Spring was in full bloom when two longships of familiar faces approached Vinteerholm. Word spread quickly, and Thor was not alone in greeting them as they pulled into the docks.

The town had grown much since Tyra had departed in search of trade with Gunnhilde and a crew of volunteers in tow. Where once Vinteerholm had occupied only one bank, now it stretched over both, even if one side was simply an empty field enclosed by thick timber walls. More pressing had been the enormous trunk that lay across the river acting as a barrier to any longship that might seek passage, requiring the ships to lower their masts in order to pass. The cut out section they rowed through would one day host a chain or portcullis, but that was an ambition for the future.

Blue skies shone down as, for the second time that year, Tyra leapt from a longship to land upon the dock. She had a pouch in one hand, and she loosed its neck to show the grain it held, raising it high as she did.

“Victory!” she shouted, and her people responded in turn, reacting to the sight of grain like it was looted gold, even as the second ship glided into place at another pier.

Clever rationing, cunning hunters, and Thor’s ability to bring down big game with ease had seen Vinteerholm’s supplies last, but the entire town knew the state of their remaining granaries, and all had been counting the days since Tyra’s departure. Now she was returned, a wealth of supplies at her back, and there was much cheering for their chief. The crew of the ships began to disembark, swiftly mingling with the crowd as friends and family sought each other out after months apart.

Thor beamed as he met Tyra, clasping her arm with his own. “Chief Tyra,” he said.

“Lord Thor,” Tyra replied. She let out a breath, as if relieved of a burden.

Curiously, she had no ill response to being addressed as chief. Thor looked her over more closely. Her hair had started to grow back more fully, red locks hanging to her ears now, and the simple iron clasp that had held her fur mantle in place over her shoulders was now a thing of bright silver. Her axes likewise caught his eye; where once they had been simply adorned, if made of good steel, now they were marked with lichtenberg figures from the grip to the head.

As he inspected her, so did she inspect him in turn. She raised an eye at his belly, much reduced from its prior girth, but still worthy of a rich lord in cold climes, and took a moment to admire the silver beads and sparkly stones woven into his forked beard. Thor adjusted the tilt of his head to let her admire them better; the silver was gifted by grateful townsfolk who would not accept refusal, but the stones were the loot of bold children scrabbling in the dirt beyond the walls, and he valued them both.

“You have had an adventure,” Thor noted, releasing his grasp on her arm.

“Had I known that trading could be so exciting, I would have pushed for it long ago,” Tyra said, grinning in turn.

Thor’s gaze sharpened with interest. He had known that the prayer he granted must have come from someone on the expedition, but only by process of elimination, and no more than that. “Oh?” he said, prompting.

“It’s a grand tale,” Tyra told him, “a fight against monsters and madmen that the three of us overcame with the power of your blessing.”

“Yes?” Thor said, prompting more pointedly this time.

“A tale that you will hear tonight, during the celebration,” Tyra told him.

Thor tried to put on a frown, but it was a wasted effort, and he laughed. Tyra had not been so willing to cheek him before her departure! The trip had been good for her, for all that her mention of three had him burning with curiosity. Tyra, Gunnhilde, but who was the third? “A hint?” he asked, wheedling.

“Later,” she promised, before looking around. The bustle of the return was still in full flow. “There are those here who seek an audience with you.”

“With me?” Thor asked, frowning now. “They did not accept your authority?”

“They did. This isn’t about trade,” Tyra said. She folded her arms across her chest, her features slipping into a slight scowl. “Well, not entirely. But neither believe, for all they witnessed us.”

Thor gave a little smile as he eased, shaking his head. “They will, or they won’t. It matters little to me.”

“They don’t need to believe, but I won’t listen to them name you a liar,” Tyra said. Her scowl grew.

Thor could only laugh. “Ah, Tyra! Your faith warms me, and what is the doubt of another in the face of that?”

The warrior woman, chief of Vinteerholm and killer of many, blushed. She tried to keep scowling through it, only to fail.

“Speaking of faith,” Thor said, nodding towards the axes that rested at her hips, “it ought to be rewarded.”

“I would be honoured, Lord Thor,” Tyra said, apparently deciding that if she ignored the blush, it would go away on its own.

“Dusk, then. In the grove.” He nodded decisively. “Now, who are these newcomers?”

“There,” Tyra said, nodding towards the second longship.

Disembarking were unfamiliar faces. Some were looking about with a wary tension, as if waiting for a trap to be sprung, while others looked about near and far, taking in as much as they possibly could. Some few looked more pugnacious than a bilgesnipe with a pricked paw, and of course it was those who seemed to have spied Thor.

He should not judge, he reminded himself. Had he put so much effort into his beard and physique as they had, only to encounter such a superior specimen as he, his expression would likely be something to point at too. At least they could still be proud of the blue tattoos they bore on their scalps or arms.

Nudges and whispered words alerted the rest of the group to Thor’s presence, and soon many were looking over at him. As they disembarked more fully, though, he could see that it was not one group, but two. The most noticeable were the axemen in furs and mail, tattooed with intricate blue patterns, but also with them were more soberly dressed men, still armed and armoured, but with more thought given to first impressions. Bringing up the rear was a face to make Thor brighten - Gunnhilde.

“The priests will eat their words before they leave,” Tyra said, grumbling, “but the merchants are not as bad as they could be. Their head was not too fearful to come to us, at least.”

“I will speak with them,” Thor promised, still looking over at the other pier. “But later. There is much to do first.”

“Aye,” Tyra said, gazing over the semi-controlled chaos of the water’s edge. Some of her cheer slipped away as the mundane reality of leadership intruded.

Thor made to escape before it could infect him too, but he paused. “Tyra,” he said, waiting until she looked back at him. “Well done.”

She didn’t blush again, but she did stand taller. “Thank you, Lord Thor.”

He left her to it. His axe lingered in the grove, but he hardly needed it to hop from one pier to the next, and it barely shuddered at all as he landed on it behind the disembarking crew.

“Gunnhilde!” he called cheerfully, striding forward towards the shore. Several of those nearby winced, clapping hands over their ears, and he moderated himself. “Gunnhilde,” he said again as he neared her, more reasonably this time. “You have returned.”

“Lord Thor!” Gunnhilde said, giving his volume a run for its money as she rushed forward in turn. She stopped herself as they reached each other, almost skidding on the wood of the pier. She seemed to be restraining herself.

Thor knew no such restraint. “My Valkyrie,” he said, and then he seized her in a great hug, slapping her on the back.

Gunnhilde wheezed, but managed to respond in kind. When he released her, he stole a moment to take her in. She had changed her hair, putting it in two braids that started almost at her peak and cut back across her temples, bound tightly to fall over her back. Her spear was secured on her back, the valknuts decorating its haft as fine as the day he had hallowed and blessed it.

“I witnessed your victory over the Rat,” Gunnhilde said, once she had recovered. “When can I meet the little ones?”

“Soon,” Thor promised. “Aderyn watches over them at the moment-” he saw confusion at the name “-oh, much has happened in your absence, more even than you encountered in the south.”

“It would take much to make that so, Lord Thor,” she said, trying to keep the doubt from her voice. “We slew - well, Tyra wished to save the telling for the feast.”

“Of course,” Thor said. “We shall make it a night of tales and boasts, then.” He had returned from a large lake to the west only the day before, bearing several monstrous fish, and they would do well indeed, roasted on the firepit of the longhouse. “But tell me: who was the third to take up my blessing?”

Gunnhilde grew coy, glancing around to see who was listening in on their talk; the southerners had stopped at the end of the pier, most looking back to them as they lingered, but Gunnhilde paid them no attention. Her gaze found Tyra, seeing her occupied with instructions and orders, and she shed her coyness, leaning in. “It was the Nordlander, Hildur.”

Thor’s brows raised, considering. “The angry one? She who scarred her cheek to purge the brand of Bloodlust?”

“The same,” Gunnhilde said. Then, like the words were pried from her, she admitted, “she is not defenceless.”

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

He gave her a look. ‘Defenceless’ is not how he would have described the woman who had volunteered to join the attack on Skraevold after being stolen from her home in the southern empire that Nordland was a part of and put through the horrors of the journey to Norsca.

“She was a soft southern farmer’s wife,” Gunnhilde argued, reading the look clearly, though her tone was weak.

“Mmhmm,” Thor said. No further words were needed.

Gunnhilde did not pout - Valkyries did not pout - but there were some who would have labelled the face she made such. “There is something she wishes to ask of you,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “I would back her in this.”

“Where is she?” Thor asked. The piers were starting to empty as most of the crowd moved for the town proper, but there was still traffic coming on and off the ships as personal items were unloaded. But then he spied her shaved head on the shore, speaking with one that he recognised as a fellow Nordlander.

She had found some armour somewhere, something better than the mismatched pieces taken from Aesling corpses that she had departed with. It was not quite lamellar, but it reminded him of it, triangles of burnished steel layered to protect her torso and shoulders. It was not her armour that drew his attention though, nor was it the spear she carried. It was the scar on her cheek. Well and truly gone was the mark of Bloodlust that had been repeatedly carved into it, blotted out by a patch of scars left by her own hand, but now on this patch there was another mark, a familiar head and haft sticking out from the tissue that covered most of her cheek. But there had to be more.

For an instant, Thor looked at her with his second sight. His left eye spied the threads of the world that he had come to know that were present - the passion of living things expressed in red, the green that came with animals and the deep forest - but it was his right eye that he focused on, and he grinned at what was revealed. Clinging to Hildur’s bones was the blue-white of his own power, accepted as part of her and bolstering her strength. The venture had not been good only for Tyra and Gunnhilde, but for Hildur as well.

Thor beamed, even as he turned back to Gunnhilde and saw that same presence in her. He blinked, and the blue-white shine of his eyes faded. He considered his Valkyrie for a moment, pondering her words. “Have her make her request in the grove this eve, after I grant Tyra her reward,” he told her.

“I shall,” Gunnhilde said. She tried to keep a sober expression, even as a grin fought to break out.

“Once you have seen to your tasks, I would suggest you seek out Astrid and Elsa,” Thor told her, “before they find you. They have been asking after your arrival most fervently.”

It was an honest smile that came over her face then. “They have been in my thoughts since before we reached Zenilev,” she admitted. “How have they fared?”

“They will have much to tell you, though do not be alarmed. All ended well, and their new appearance has brought them joy,” Thor said.

Her smile faded some, and she eyed him, seeking to divine more. “I will find them now,” she said after a moment.

“Remind them not to hog Trumpetter’s attention when you do!” he said, even as she started to turn towards the shore.

Gunnhilde nodded, and his manner must have eased her brewing worries, for some cheer returned to her. “I must also tell Wolfric that I have felt your blessing upon me,” she said, perhaps with more smugness than was proper, and then she was leaving, striding off towards the town.

Thor held his tongue as he watched her go. Wolfric had voiced similar thoughts. He was sure the reunion of two of his most devoted would be fine.

A band of townsfolk were approaching the ship he stood beside, led by Knut, and he was quick to step out of their way, inclining his head in turn as they muttered prayers or touched their hands to hammer amulets around their necks. They set about unloading sacks of grain from within its hold under Knut’s direction, carrying out the unassuming but vital work that would see the town avoid famine. Thor glanced up to see that the blue skies still held without the threat of rain; he would not have to shoo any clouds away, but still he would be on the lookout for them.

The Kislevites on the shore were deep in conversation, though the priests seemed to have departed. He saw Gigori at the centre of them, and he was talking with Mikhail; the man, another of those rescued from the Aeslings, had clearly enjoyed his time in Vinteerholm so much that he had returned with what must be those with whom Tyra had arranged to trade with. In the thick of it was a stern and seasoned woman who said little and seemed to miss even less, going by the way she listened to Grigori’s tale.

Thor relieved two men of the grain sacks they carried and leapt to the shore, placing them in a waiting wagon even as he pondered his next move. The likely traders had their questions for him, but they would not be urgent, and were mostly Tyra’s responsibility besides. The priests though, were a different story. If they had come so far to seek audience with him, he would bet his beard that they were followers of that Tor fellow, and it would be well to speak with them before they could mishear any talk that would see them upset. Aderyn had been a boon to the town, devoted to Shallya as she was, and perhaps one of them - these ‘Torites’ - could be the same.

He ventured through the gates with vague thoughts of asking passersby if they had seen the priests, but he soon saw there was no need. The party in furs and tattoos was still within sight, though they had come to a stop for some reason, standing in the middle of the street. He counted not quite a dozen of them, and through a gap in their party, he saw a flash of a familiar red cloak. Cheer slipped from his face as his gaze sharpened into something that wasn’t quite a frown, and he stepped quickly and quietly towards them. A few townsfolk had been watching, wary, but on seeing Thor, they eased and went about their business.

“...not a woman’s place to serve as a priest of Tor,” the largest of the men was saying, voice harsh. “Even less one who has falsely claimed the role for themselves.” He was speaking Norscan.

“I claim nothing,” Kirsa replied, voice steady. “I am a follower of Thor, and I speak of him to those who would know him.”

“Call it what you will, but the offense is the same. You know nothing of Tor.”

“She is not a priestess of Tor,” Thor said, startling the group who had not heard him approach. “She is mine.”

They were swift to turn, disregarding Kirsa, and Thor felt a frown settle on his face in truth.

“You are the one,” the largest of them said, meeting Thor’s gaze straight on. He was an older human, though not quite as old as Harad, and his pepper and salt hair fell past and over his shoulders, braided sections keeping it in place. A bear fur mantle sat on his shoulders, its paws serving as the link over his chest, and his tattoos crowned his brow and followed the veins of his forearms. A drooping moustache was contained by beads of silver on either side.

Thor ignored him, walking through the group without mind for them. The few who tried to contest his path were forced aside without notice, and then he was before Kirsa. “What brings you here, Kirsa?”

She lifted her chin. “I was on my way to greet Gunnhilde and the others, when I saw strangers without a guide.”

“Guests,” another of the priests said behind him, though his tone was less confrontational. “We accepted the invitation of your chief.”

“Gunnhilde left to taunt Wolfric, and to see the twins,” Thor told her. “I will take the role of guide.”

“Before you leave, woman,” the apparent leader started, “what deed was it that convinced you of this man’s claims?” He had reverted to his mother tongue.

Kirsa gave him a look of incomprehension, before returning to Thor.

“He asked what I did to convince you I was a god,” Thor said. There was a rustle and shift from across the muscular priests.

“He saved me,” Kirsa said, “then he kept saving me. He saved everyone in Vinteerholm today. I would tell you more, but you would not believe me, and I would not dare to give offense.” She gave a smile utterly lacking in sincerity. She looked back to her god and touched the hammer amulet she wore at her neck. “Lord Thor.”

“Kirsa.”

“Why did you need to translate the question?” another man asked. This one was younger than the leader, but not young. His scalp was bare and tattooed, and he had a braided blond beard long enough to touch the grizzly pelt he wore as a cloak. He was frowning, but in confusion.

“Kirsa does not speak Kislevite,” Thor said, “and I am not speaking your language. What you are hearing is All Speak, the language of the gods which you hear in your own native tongue, and makes your words known to me.”

“In any language?” asked another bald man with intricate tattoos on his scalp, speaking in a guttural tongue that was new to Thor. He stood next to the blond bearded man, his figure slighter though by no means small, and his own beard was brown, but wild and unbound. Unlike most of the others, he bore a mantle that had once been a wolf.

“Any language,” Thor confirmed. He paused a moment, looking the two men over. They seemed passing familiar, for all he had never met them before, and the rest were surely strangers.

The leader of the group made an impatient sound, drawing attention back to him. “I am Bogdan of Praag, spokesman for this group. We have come to see the one who would declare himself our god.”

Thor would not tell him well met, for it was not his habit to lie, but he would greet him even so. “I am Thor, s-”

“Son of Odin, aye,” the man with the blond beard said.

Thor’s eyes flicked back to him, then to the man beside him. Insight came to him, as a vision flashed across his mind’s eye. “You witnessed me, the night I defied Chaos above Skraevold. The two of you stood upon a stone tower in the storm.”

“We did, tempting our god to smite us,” the slighter man said.

“What Dragan and Radek saw that night is the only reason we have come, and as guests,” Bogdan said, dark eyes fixed unerringly on Thor. “So speak of yourself, man who would be Tor, ‘ere I label you a pretender and return another time without the cloak of a guest.”

“I am the God of Thunder. I wield an axe with a wooden haft. I smite my foes with sky-fire. I stand for those who cannot stand for themselves.” He eyed those who thought to come to his house and comment on the decor. “Make of me what you will.”

Bogdan did not like that one bit. His slab of a brow furrowed, and he very deliberately moved his hand away from the mace at his hip. “You lay claim to a mantle dear to the sons of Kislev,” he warned. “There have been others before who have done the same. They were found wanting.”

“I claim nothing that is not already mine,” Thor answered. He felt his temper stirring. “I am Thor Odinson. Your faith in Tor is your own business, and I make no claim on it. Look upon me to your content, but do not presume you have the right to judge me. Greater beings than you have tried.”

There were but two who had that right, and both were dead.

Looks were shared amongst the Torites. None seemed pleased with his words, but only some seemed on the verge of denouncing him, and Bogdan stilled them with a raised hand.

“We will watch,” he said, “and we will see.”

“Do so, but do it as guests,” Thor said, blunt as his hammer. “You took issue with Kirsa. Keep your protests to words, and there will be no trouble. If you cannot…”

“You would threaten guests?” another of them asked, a hint of disgust in his tone. He was squat and stocky, but broader than most.

“If you raise a hand against those under my protection, you will no longer be guests,” Thor said. A sudden wind tugged at his beard and his simple tunic, and thunder rumbled in the cloudless sky above.

“We will not be the ones to break hospitality,” Bogdan said. He did not look up as some of his fellows did, his eyes still fixed on Thor.

“Good!” Thor said, casting away his irritation with a sudden smile. “I would have you enjoy your time here. Learn, drink, and be merry. Visit the grove this eve, and you will see much.” The blessing of a weapon or two would not convince them, but there were no convenient daemons to smite or cancerous gods to defy, so it would have to suffice for a start.

“We will attend,” Bogdan said. Dragan, the blond man, seemed about to speak, but a look and a slight shake of his senior’s head had him subside. “Where would you have us sleep?”

“There is an empty building near the town square, with space enough for all of you comfortably,” Thor said. The tale of how it came to be so was not a happy one, but he would not dwell on it. “Come, follow me, and I will show you…” He turned, heading deeper into the town and expecting them to follow. Once this was done, he already knew how he was going to cheer himself up.

The Torites were slow to follow, but follow they did. There were those amongst them who were uncertain, and others who were quietly simmering, but so too were those who looked upon the back of the one guiding them with consideration. He bore little silver, and was clad in simple clothes, but they had seen boyars clad in gold and fine cloth in their courts with less presence than he wore as he walked along a dirt road in a remote Norscan town. Dragan and Radek shared a look. Time would tell.