Harad’s village was much as he remembered it, a small settlement by a river, protected by a ringed palisade wall. His arrival, descending from the sky carrying a tree trunk on his back, did not go unnoticed, but by the flying of his blond hair and the axe he bore, he was known, and heralded with joy.
The trunk was set down carefully, and Wolfric stepped stiffly from a small section that had been hewed into its side, large enough for a man to sit and be shielded from the wind. He swayed as he walked towards the opening village gates, but found his feet quickly.
The second man to stumble from the tree did so with a laugh, eyes alight with near childish glee. “That was – ! Mighty Thor! To see it all!” Grigori said, the Kislevite unable to contain his joy. “The flight to Skraevold was one thing, in the dark as it was, but to witness the world from the sky above!” He laughed, a ringing thing from such a bearlike man. “I cannot believe it!”
“I am well pleased to hear it,” Thor said, clapping him on the shoulder as he passed.
“I thank you,” Grigori said, quick to follow after him. “You have blessed me this day.”
“It is a small thing in the face of your presence with us, on this quest,” Thor said.
A scoff was his answer, though the man quickly coughed after, as if to hide it. “Had you made the offer in Kislev, blood would be shed to win the honour.”
“Dragonslaying is popular in your lands?” Thor asked, as they neared the gates.
“Not quite,” Grigori said, frowning now, the excitement of flight starting to fade. “Tor - you - there are many devotees of the Thunder God in Kislev.”
“I see,” Thor said. “It is good that you have joined us. You will have the chance to question me and set your mind at ease.”
Grigori made a noise of agreement, already falling back into the taciturn manner he commonly wore around Thor, brow furrowed in thought.
Thor left him to it, and they caught up to Wolfric, the man falling in behind as they stopped at the gates. A woman with a bow greeted them, one he remembered from the defence of the village and the liberation of Vinteerholm. She had been stabbed in the stomach, and he was pleased to see she had survived. There was the faintest stirring of worship from her, nothing solid or real, unlike the awe in her eyes as she took in his plain clothing and magnificent axe. A few words were exchanged, their purpose for coming revealed, and she was quick to answer.
They were not directed to the longhall, but to the far side of the village, where a smaller gate was propped open. The sound of an axe at work carried in the air, and children passed them in dribs and drabs, carrying split chunks of wood. Through the gate was the man they sought, using a simple iron headed axe to split large logs with little effort. Despite the coolness of the air his heavily muscled arms were bare, a simple jerkin apparently enough to ward off the weather. He worked by a large pile of logs, felled and trimmed, steadily reducing the stack.
“Thor,” Harad said, setting another log in place on a cutting stump. It was the length of a man’s arm, and near as thick as his thighs. He cleaved it in two with a single blow. “You are well.” His voice was as deep and low as ever.
“Harad,” Thor said, coming to a stop just out of splinter distance. “The same to you.” Both of the men at his back had shifted at the simple address, but at Thor’s response they settled.
One of the two halves of split wood was placed back on the stump and split again, one handed this time. “We saw your show in the skies,” the greybeard said. He placed the other half and repeated the act. “Skraevold fell, then.”
Three children hurried from the gate, pushing and playing, and took up the split logs. One boy, not quite a teenager, took up two, the others one apiece, on their shoulders like it was a great trunk. All couldn’t help but stare at Thor as they did, nothing subtle about their awed gawking.
“It did,” Thor said, grinning at the children at work as they scampered off. “We rescued many who were taken, and then some besides.”
“They hit Vinnskor too then, did they?” Harad asked, taking up another log.
“I do not believe so,” Thor said. “We freed those of Sarl and Nordland and Kislev, even a few Aeslings.”
Harad snorted, giving him a look. “I suppose I am not surprised,” he said. “Many?”
“Nine hundred,” Thor said.
The next strike was less than perfect, though the strength behind it still saw it split the log in twain, if unevenly. “Many mouths,” he said. “You come for aid in feeding them?”
“No, Tyra has led a group south. They mean to trade with Kislev,” Thor said.
“That is good,” Harad said. “Our stores are not what they were.”
“The celebration did not drain your reserves so much, I thought,” Thor said, frowning.
“It did not. Rats in the food stores,” Harad said, splitting the last of the log, “but we know how to sort them.” He stepped back to let another group of children take it away.
Grigori and Wolfric both spat to the sides, and Harad nodded, as if agreeing.
“If not for food then, what brings you back to my home?” the axeman asked.
“Dragonblood,” Thor said.
Harad frowned now. “Food we could have managed, but what dragonblood I had is long used.”
“No, we-” Thor found his train of thought diverted. “You had dragonblood laying about?”
“It is a powerful ingredient, useful to bolster the strength of many brews and potions,” Harad said. “Even to break curses, though some are too terrible for even the heartblood of a dragon.”
“I see,” Thor said. At least it seemed that they had not been sent on a wild dragon chase. “Then perhaps you might know where we can find a dragon.”
Harad stopped cutting, setting the head of his axe into the dirt and resting his weight on it. “And for what do you need such a thing?”
Thor glanced back at Wolfric, unwilling to speak of his troubles without his word.
“The touch of the Crow lingers on my sisters,” Wolfric said, blunt and terse. “I mean to purge it.”
Rather than answer, Harad’s gaze lingered on Wolfric, narrowing as it flicked to the eye patch and away. “Have we met, boy? Before Vinteerholm.”
Wolfric didn’t blink, cool grey eye fixed on the greybeard. “You knew my uncle, and my father.”
Harad looked away, sighing, and for a moment it seemed a great weight pressed down on him. He straightened and set the tip of its head into his cutting stump, where it stood once he took his hand away. “Come inside,” he said. “We will speak by the hearth.”
The old warrior stepped past them, heading back into the village. Thor and Wolfric shared a look, and then they followed, Grigori a beat behind.
X
The longhouse was as Thor remembered it, a long stone fire pit running its length and tables on either side of it. Harad led them not to the chieftain’s table, but to the end of one of the long tables. A nearby section of the pit was active, embers and coals smouldering without smoke and casting warmth.
“Bide here a moment,” Harad told them, “I must speak with my Helena.” He turned and departed the longhouse as quickly as he had arrived, leaving them to sit and wait.
They were not alone, a pair of young women - girls, really - sitting further down the hall as they whittled away at thin blocks of wood with a strange flexible material, making arrow shafts. They were not as subtle in their interest as they might have thought, and Thor found himself sharing an amused look with Wolfric as the mood was lightened when one dared the other to approach them.
“Your ear,” Grigori said, speaking suddenly, “it is the same as your speech?”
“My ear?” Thor asked, nonplussed.
“At first I thought it knowledge,” Grigori said, “but when you speak, all hear, no matter their mother tongue. Is your ear the same?”
“It is,” Thor said, with him now. “We call it All Speak, and it allows us to understand and be understood wherever our paths may lead us.”
“And all gods have this ability?” Grigori asked.
“I cannot speak for all gods,” Thor said, shrugging, “but for me and mine, yes.”
Grigori fell silent again, pondering what he had learned. No other conversation was forthcoming, and the two girls did not quite manage to gather the courage to approach before Harad returned.
He was not alone. The axeman and his silver haired wife joined them, bringing chairs from a smaller table to sit at the end of their own.
“You are sure it is the Crow?” Helena asked, wasting no time. Her eyes were intent, laugh lines by her eyes narrowed and intent.
“Our wise woman says it is so, and Helka is rarely wrong,” Wolfric said. “My sisters sleep and cannot be woken, and if we do not return swiftly with the heartblood of a dragon they never will.” Under the table, his hands clenched helplessly.
“I remember Helka,” Helena said, tapping a finger against her lips as she thought. “We were young girls together.”
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
“Do you know of any dragon nearby?” Wolfric asked, impatient. “I do not care for childhood friendships.”
“Patience,” Helena said, laying a hand on her husband’s knee as if to settle him, though he had done little more than blink at Wolfric’s words. “If she is brewing the elixir she ought to, it will be the work of a week, and the dragonblood is not added until the last.”
Wolfric mastered himself, but it was not without effort.
“You say you once had dragonblood, Harad,” Thor said. “How did that come to be so? Did you slay one?”
“No,” Harad said, shaking his head once. “I slew a man who claimed to have done so, with the blood to prove it, but I suspect he came across the scene of a contest, and merely gathered what was shed.”
“Then it may yet live,” Wolfric said as he leaned forward, hopes rising. “Where was this? How far north?”
“It was not north,” Harad said. “It was in these very mountains, three decades ago.”
Rising hopes were dashed, and Wolfric sat back in his seat, sagging. “There has not been a dragon seen here in my lifetime.”
“There has not,” Harad acknowledged. “But I recall my grandfather speaking of that same dragon, and it was not seen in my father’s lifetime either. Like bears, they hibernate. This one may yet live.”
“Where?” Wolfric demanded. “What do you ask for in exchange?”
Harad and Helena shared a look, and she gave a slight nod.
“You are strong,” Harad said to Thor, slowly, “but even so, it is a dragon. Were your need not great, I would refuse.”
Wolfric near strained in his seat, but he held his tongue.
“I will tell you,” the greybeard said to Wolfric now, “and in return, I ask that we have a conversation.”
“A conversation?” Wolfric asked, wary.
“Aye,” Harad said. “There are things I must tell you.”
“I know you killed my father,” Wolfric said, and Harad nodded, a grim set to his mouth, having expected the answer. “I do not care. Tell me where the dragon is, and we can speak all you wish once we have its blood.”
The couple shared another, longer look.
“East,” Harad said at last, “past the flow of Ursfjord, then a little further. Then south. That is the range of the dragon, if it still lives.”
“My thanks,” Wolfric said, already turning to his god. “Lord Thor?”
“Aye,” he said, rising. “Much as I would like to stay and share your hearth, this is not a deed to do slowly,” he said to the couple.
“I understand,” Harad said. His solemn gaze remained on Wolfric for a beat, before he looked fully to Thor. “In my youth, I wore those same boots, though my foe was not so mighty as the Crow.”
Wolfric was already turning for the door, and Grigori stood, having followed Thor’s cue.
“A tale to be shared when you arrive at Vinteerholm,” Thor said. “Should you leave soon, you ought to arrive shortly after we return.”
“We will be there,” Helena said. She was tugging lightly on the end of her silver braid, thinking. “To see Helka, if naught else. It has been…years.”
“Tales for another time,” Harad said, placing his hand on hers, taking it away from the braid. “Good luck, Thor.”
Thor inclined his head. Now was not the time for talk, as much as he felt his interest stirring at words left unsaid. He turned and departed, following after Wolfric, Grigori in his wake. They had their heading.
Again they took to the skies, the mountains below flitting by swiftly. They did not look small, such formations never could, but they did serve to make the two mortals feel so as they soared over peaks that would have taken weeks to climb. The day was fair, with only some few clouds to dodge in avoidance of a wet chill, shadows of the mountains stretching out before them like grasping, languorous fingers. The trunk soared gracelessly through the sky as the afternoon burned on, and Thor spared a moment to be grateful that none of the others were there to see him. He really did need to obtain a more dignified method of chauffeuring his followers around.
The shadows grew longer, and they passed over what must be Ursfjord, fading light glittering on its surface. He could spy some few scattered villages along it, the smoke of bonfires and chimneys rising from them, but he ignored them for the diversion they would surely be. A shift of his grip on Stormbreaker’s haft and a thought saw them begin to descend, aiming for the edge of a forest just east of the fjord as they began to shed speed. They set down on a frozen patch of dirt by the treeline, near swallowed by the gloom of its shadow.
“Why have we stopped?” Wolfric demanded, before he had fully extricated himself from his seat and the rope keeping him secure. “We are not far enough past the the Ursfjord to have reached the dragon’s territory.”
“We have not,” Thor said, “but if we wish to build a shelter and prepare food, we have little time to spare.”
His face was mulish. “But we are so close, surely-”
“Do you wish to hunt and fight a dragon in the dark?” Thor asked, giving him a look.
All at once, Wolfric sagged. “No, Lord Thor.”
“Remember Helena’s words,” Thor said. “We have a week until the heartblood is needed.” He put his hand on his shoulder. “We will return in time. You will save your sisters.”
Wolfric swallowed and nodded, placated but not content. Without another word he turned and made for the forest, walking alone into the embrace of a domain that most would avoid in all but the strongest parties. Were it not for the troubled set of his shoulders, he might have seemed eager, sword already half drawn.
Grigori had freed himself now, and he made to follow the one eyed man.
“No, Grigori,” Thor said. “You lack the advantages I have bestowed on Wolfric, and I would have your aid in preparing our camp.”
“Aye, Mighty Thor,” the Kislevite said. He seemed to have settled on a term of address, for all he seemed unwilling to commit to calling him as his worshippers did.
They had not left Vinteerholm without supplies, though they had made a point of not taking what they could get for themselves while on their quest. That meant they had a sack full of skins of water and booze, as well as some roots and vegetables, but no meat. Wolfric would see to that, and in the meantime, they would see to shelter.
Grigori began to gather kindling for a fire and Thor ascended, lopping off branches as he went. The trees were easily twenty men thick, and the branches were themselves near as thick as normal trees. He let them fall to the ground with a clatter and crash, material to build a small dwelling with. It would not be pretty, but it would serve them well enough for the night. He only stopped when he reached the top, easily three hundred feet from the ground. He looked down at what had fallen, judging. Then he dropped, taking out the branches on the other side.
By the time Wolfric returned, the creeping cold of night was starting to make its presence known, even if the last rays of a pale sun still fell upon the land. He brought with him a pair of elk haunches, slung over each shoulder by the leg, and a bloody cut along the back of his arm.
“The elk fight back, did it?” Thor asked, even as he used his axe to trim a branch into a more ideal shape, gouging a channel in it. He was working along it carefully, the other end propped up by a small pile of branches already done.
“No,” Wolfric said, “but the ice-tiger that thought to steal our dinner did.” His time away had settled him some, helpless urgency no longer sitting quite so heavily on his shoulders.
Thor huffed a laugh, but Grigori looked up from where he was coaxing a fire to greater life.
“Ice-tiger?” he asked, interested. “They be little, but fierce. And tasty. Uh, small angry beast, good taste?” he added, his Norscan stilted and broken.
“Aye. Yes,” Wolfric said, almost exhausting what Kislevite he knew. “But I did not, uh, hmm. I did not - fuck,” he finished, exhausting the rest. “I did not slay it.”
“Then how did you get away with the meat?” Thor asked. He took up another log.
“I cut it, and took the meat before it could gather its courage again,” Wolfric said, setting the haunches down on a stretch of material they had brought. “It took the offering rather than hunt me.” He took up a sharp knife, and sat on a stump to start rendering his prizes.
“You are sure of that?” Thor asked, nodding to the forest.
Both men looked to the treeline, only a stone’s throw from where they worked, and froze. From the shadows, a pair of luminous yellow orbs could be seen, almost hidden behind the roots. Then they blinked.
“...we make a strong shelter tonight, yes?” Wolfric said.
“Yes,” Grigori said, with feeling. Some sentiments were beyond mere language.
Matters were not helped by the glowing eyes blinking closed once more, only to then fail to reappear.
Both men looked to the pile of logs that Thor was preparing, then to Thor himself, expectant. The god could not help but chuckle, but he did begin to work faster, manhandling timber that would have taken four strong men to carry.
By the time the sun had fallen below distant mountains, there was a roaring fire going, throwing back the shadows, and meat sizzling on a metal dish propped up by rocks at its edge. There was also a triangular cabin, complete with roof and door and mats of pine needles to place their actual bedding on. It was downright comfortable, and the presence of a solid place to hide in case of prowling ice-tiger had the two mortals at ease as they sat by the fire, chewing at hunks of roasted elk. Skins of ale and spirits added to the warmth they felt, and by the time they were licking the juices from their fingers, the moon had risen in truth.
The night was quiet, save the rustling of the wind in the trees, and the three felt themselves growing drowsy. But then Thor happened to look up.
“What in the Nine Realms is that?!” Thor exclaimed, staring at the heavens. A sickle of a moon, green and sickly, was perched high in the sky, sitting like an unwanted guest a distance from the more familiar pale moon.
“Lord Thor?” Wolfric asked, puzzlement in his voice. “That is the Black Moon, the cursed moon.”
“Morrslieb, we call it in the south,” Grigori said. “It has been shy of late,” he added.
Thor scowled up at the thing, misliking the faint ripples of power that wafted from it, like stink from a carcass. “What cycle does it follow? In the months since my arrival, this is the first I have seen it.”
“It goes where it will,” Wolfric said, shrugging and drinking deep of spirit. “Save two nights. Ill nights.”
“Twice each year, it shows its full face,” Grigori said. “Both are nights to seek shelter, and pray.” He stared into the fire for a long moment, remembering something, and took a slow swig from his skin.
Wolfric had squinted in concentration as he listened to the other man, trying to discern his meaning, but the purse of his mouth said he was unsuccessful. “When we took to Skraevold, it showed its face over Vinteerholm, though it fled the night before our - your - return,” he said.
“I do not like it,” Thor said, still staring up with narrowed eyes.
“You do not…” Grigori started, swallowing, “you do not know of Morrslieb?”
“I have seen many moons, and other strange things on the branches of Yggdrasil,” Thor said, hand twitching for his axe, “but never one such as that.”
“Should a god not know?” Grigori asked. He shifted on his stump, like a man standing on the edge of a windy cliff.
“A god should know many things,” Thor said. “Not all things.”
Wolfric stirred. “If anyone claims to know all, they are a fool, or lying.” Then he tsked, knowing his words were not understood.
“Just so,” Thor said, tearing his gaze away from the sickly moon to give his follower a small smile. “If one claims to be all seeing or all knowing, they are mad, or lying,” he repeated for Grigori’s benefit.
“But, Morrslieb?” Grigori said, unable to wrap his head around it. He made as if to drag his hand through his beard, only to hesitate, fingers still sticky. “All know it. Even the smallest child knows its danger.”
“Perhaps you can tell me of it,” Thor said. “What are the dangers of Morrslieb?”
“Mutants, necromancy, and other evil things,” Grigori said. The fire crackled and popped, spitting sparks. “Even a good man caught under its full light might fall to madness.”
“When the grinning face of the Black Moon is close, so is the touch of the gods,” Wolfric added. “When one sought to dedicate themselves to Chaos, the desperate would walk under its face and become godtouched.”
“Chaos,” Thor said. Pinpricks of light glimmered in his eyes, and his expression grew wroth. His gaze returned to the skies. “Perhaps something should be done about it.”
“To be spared its attention would be a boon,” Wolfric said, nodding.
Thor was touched by his easy faith, but it would not be a simple matter, not if he wanted to spare the planet the likely consequences. He would have to know more about its celestial course, and what it was that made it come and go, hiding from him. It was clear there was some intrinsic property of it that made it so inimical to mortal life…his father would have-
“But how do you not know?!” Grigori said, the words almost bursting from him. “Even if you are not- even if you were a man, you would know. You claimed fifteen centuries!”
Something about his tone clued Wolfric into his meaning, and his eye began to slant down into an impressive narrowed stare.
“There is no Morrslieb in my own realm,” Thor said, shrugging. Not the full truth, nor a lie. “Just as you know nothing of Yggdrasil, the World’s Tree, I knew nothing of Morrslieb.”
“Ygg- it is a tree?” Grigori asked, temporarily distracted.
“Of sorts,” Thor said. “It has many branches, paths one might follow through the cosmos.”
Grigori shook himself. “That is not - no. You are-” he cut himself off, frustrated.
“Speak what you will,” Thor said. “Take your time, and know that I will not hold your words against you.”
The dark haired man was quiet for a long moment. “I saw your power over Skraevold,” he said at length, “but I have seen a Beastmen herd frozen by a lone Ice Witch, also.”
“You feel that my might does not prove my claim,” Thor said.
Wolfric glared at the Kislevite now.
“Many have there been that would claim to divinity, to our worship,” Grigori said, grim, shaking his head. “Never were they pure of heart.”
“Ah, Grigori,” Thor said, laughter in his voice now. “I do not claim a right to your worship!”
“You claim to be my god,” Grigori said, gaining confidence now that he had not been smote for his words. “If you are, I owe you my devotion gladly. If you are not, I must deny you.”
“I disagree,” Thor said.
Grigori near goggled at him. “What?”
“I am Thor,” the thunder god said simply. “I do not claim to be your Tor. I may be. I may not. Though I do find it vanishingly unlikely that there is a god so similar to myself in this land if he is not connected to me in some way.”
“But that-”
“If I wished to trick you, I could have,” Thor said, cutting through his frustration. “There is little I can do to prove myself to you that the cancerous Schemer could not. I will tell you what I have told those that follow me - if ever I break their trust, I will have proven myself unworthy, and you ought to turn from me or strike me down.”
Silence fell, sudden and gloomy, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the sighing of wind through the trees and over the plain.
“Gods are…gods are not like this,” Grigori said at last. He sounded lost.
“Other gods, perhaps,” Thor said. “But they are not Thor.” He gave the man a crooked smile. “Watch me. Judge me. In time, you will come to know the truth of me, and you can decide if I am deserving of your worship in my own right.”
“Lord Thor,” Wolfric said. “Tell him - ask him that even if you are not his Tor, what does it matter?”
Thor considered him, and relayed his words.
“What does it matter?” Grigori asked, taken aback, looking between the two of them. “It matters because - because-”
“Thor stands against Chaos,” Wolfric continued. “Thor stands for mankind. What more can we want? Tell him that.”
Thor could not help but beam at his follower - he had finally dropped the ‘Lord’! - before doing as he asked.
Grigori was silent in their wake, brow furrowed in deep thought, the firelight dancing across his face. Again the quietness of the wilderness crept in.
“I cannot answer this,” he said at length. “This is a question for the priests.”
“Then when we find one, we can ask,” Thor said. “Until then, be true to yourself and your god, whoever they may be.”
Wolfric nodded, firm and secure in his belief, while Grigori nodded slowly, uncertain.
The matter was not settled, but such a weighty thing would not be solved in one night by the fire. There was little more talk that night, and only of small and inconsequential things. Their bedrolls beckoned them, and they turned in, leaving the fire to burn itself out.
If Wolfric double checked that the door to their little cabin was wedged firmly closed, the others said nothing, just as they said nothing when he twitched at a distant yowl. The mortals slept with their weapons close to hand that night, old habits tough to shake, even when sharing a room with a god that snored.