Helka’s leap was met by the blunt side of his axe, and she was sent flying back the way she came, arcing over her minions to land in the same crater that the Bifrost had dropped her in. Both impacts, weapon and landing, saw tumorous growths burst and spray their foul contents over the grassy field. More of the small disgusting creatures began to rise from the affected ground.
Lightning cracked overhead, pitch black storm clouds spilling their contents in a torrential downpour. A moment later, thunder boomed, and long heartbeats after that, the rain arrived, fat drops starting to flatten the long grass so heavy was the fall. It seemed to weigh on the little spawns of Nurgle too, turning their tumbling advance into a slog. Some tripped, face down, and found themselves unable to rise, near drowning on dry land.
It wouldn’t be dry for long, as lightning flashed again, spanning the entire sky, and the storm intensified as Thor watched Helka drag herself from the crater once more. There was fury on her face, but it paled to the still rising anger in his gut. A whirling spout began to grow upwards from a neighbouring field, dark grey winds twisting and churning as it grew towards the sky.
“Bury him, Nurglings!” Helka bellowed. Her voice had become thick and twisted, a far cry from the rasp of an old woman, but still it struggled to cut through the clamour of the growing storm around them.
The Nurglings that had pushed through the thick downpour were near on him, and they shrieked and chattered with joy as they tried to obey their master’s commands, leaping and reaching with thin limbs, clawed and covered in pimples and rashes.
Thor gave them the attention they deserved, and a heavy gust of wind caught them, throwing them back towards his foe. Dismayed cries were swept away by the wind, and when the wretched creatures landed they tended to pop in a shower of gore and filth, further spreading the taint of Nurgle’s touch. One was carried high up into the sky, quickly becoming an almost indiscernible dot, until a single finger of lightning arced down to pop it with a small flash.
It was well that the fight was here, Thor noted grimly, in this strange reflection of Asgard rather than in the mortal realm in Vinteerholm. It did not do to dwell on what sickness could have festered had it been so. Heavy sheets of rain continued to pour down, diluting the miasma and sheddings of the Nurgle spawns, but still it lingered, and more was being shed with every passing moment.
Again Helka charged, her form still mutating and growing, but it was clear that for all her misused knowledge of healing, she was no warrior. She bowled a wave of Nurglings aside as she rushed him, heavy, bulbous arm drawn back to crush him into the earth.
Almost contemptuously, Thor stepped aside, letting the blow fall uselessly on the ground, sending clods of earth flying. He shook his axe, flicking off the viscera that clung to it, and stepped towards the next wave of Nurglings, uncaring of Helka’s still figure.
There was a thud, and then two more, and finally a great wet crash. Arm, head, knees, body. The Nurglings wailed as they saw their master fall, and they rushed forward even more mindlessly, stumbling and crawling through the muddy field, some even dragging themselves forward.
Thor took them in with a single glance, and gave an absent wave of his hand. Lightning surged over the field in a wave, snapping and crackling as it killed the foul creatures, sweeping through them. They died with tortured screams, and then there was only the sound of the storm.
Water soaked his hair, dripping from his thick beard as he surveyed the field. The storm began to calm, the tornado shrinking and the rain easing now that the taint had been purged. The walls of golden Asgard, Old and New and all at once, gleamed in the distance. But that was not what drew his eye.
The corruption shed by the creatures of Decay still lingered, for all it had been diluted by the storm. It was fading in defeat, but Thor could feel it upon the land, like a patch of coarseness on an otherwise smooth surface. It had the stench of sickness to it, and he remembered another time that corpses had watered the fields of Asgard, only to hide a poison in themselves. Lady Dove had spied it then, but she was not here now.
The essence of vanquished foes was feeding the earth. He would have to move quickly.
Thor looked with sight beyond sight - but there were no currents to be seen, only sodden fields and grey skies. He frowned, knowing that to be a lie, and wove his power with greater care. He could feel a strain in the place where his right eye had once sat, like a pressure straining to be released, and he looked deeper.
Sensation bloomed in his empty socket, like dry ice rasping over metal. In his left eye, he saw the field as it ever was, but his right… He winced at the difference, forcing his left eye closed, and took in the land before him with his missing right.
Not gold or silver but a mix of both, gleaming in a way that mundane metal never could. It reminded him of raw Uru, only so much more. Stalks of grass bowed by the rain, disturbed earth, leaves carried by the wind, the very air itself - all were made by or suffused by the metallic current. Even the soft exhalations he released with each breath were tinted by it.
It was the colour of Asgard, Old and New and all at once.
It was the colour of Asgard, and there was a taint, attempting to tarnish it, to sicken and weaken it from within.
Thunder boomed anew as Thor stepped forward, crossing a dozen yards in a single movement, and then he was kneeling amidst the muck. It was not where Helka had been slain, nor where the bulk of the Nurglings had been purged, but almost to the side, a spot of putrid brown and bilious green that was trying to burrow its way into the gleam of the earth.
It had the same oily sheen as the current that he had seen oozing from under the door of the twins’ room in the healer’s house - that he had been permitted to see - but now he knew it well, and there was no mistaking it. A rumble sounded in Thor’s chest as his bearing grew dark. It could not hide from him now, and he reached for it, just as he had reached for the sickness that Lady Dove had once set to bubble and boil from where it had infected his realm. Lightning that was not truly lightning sparked in his fists, and the sickness seemed to wail as it was purged, purified, hallowed.
When the light faded, there was no sickness, only the remnants of the power it had held, and even that was swiftly sinking into the goldsilver of the realm he stood upon, feeding it, strengthening it. The muck he knelt in joined it swiftly, absorbed in victory, and soon the field was marred only by furrows and craters and the result of inclement weather.
Thor rose, letting out a steady breath. There was a smile upon his face, and he let his sight beyond sight fade, opening his left eye again to see the green of grass and the earthy tones of dirt, the blue sky peeking through grey clouds. Power had flavour, but to be seen, it had to be understood. He was beginning to understand.
The sun overhead was revealed, brightening the land, and in the distance he could see faceless shapes frolicking in the fields once more. By the gates of the city, more concrete movement caught his eye, golden armour standing out even against the walls. He took to the air, wind whipping at his hair and wringing the rain from it.
Thor landed easily on the paved road that led to the imposing gates of the city, and took in its protector.
“My King,” the man said, yellow eyes watching the horizon. “Your foundation strengthens.”
“So it does,” Thor said. He inspected the man who stood before him carefully, and closed his left eye. His right opened, and he saw in the man before him the same goldsilver that he saw in the walls and the sky and the very earth he stood upon.
Heimdall glanced to him, eyebrow raised in silent question.
“Who are you?” Thor asked. There was no threat here, but the mystery pulled at his mind all the same.
The being wearing the face of Heimdall only smiled, goldsilver teeth shining even against the gleam of his skin. Thor blinked, his sight beyond sight falling away, and then it was no longer Heimdall but Nick Fury, meeting his single eye with his own.
“I’ve got my eye on you,” Fury said, clad in golden armour. He tapped his eye patch, still grinning.
Before Thor could respond, the Bifrost burst from the heavens to envelop him, and then he was departing his realm, almost ushered on his way and left feeling like he hadn’t since the days where his mother would walk he and Loki to their classes.
For all he had not called the Bifrost himself, he still controlled it, guided it. Vinteerholm was his target, and two paths stood out to him. One took him directly to the point he had left, where he could feel a jagged tear in the world. The other took him nearby, but to a beacon of safety, a lighthouse of sorts providing safe passage.
Impatience and worry took root in his bones, worsened by whatever threat had caused his people to pray to him for aid. He aimed for the same point he had departed, beyond the reach of the guiding light. Whatever threat had entered the world in the wake of his departure, he would deal with.
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Outside the protection of the Bifrost, a thirsting god laughed.
Thor’s boots met dirt, and he strode out of the rainbow, Stormbreaker at the ready - but then he stopped, taken aback by what he saw. Two moons hung in the sky, pale Mannslieb and sickly green Morrslieb, neither full, but both casting their light down through the night sky. It had scarcely been afternoon when he had taken Helka away, bare minutes ago.
The town was quiet around him, but if it was the quiet of the grave or the quiet of sleep he did not know. Nothing was burning, though the row of houses that the healer’s had belonged to was reduced to nothing but splinters and rubble.
There were no corpses strewn about, and he allowed himself to hope as he began to prowl, looking about. Keen ears picked up footsteps beating a rapid approach, and then from around the corner of the lane, a young man appeared, barely more than a youth.
“God of Thunder,” he gasped, relief clear across his face. For all he was broad and strong, his voice still cracked, and pimples dotted his forehead. “You’re back!”
“What has happened here?” Thor demanded. “Where is everyone?”
“Longhouse,” the blond haired boy said, coming to a stop before him, heaving and out of breath. One arm was freshly bandaged, but he was otherwise unharmed. “You must come quickly, God of Thunder, I don’t know how much longer-!”
Thor wasted no more time, taking to the sky in a great arc, looking to come down in the square before the longhouse. There was a faint plea to wait, quickly cut off, but he could not slow, no matter how much the boy might want to join him. He had been absent in their time of need, but he would delay no further.
X
Ragnar peeked around the corner of the house, wishing he had worn his hat like Pa always told him to. Ma had said he could go and see Astrid and Elsa, but right as he had reached the healer’s street, there had been a huge crash, and then Lord Thor and a monster had burst out from a house.
For all his Ma always said he needed to think twice sometimes, Ragnar was not a foolish child, which was why he had quickly ducked behind a corner before settling in to watch the fight. Now he squinted down the road, wishing he had a hat to shield his eyes from the afternoon sun as Lord Thor faced down the big monster.
There was a lot of talking for a monster fight, but maybe that was how they went. Ragnar wasn’t sure, it being his first monster fight. Astrid and Elsa said they had seen Lord Thor bring home a dead manticore, but he wasn’t sure that counted, even if they kept saying they were right because they outnumbered him. He wasn’t sure that counted either.
More people arrived, from the far end of the street, behind Lord Thor. He knew Wolfric and Eirik and Halvar, because people said they were the best warriors in Vinteerholm, which meant they had to be almost as strong as Pa, but he didn’t know the rest. He couldn’t see what happened next, but there was no missing the huge rainbow that fell from the sky, blasting into the ground. A moment later it faded, and Ragnar was left gaping, Lord Thor and the monster nowhere to be seen.
“Thor strike me,” Ragnar said, awed, repeating something his Pa said sometimes. That was totally-
Whatever it was, the boy did not have time to finish the thought. Where the rainbow had landed, something was stirring, a fell warping of the air. A circle began to grow from the top down, and it looked like water flowing over clear ice as it grew. Black glass pooled where it touched the ground, and Ragnar could hear shouting from the people on the other side of it.
The circle rippled, and a monster stepped through. Where the first monster was green, this one was red, and it had black horns. It screeched something, words the boy did not know, and looked over its shoulder, back towards Ragnar. He gasped and shrank back, away from its terrible gaze, but it was not looking at him - it was looking through the circle, the portal.
The monster was joined by another, and then another, the portal rippling as they stepped through. Still more came. All had skin the colour of fire, and all had black horns, like demon goats, and some had scraps of metal armour.
“Thor will beat you,” Ragnar said, conviction firm, watching as they started to work themselves up, chanting a name that made his head hurt. “Thor will kill you all!” He was too far away to be heard, and his voice hardly more than a murmur.
One of the monsters heard him all the same, turning to pin him with its dread stare through the portal.
Ragnar froze, pinned in place, terror holding his heart in its clawed hand. The monster that saw him stepped around the portal, away from the small crowd of others, and gave a chittering laugh. A long tongue tasted the air, and then suddenly it was charging towards him.
The boy couldn’t move, but he knew that he had to run. Pa said the gods helped those who helped themselves, but he couldn’t move, and the monster was almost on him, black metal blade pulled back to cut him in half.
At the last moment, he screamed and made a fist, just like Ma had showed him. He closed his eyes as he punched out.
“THOR!”
He punched air, and he heard a whoosh, but there was no pain, only the furious growl of a thwarted monster and a giddy feeling in his belly. He opened his eyes, and found himself still facing the portal and the fight that had started beyond it. There was lightning flashing and thunder blasting, screams and howls rising in the street, but still he heard a hoof shifting in the dirt, and he looked back. The monster was there, and it had noticed him. It spun, again trying to cut him in half with its black blade.
“Thor!” Ragnar yelped, and again he escaped death, but this time he kept his eyes open, and he saw how.
Before his disbelieving eyes, his body turned into a buzzing ball of lightning, and then he had SO MUCH ENERGY. He zipped forward, through the monster, then back and forth twice more for good measure. It seized up, locking in place and shaking violently, before it fell to the ground face first, landing on its own sword. Steaming blood began to spill beneath it.
Ragnar found himself with his normal body once again, jaw dropping, but only for a moment. He began to giggle, then to cackle. He jumped up onto the monster’s back, up and down like Pa never let him do on his bed, cackling all the while.
A boom and the collapse of a house reminded him that there were more monsters, and he stopped jumping. Determination settled over his shoulders. Thor had blessed him because he was a faithful, and now he had to help him back.
“Thor!” Ragnar said, and then he was crackling with lightning again, rushing towards the fighting. He was going to zap ALL the monsters.
X
Wolfric stepped forward to join Harad and Helena, thankful that the old warriors had stopped their charge once Thor had vanished with the creature that had once been Helka. He put his thoughts on the woman who had delivered him and his sisters aside, pushing away the sick feeling that maybe there was a reason their mother had died in the birthing bed. His sisters needed him now, needed him to hold off the daemons that were stepping through the portal that had sprung up the moment their god had departed. He would not be found wanting in his absence.
“What are they?” Wolfric asked. At his side, slight Halvar shifted, tensing and loosing his grip on axe and dagger, red beard glinting in the sun.
“Minions of Bloodlust,” Harad said, tightly leashed rage colouring his tone. “Bloodletters, they are called. We are lucky we are few.”
“Lucky?” Eirik asked from Wolfric’s other side, the big blond man a solid presence. His axe was as large as Harad’s, though not borne quite so easily.
“They gain strength with every kill, it is food and drink to them,” Helena said. There was a wild look in her eyes, like an ice-tiger denied its prey. “I have seen them overcome much larger forces, growing from a pebble to an avalanche.”
They were less than a dozen, and already outnumbered. If Tyra and Gunnhilde were there he would feel more confident, but they were not. The Bloodletters were building themselves into a frenzy now, chanting in some foul tongue unknown to him, but he could make out the name of their god. Khorne. Khorne. Khorne. Each cry saw a pressure pulsing in his skull, but he refused to be cowed.
The sun still shone, peeking through the clouds overhead. It had become comforting to see them grow with Thor’s ire, but now he was gone, fighting a greater foe, and they stood without him.
No, Wolfric reminded himself. Never without him. “Thor,” he said, beating his sword on his shield. “Thor, Thor!”
“Aye,” a new voice joined them. “Thor.” It was Bjorn, his chest inflamed, barely healed wounds already beginning to show hints of pus.
“Where are my sisters?” Wolfric demanded.
“I gave them to one who would take them safely to the grove,” Bjorn said, eyes on the Bloodletters. He bore no weapon, but by the way his hands were flexing, he did not feel he needed one. “I will not miss this fight.”
There was a sheen of sweat on his brow, and it was clear that getting the twins clear of the house had cost him, but there was no time to question him, for the daemons of Bloodlust were charging, shrieking with a sick joy for battle and eagerness for blood.
“Thor give us strength,” Wolfric said, stepping forward to meet them.
And Thor did.
Thunder roared with every blow of his blessed sword, and he did not so much cut through the daemons as sunder them. Crackling power shrouded his mammoth hide mantle, turning away what blows Halvar and Eirik could not stop. For all their skill, the two men were almost ignored as the daemons threw themselves at Wolfric, racing each other to get to him first.
He was not the only one targeted so. On the other side of the street, Bjorn wore lightning like a cloak, and with every swing of his fists, more surged, drawing daemons in to be battered as they shook and cooked, flesh steaming. He began to scream as reason left him, a chilling, unending thing in the language of violence, and more daemons flocked to him, almost sensing a kindred spirit.
For all they bore the blessings of Thor, though, they were not the most pressed. That was Harad and Helena, holding the middle of the street between them and fighting with something beyond mere familiarity. Harad was a mountain, greataxe moving with speed it had no right to, hewing down daemons like they were wheat before a scythe. Helena stood at his back, almost pressed directly against him, her sword questing out to pierce throats and block strikes from Bloodletters that used the deaths of their fellows as openings. She leapt, outright climbing him, supporting herself with a single hand on her husband’s shoulder to catch the falling strike of a leaping Bloodletter.
Still, the daemons came. More and more slipped from the portal, and there was no telling when they would end. Some of the newly arrived had no patience to wait for their turn, and they turned for the houses, pouring into them with the crashing and splintering of old timber. Wolfric had a bare moment to be thankful that most should be out working, but if they could not keep the daemons contained, that would mean nothing.
“Thor!” a boy chirped, giggling.
Wolfric’s eyes bulged as he saw him appear in the thick of the fighting, suddenly appearing from nothing. He blew another daemon apart with a swipe of his sword, already lunging to get to the boy, only for his effort to be unneeded.
“Thor!” the boy shouted, and he disappeared, replaced by a ball of crackling lightning, zooming about the battle and shocking every Bloodletter he passed, setting them to stumbling and falling, easy pickings for the warriors they sought to slay.
A house began to collapse, overcome by the rush of daemons into it, and the one beside it followed. If they were surrounded, blessings or no, they would be overcome, drowned by sheer numbers.
Then, a furious trumpeting sounded.
Trumpetter came, and he did not come alone. On his back was Kirsa, red cloak billowing about her. With them came the storm.
Thunder boomed with each step, reverberating loudly, and the mammoth seemed larger than the juvenile he was. Sparks came too with each step, resembling the storm more than the forge. Lightning roiled within the woman, seeking to escape, setting her eyes to glowing in its attempts. Brown hair whipped about in unseen winds as she opened her mouth to scream, though it was not sound that burst forth, but power.
A Bloodletter leaping over its brethren to get at her was pierced by a bolt, a smoking hole left through its torso, and then Trumpetter had joined their line at Bjorn’s side. A knot of foes burst from the house near him, only to be trampled into paste. More came as the house collapsed, but Kirsa was ready, drawing her arm back as a spear of lightning formed in it. She hurled it at them, and they were hurled into the air in an explosion of blood and gore.
Still the torrent of daemons only grew. More sought to get around the scrum, the houses hardly an obstacle, and Trumpetter met them in turn, charging forward with a ringing bellow. Tusks of lightning sprouted, sweeping back and forth to vaporise all they touched, leaving bloody mist and tumbling body parts, but so too did the buildings suffer, creating more space for the Bloodletters to advance.
“Thor!” Ragnar shouted as best he could, young voice rising up as he appeared and disappeared. “Thor!”
“God of Thunder!” Wolfric bellowed, lending his voice as he smote another daemon, blasting it to bits.
“Odin’s son!” Kirsa screamed, voice carried by the lightning as she spread death with it.
“Chaos, we say thee NAY!” their voices came together as one, denying their enemy as they exulted their god.
Trumpetter added his defiance, and Bjorn’s unending scream rose with it as he tore a Bloodletter in half with crackling fists. The warriors stepped forward as one, ferocity and god given power driving back the daemons and drowning out their horrid chanting.
But only for a moment. The portal rippled and darkened in colour, tinted the red of old blood, and more daemons began to pour through, becoming a torrent in truth. Something immense seemed to loom beyond it, a pressure approaching that pained the world to bear. They could not hold out for much longer. They needed Thor.
It was at that point that the dragon arrived.