, and it felt like she was floating. Shadows were thrown back as she closed on the hound, and it almost seemed to quail before her. Thrice the weight of a man, red eyed and with a neck frill of bone spikes, and it knew fear as she brought her axe down.

The force of the blow was such that thunder boomed in its wake, and her axe parted the hound’s skull in twain. Pained yelps sounded from the others as they flinched, and that was enough for Wolfric to thrust his sword down the gullet of the one he had wounded, finding its heart before it could clamp its jaws down on his arm.

A sickening snap sounded, and Bjorn gave a bellow of triumph as he succeeded in tearing the jaw off the beast that had him pinned atop Eseld. His torso was a mess of bloody gouges, but his strength was undiminished and he began to hammer blows into the belly of the beast with his bare fist, breaking ribs such was his fury. The hound was not dead though, not nearly, trying to bring its horns to bear against him. It succeeded, one wicked spike driving through Bjorn’s shoulder, and it reared back to deliver another, lower jaw flapping uselessly.

The dwarf woman seized the respite to get out from under the great weights atop her, and she was just in time to catch the hound with her hammer, claws biting into the roof of its mouth. She turned with a great heave, hammer over her shoulder, and she hiked the hound off the man who had saved her life. A gauntleted fist met it as it came, stunning it.

“Khazukan-” she tore her hammer free with a shower of blood, “Kazakit-” she raised her hammer high, “-ha!” and brought it down, shattering its skull with a single blow.

There was still one hound menacing them, but it was being kept at bay by the others, though they could not slay it. Gunnhilde had trusted them to survive, leaping atop the kennels so that she could stab down into them, striking at the hounds tearing into the defenceless captives. They had shredded one cage apiece, but their hunger was not sated, and they had almost broken through to more.

Gunnhilde would not have it. She stabbed down six times in four seconds, abusing her control of the blessed spear to have it rise up with ease. Trapped in the cages as they were, there was no escape for the hounds, and they died whimpering.

A single hound remained, Tyra and Wolfric joining the half circle around it, harrying it against one of the buildings that lined the kennel square. It snapped and snarled, but there was no escaping for it. There was a pause, a breath before they would fall on the foul creature, punctuated only by the storm and the agonised moans of those who had fallen victim to it behind them.

Then, the building exploded.

Stone and wood sprayed outwards, though miraculously not a single human was hit by more than small fragments. An entire slab of stone crushed the hound before it could so much as flinch, but then there were more pressing matters calling for their attention.

Thor was there, wreathed in lightning, so much that it seemed he was as much power as he was flesh and bone. There was joy upon his face and he was laughing, though perhaps that was merely the boom of thunder. In the cratered remains of the building he stood, and he was not alone.

Against him stood a daemon.

Like a twisted mockery of a man it stood on twisted limbs, a crown of bone rising from its skull and red skin splitting and healing with every movement. It roared and gnashed its needle like teeth as it traded blows with the laughing god, and for a moment even the faithful trembled as they tried to comprehend what kind of power it must wield to do so and survive - but then the moment passed, and they began to understand just what they were seeing.

“Stop hitting yourself! Stop hitting yourself!” Thor shouted, laughing, lashing at the daemon with a severed arm. His great axe floated at his back, and his beard was flecked with blood.

The daemon screeched in near mindless fury, five arms bearing weapons of steel and bone all seeking to strike the god, but none succeeding. The stump that had been the sixth bled freely, and the ground steamed and spat where black droplets fell.

“Come Sigurd!” Thor said, slapping the daemon with its own arm hard enough to stagger it. “Was my skull not to be offered up? Were you not going to devour my heart? What would your god think of such lowly efforts?” He laughed again, but there was a core of anger to it, a thread of rage tightly leashed and controlled.

The daemon noticed the mortals then, and it feinted at Thor before rushing at them. Tyra, Wolfric, and Gunnhilde stepped forward without thought, putting themselves between daemon and the others, but it was unneeded. They were given front row seats as the daemon’s eyes widened in sudden fear, a very human expression, and then its face met the ground as its leg was pulled out from under it. Like a toddler with a doll, Thor heaved the malevolent, otherworldly being back and forth, slamming it into the ground again and again. Five arms scrambled about for purchase, but they could find none, and it was only freed when Thor hurled it back the way they had come, down a street on the other side of the destroyed building.

Thor turned from it as it recovered, looking to his faithful. Above, the giant in the clouds did the same. “How do you fare, brave warriors?” he asked. The flickering lightning around him faded, but the glow of his eyes remained.

For the first time since the fighting had begun, they took stock of themselves. They were breathing hard, and splattered with blood, but little of it was their own, and they were eager for more.

“We are well, Lord Thor,” Wolfric said. He glanced back at those who had come with them, searching for revenge, and the other two looked with him.

The woman whose guts had been torn out was twitching faintly as she was cradled by the scar faced woman, clutching weakly at her hand, while Stephan knelt by the man whose leg had been torn off, fashioning a tourniquet as best he could with what was on hand. Others were working at the cages, bashing at locks to free the increasingly panicked captives, ignoring their own injuries. Eseld was holding a flask to Bjorn’s mouth, almost forcing him to drink it.

“Others, not so much,” Tyra admitted.

The scrape of claws on stone came from behind Thor, as he regarded them seriously. “Then it is time to be done with this place. Will you lead them to the ships, or do you wish to test yourselves against this pathetic creature?”

For a moment, they were tempted. Two of them bore weapons blessed by Thor, and seeing the daemon being battered and slapped around had a way of boosting their confidence. But then cooler thoughts rose, and the knowledge that there were people depending on them prevailed. The daemon rising from where it had been thrown, murder and a palpable menace in its movements, also helped. There was little to be gained from fighting it, and peril unneeded.

“We will escort the captives,” Gunnhilde said, speaking for them.

“Then I will meet you at the docks,” Thor said. Without looking, he hurled the arm he held, and it hit the daemon in the face, staggering it once more. “Go now.” He turned, and advanced towards his foe. His axe he left floating at his back, knuckles cracking as he formed fists.

Moving with haste, they joined the others in freeing those trapped in the cages. Though not as many as had been trapped in the pit, there were still nearly three score to be helped, and then there were those who could not make their own way. Too wounded or too weak to walk, they were helped by others, though there was no helping the poor souls in the cages that the hounds had gotten into. The scar faced woman bore the corpse of the disembowelled woman, glaring at any who might tell her to leave it in favour of another.

Behind them, they left only blood, corpses, and silent, fearful witnesses to their deeds.

X

Thor felt pride in his chest as his faithful departed, leading those who had only just begun to believe. There was something strange about the belief of one, a distant feeling to it like an echoing shout over still water, but now was not the time to consider such things. Now was the time for good deeds, for the might of Thor to fall upon the foul and the wicked. Now was the time for violence.

The daemon that had once been Sigurd Twice-Slain glowered at him with impotent fury as it cast its severed arm aside. “You think this a victory,” it hissed, forked tongue darting through needle teeth.

“I know this to be a victory,” Thor corrected it.

“Fool,” it said, laughing, an echoing thing that carried with it the screams of the weak. “This town is nothing. The people are nothing. It means NOTHING!”

“It means everything to those we have saved,” Thor said. Lightning began to flicker over him once more. “They will love, they will laugh, they will live long lives…but you? You will die here.”

More mad cackling was his answer. The daemon hurled its weapons away, spreading its arms wide. “Think you that I can be slain?”

Thor only smiled, a hard thing lacking in humour, and continued to advance. Something in his expression made the daemon hesitate, but only for a moment. “I do not know if the soul of your mortal shell is still there,” he said as he neared, “but know that I do this for Kirsa.”

Clawed hands lunged for Thor’s throat, but arcing lightning left them writhing nervelessly. More tried to stab at his armpits, but were unable to so much as scratch his armour. Thor’s fists unfurled, and he reached for the daemon’s skull, seizing it by jaw and bone crown. Then, he began to squeeze. The storm, having fallen into a lull, came roaring back. So too did the giant roar.

“IN THE NAME OF THOR! PERISH, DAEMON!”

Bone began to crack and shatter as he squeezed, and the daemon screamed, not in pain, but in true terror. Its head exploded in his grip, brain and viscera splattering everywhere, yet its scream echoed on. A bolt fell from the heavens, striking Thor, and in its wake there was sudden silence, not even thunder.

Thor allowed the corpse to drop, discarding the useless thing. Lightning sparked across his gore covered hands, and it began to blacken and flake away, leaving them clean. He looked around. He was the only living thing to be seen, though he could sense a mother cradling a babe watching through a basement shutter, and a boy alone in a house peering around curtains.

Stormbreaker came to his hand, and he stepped up into the sky. His work was almost done here. Almost, but not quite.

The god came to a stop just below the clouds, looking down on the town of Skraevold, as did his avatar above. He could see the path of ruin he had carved through it, starting from the west gate and ending to the south. Buildings full of raiders and evil men he had razed to the ground, and there were still glowing pits and craters where he had smote particularly offensive foes. Now the town and those who remained held its breath, as if sensing the weight of his judgement upon it.

“People of Skraevold,” Thor said, voice rolling out over the land, rolling like thunder. “By the whims of your gods, you have raided. You have enslaved. You have spread suffering.” Censure was clear in his voice, a bridled anger that could erupt at any moment. “You have drawn my eye.”

Lightning crashed, the left eye of the avatar above glowing bright. Wrath it wore, and those with the courage to step out and look up found themselves tested.

“Your town is sundered, your chieftain and the daemon wearing his skin are slain. Your gods have led you astray, for they do not care for you.” He let the echoes of the condemnation fade. “But there is another path. A path that offers succour to those who would but ask for it.”

Suddenly, he could feel Four gazes intent upon him, where before there had only been one, and that lazily. A pressure built, but he pressed back at it, and he could feel new reserves of strength responding to his will. Stormwinds whipped at his hair and his beard.

“I stand for strength and storms,” Thor said, building with the storm around him. “I stand for groves held free of betrayal, for duty, for those who cannot stand for themselves. I am THOR, God of Thunder, and I stand for the protection of all mankind! ODIN’S SON I AM, AND TO THE FOUR CANCERS OF CHAOS, I SAY THEE NAY!”

Uncountable bolts of lightning roiled in the clouds, and a cacophony to shame all those before it roared to life. Voiceless bellows and shrieks of rage, of denial and accusation and twisted desire rang out through the immaterial, but they were drowned out by the thunder. In that moment, there was only Thor. His avatar exploded across the sky, racing off into the darkness and over the horizon in all directions.

“Come to me if you are willing,” Thor finished, already descending from the sky. He made no threat to the alternative, for he neither needed nor wanted one. Those who followed him would be faithful, not fearful, and he would stand at their sides through whatever struggles they faced, from now ‘til Ragnarok comes.

He could do little else for he was Thor, God of Thunder.