Mammoth for dinner, mammoth for breakfast, mammoth for brunch, lunch, and tea. Thor was beginning to regret finding such a bounty, even if Trumpetter was proving to be a boon companion. In the three days since his arrival, the nameless village had been cleaned and repaired in the wake of the raid, burnt out husks salvaged of what wood they could, and shelter found for all. No longer did they have to gather in the longhouse, huddling for warmth and security. They could even stoke their fires as high as they liked, after Thor had toppled one of the gigantic trees from the nearby forest and dragged it back for the villagers to swarm over. The longship that had carried their attackers so far east into the mountains had been looted for all it was worth and dragged ashore so it could be burnt in full, serving as a pyre for fallen family. The raiders had received no such farewell, merely carried further away from the village, stripped of valuables, and left for carrion.

On the fourth day, a messenger was sent to Thor, carried by the young boy with a now fading bruise on his face.

“God of Thunder,” the boy said, puffing slightly as he came to a stop. “Helka says the woman from the longship, she woke up.”

“Thank you, little one,” Thor said, turning from the ditch he was digging. He wore only trousers, finding the clear day pleasantly cool. “Now show me your fist.”

The boy made a fist, putting on a ferocious scowl.

“Very good. How is Trumpetter doing?”

“Astrid and Elsa won’t let anyone else ride him,” the boy said, pouting now.

“You must remind them to share, Brandt,” Thor said. “And give Trumpetter a break, if he wants it.”

“Trumpetter never gets tired,” Brandt insisted. “I’ll tell them you said they had to get off.” He ran off before Thor could say anything else.

Thor hummed to himself as he drained a waterskin, taking in his work. The ditch had nearly circled the village on one side of the river, and soon they would begin erecting the wall.

“Godly one,” a soft voice murmured, growing near.

“Aslaug,” Thor said.

She handed over a fresh skin, taking the empty one from him. She had been nearby for most of the day, ostensibly aiding all those on digging detail with him, but conveniently nearby whenever he needed something.

“Are you taking a break? Is there anything you need?” Aslaug asked, eyes flitting over his bare torso.

“I go to see Helka,” Thor said. “The woman we rescued from the Aeslings has woken.”

Aslaug bit her lip, concern on her face. “Is Helka alone with her? The Aeslings are not above fighting amongst themselves.”

“Her apprentices are with her,” Thor said, “and a healer has many options for subduing rowdy patients.” He took a slower pull of the waterskin she had given him.

“As you say, Lord Thor,” Aslaug said. Her hair seemed to shine in the sunlight, and her cheeks were flushed with the cold.

“Thank you for the water,” Thor said, as he squinted back down the line of the ditch, trying to see if a pair of women needed separating or were just horsing around. He reached out blindly to pat her on the shoulder, but found himself with a hand full of hair. Rather than retract his hand, he patted her on the head twice more, pretending he had meant to do so all along.

Aslaug flushed pinker, wriggling her shoulders slightly. She bit her lip again, but this time there was something different about it, and Thor quickly made his escape, leaving behind the awkward situation before it could grow any worse.

Most of the villagers were busy with some task or another, but given that it wasn’t safe to leave the village with anything less than an armed party or Thor at their side, these tasks were all inside the village. Elders still determined to be of use, women who had stayed behind while their husbands went to war, younglings on the verge of adulthood but not there yet - all acknowledged him as he passed through on his way to Helka’s home, and he did the same in turn. Some of the wariness that had come from their introduction to him had fallen away, and Wolfric’s new attitude towards him had helped as well, even if some still lingered.

Helka’s home was on the edge of the village, on the north eastern end by the river. Strange smells sometimes came from it, and most of the villagers avoided it unless in need for that reason. A wreath of herbs hung above the door.

Thor knocked, and waited.

“Yes boy? What did he say?” Helka’s voice called out, scratchy and tired.

“He said he would come immediately,” Thor said.

There was a clatter and some quick movement, before the door was opened, revealing Helka. Her hair was as grey as it ever was.

“Godly one,” Helka said. “Hadn’t expected you so quick.”

“I heard our guest had woken.”

“Aye,” Helka said. “Be welcome, come in.” She stepped back, returning to whatever task she had been at before his arrival.

Thor entered, and saw that Helka and her guest were not the only ones inside. One of her young apprentices was present, dabbing at the face of said guest with a damp cloth as she lay tucked into a bed on the other side of the room. At his entrance, the woman in the bed looked over to him, meeting his eyes, and he paused for a moment. There was hate within them, deep wells of hate and loathing, but he was not the target, and she looked away. When he had pulled her from the longship, he had thought her hair merely stained with blood, but as she had been cleaned of the filth that had clung to her, it was clear the dark red was her natural colour.

He approached the bed, keeping his hands visible.

“How do you fare?” he asked of the woman. The cuts and wounds she had borne had been seen to, now scabbed over and starting to heal.

“I am recovering,” the woman said. Her voice was low, but hard. “Your wise woman told me what happened.”

“Do you need anything?”

“The skull that was with me, what happened to it?”

“I buried it, in a bend by the river downstream,” Thor said, watching her closely as she closed her eyes and let out the barest of sighs. “I did not know if it belonged to one you cherished, or hated.”

The woman opened her eyes again, and for a moment there was a glimmer of a tear, but then it was gone. It was surely a trick of the light that shone in through the window by the bed.“I thank you for getting him off that ship,” she said.

Thor nodded slowly. “I am the enemy of any and all who would commit such deeds.”

“I would that you had spared them, so I could watch the light fade from their eyes with my own, by my own hands,” the woman said. Despite her words, her tone was flat, and she lay still in the bed.

Helka clucked her tongue at her apprentice, and tossed her head towards another corner of the room. The girl, almost a woman, was quick to catch on, and hurried to fetch another chair from there, taking it from a table full of reagents. She placed it for Thor to use, and returned to her task, smoothing her coarse dress as she sat.

“What is your name?” Thor asked the patient, taking a seat with a nod of thanks.

“I am Tyra,” she said, “of Vinteerholm.” Green eyes watched him, ignoring the girl tending to her. “But we never heard of one such as you.”

“I’m new,” Thor said. “Just arrived, trying to make a good impression on the neighbours, you know how it is.”

“Your neighbours are dead or Aeslings,” Tyra said bluntly.

“Vinteerholm was taken?” Helka asked.

“Where do you think that ship came from?” Tyra answered. “The Aeslings took it, and are using it as a base to raid further.”

“This bodes ill,” Helka rasped. “They will offer us all to the Hound if they can.”

“No one shall be offered to anyone,” Thor said, a simple statement of fact.

Tyra sought to sit up, though she needed aid from the apprentice and a pillow. “You have quarrel with the Aeslings.” There was life in her voice now.

“I have several reasons to dislike them, yes,” Thor said.

“Driving such filth from our lands would earn you much renown,” Tyra said. “Many would flock to such a banner.” Her words lacked subtlety, but none was intended.

“I would indeed enjoy driving such men away with their tails between their legs,” Thor said. He stroked his beard, considering. “Where else do they raid?”

“Whatever hamlets and villages they can reach,” Tyra said. “They husband their strength in my home. A cunning strike could rob them of much of their strength. You would not need many.” Her words came faster now, eager to convince him.

“I would not need any,” Thor said. “But while I could strike Vinteerholm and slay all enemies within, any outside would flee like rats, free to raid as they did.”

Tyra held her tongue, but her doubt was plain upon her face.

Thor chuckled. “How many live in Vinteerholm?”

“Five thousand, when it swells during the worst winters,” Tyra said. She forced herself up further, one muscled arm trembling as she used it to support herself, and the blanket slipped from her, revealing a bandaged torso. She swung her bare legs out of the bed, and pulled the blanket further over her lap, hiding scars.

“How many Aeslings lurk there?”

“No more than three hundred,” she said. “But not all will be there when you strike. Some will be out raiding, like those - like the ones that you killed here.” She held back a shiver by force of will.

“What of a map of the local lands?” Thor asked. “If I would slay these foes, I would know to where they flee.”

“That is a richer prize than any settlement near here would have, and I know only my own home,” Tyra said, grudgingly.

“Say we drive them from you home,” Thor said, “how do we ensure they never return? Where do we strike next?”

Tyra laughed, but it was a hollow thing. “You kill, and kill, and you keep killing until even the Lord of Murder has almost had his fill. But they would likely flee to Skraevold, unless they have sacked more settlements between here and there, not simply passed them.”

Thor rested his hands on his belly, drumming his fingers, considering. He glanced at the apprentice, sitting by the bedside with cloth in hand now that Tyra was focused on him. “Young apprentice,” he said, drawing her attention, “would you mind taking care of that thing you needed to do with your master? On the other side of the room?”

The girl was again quick on the uptake, leaving to stand by her teacher, giving Thor and Tyra the illusion of privacy.

“Do you have surviving family?” he asked quietly.

Tyra’s face went back to the same flatness it had held at the start of their conversation. “None.”

“Is there anyone to be saved?”

“Many. These are raiders, not dogs who bathe in blood for its own sake,” Tyra said. “They come from the north, but not that far north.”

“If you cannot save your family, then I shall help you avenge them,” Thor said. “On my oath, be done.”

Tyra looked him over, taking in his shirtless form, and the dirt on his hands. There was power hidden in his body to be sure, but he looked like a farmer, not a great warrior. “The wise woman tells me you are a great warrior. If you will walk beside me as I take my vengeance, I will be glad for it.”

He nodded. “You must rest,” he said, rising to his feet. “Regain your strength. I must speak with the people, and tell them of what has happened.”

Tyra accepted his words, and eased the iron grip she held on herself, almost falling back into the bed. The apprentice hurried over, easing her in and covering her once more with the blanket.

Clenching his jaw, Thor looked away. He had almost forgotten the savagery of the more base forms of war. The contests of champions that the Avengers so often fought in had taken him away from it. He had forgotten the sentient costs.

A hand darted out to seize his wrist in an iron grip. “They didn’t rape me,” Tyra said, bubbling fury in her gaze. “I bit the cock off the only one to try. I’m not weak.” She bared her teeth at him. They were almost sharp.

Gently, Thor pried her grip from him, and laid her hand on her chest. He smoothed sweat slick hair back from her forehead. “Rest.”

Tyra fell back, only able to keep one eye open, and she stared at him through it, watching as he left the healer’s hut. She surrendered to sleep shortly after.

X

The longhouse was host to a gathering of elders. Given the state of the village, that meant over half its inhabitants.

Thor sat in the chieftain’s chair, still no more comfortable with it than he had ever been as the supposed King of Asgard. There had been talk of turning the manticore he had slain into a trophy to bracket the chair, but the last woman with the skill had been slain during the raid, and her sons had gone out to fight and were yet to return, leaving the corpse to be burnt away from the village. The topic today was not on how to honour the one to save them from death or worse, but on what the presence of Aeslings in Vinteerholm meant for them.

“If they’re in Vinteerholm, they could have come up the Tobol for all we know,” one grizzled grandfather was arguing. The elders were all sat at the tables closest to the thr-the chieftain’s chair.

“Through Kislev?” a tiny but fierce grandmother said, derisive.

“You think they dragged their ships through Troll Country?” he shot back. “Past Vinnskor, and Jottenheim?”

“It does not matter how they got to Vinteerholm,” Wolfric said. He did not raise his voice, but he was heard all the same. “It only matters that they are there, and that they used it to raid us.”

“Our warriors are all gone to war,” another grandfather said. “We don’t have the strength to force them out.”

There was a pause, as many looked to Thor.

“I do not care to let such raiders live,” Thor said, “but there are many ways to bait a bilgesnipe.” Movement caught his eye, and he realised that a pair of small eavesdroppers were listening in, crouched under one of the far tables. He caught Elsa and Astrid’s eyes for a brief moment, before looking away. “I could strike at Vinteerholm directly, and slay the raiders there, or I could lay in wait for them as they ventured out, picking them off.”

“If you took Vinteerholm, the others would flee and slink away like the rats,” the fierce grandmother said.

“If you struck as they left, they might fortify and wait,” another old man said.

“There are three other villages that are in easy striking distance from Vinteerholm,” Wolfric said. He spoke to the group, but he was watching Thor. “If they hit us, they have hit them.”

“I will see to the other villages first,” Thor said. “Are they fortified?”

Wolfric shook his head, but he held his head high as he answered you. “Much like our own home. Some few hundred, no walls. The closest to Vinteerholm by river is to the south, the next to the west, and the furthest to the north. We are the third most distant.”

Thor grimaced. The odds were good that they had been hit already. “Once I ensure their safety, I will strike Vinteerholm. If I am quick, they will not know of their danger,” he said.

“If they do?” an elder asked. “The storm comes for all, not just the foe.”

“I will give them a choice,” Thor said. “The lives of the townsfolk in return for their own.”

There was some grumbling, but none argued. No option was perfect.

“If Vinteerholm is razed, the coming winter will be lean,” someone said. “We rely on them for trade.”

“I have taken responsibility for you,” Thor said. “I will not allow you to starve.”

“Your will, Lord Thor.” The words were not said by all, but more than a few. He felt buoyed by their faith in him in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

“Will you go alone?” Wolfric asked. “I am the last warrior here, and I am…lessened.” The words seemed to pain him.

“I will,” Thor said. “The skies grow cold in a way that humans find unpleasant, and it is there that I move swiftest.”

Wolfric nodded once, accepting his words, but he wasn’t done.

“Nor would I leave this village without protection,” he said. “A warrior is needed to defend it.” He said it expectantly, staring at the man who believed in him.

“Then a warrior it will have,” Wolfric said, though there was a grim set to his jaw.

“From what I have seen, you will not be alone to take up arms,” he added, glancing at the small but fierce grandmother.

She cackled. “My daughter would go to war with you if you asked, God of Thunder.”

“This isn’t war,” Thor said. “This is pest control.”

“When will you leave, godly one?” a particularly venerable old man asked.

“Today,” Thor said. He cast his eye around the longhouse, taking in the torches and the two eavesdroppers still hiding underneath the table.

“Then we will eat, and speed you on your way,” Wolfric said, glancing at an old woman; it was the one who had asked Thor to take the chieftain’s room when he first arrived. She gave him a nod.

“Oh, mammoth,” Thor said, trying to show some enthusiasm. “My favourite.”

The impromptu council began to dissolve. They would feast to send their protector on his way, and drink to his health. The Aeslings would know the might of Thor.

X x X

He ventured south first, making for the village most at risk from the raiders that had made Vinteerholm their own. Untamed mountains and primaeval forests passed beneath him, and the wind whistled through his hair. The air was cold enough to leave a mortal frozen, but he had ventured into the depths of Jotunheim.

No craft of the local mortals could match his speed, and Thor focused as he caught sight of sunlight glimmering on the river he sought. It was another fork of the river that Wolfric’s village lay upon, and the village he flew to check on was likewise built by it. He dropped low, scarce metres above the water, eyes peeled for his target. A spray was kicked up in his wake, and a curious moose looked up at his passing, but he was already gone.

He came to a stop when he found the southern village, rising up to look down on it from just above the roofline. Stormbreaker warmed in his hand, as he inspected the land with a frown. It was not as he had feared, or even as he had hoped.

The village had been visited by raiders, that was for certain, as the granary had been burnt and the doors of the longhouse broken open, snow blowing freely inside. What was not present were signs of battle, or the corpses of the slain. There were not even piles of slaughtered livestock. A possibility occurred to Thor, and he was hopeful.

Muffled cursing caught his ear, and his gaze snapped towards it. From one of the houses a figure emerged, a bulging sack carried over one shoulder. It was an unkempt mess of a man, axe at his hip and a swelling black eye. A raider.

The Aesling froze as he saw Thor, floating in the sky above the village he was looting. For a moment, the two stared at each other. Then, the raider’s hand blurred for his axe.

Thor was faster. Lightning flashed, and the raider dropped, smoking.

The thunderer waited, but there were no cries of alarm, no calls to arms. There were no more raiders here, and no villagers either. They had clearly escaped before their coming, but he had no time to track them down. There were still two more villages to check on, to the west and to the north. If the fates were kind, he would find similar scenes there, though he still he worried.

He took to the skies once more, disappearing as quickly as he had come.

X

Thor landed in the centre of the village to the west, his visage grim. It was as he feared.

Ash and rubble. Little beyond long burnt out husks remained, the well poisoned and long furrows of what had once been winter crops made a dumping ground for corpses. The ground had been watered with the blood of children and elders, and he bore witness to their bodies, piled like so much refuse. There were no young men and women to be seen, however - whether because they were somewhere off fighting, as in Wolfric’s village, or because they were taken, he couldn’t say. He turned away from the terrible sight.

His boot knocked against something hidden under the snow, and he paused, leaning down to pick it up. Blood and mud marred the small object, and he cleaned it with snow, revealing a small wooden carving of some kind of big cat. It was the kind of token a parent would make for a child. Briefly, he considered placing it amongst the carnage, where its owner must surely lay, but the idea sat ill with him, and he tucked it into his pocket.

To reach the village he had first saved required raiders to pass this one, but he did not think the ones responsible for this atrocity were those he had already slain. From the sky, he had seen a fork in the river, and another village was said to lay at the end of the northern passage. If he was quick, and fortunate…

Stormbreaker thrummed in his hand, and he took to the skies once more, leaving the razed village behind. If he had anything to say about it, there would not be another.

North he flew, passing by the eastern fork of the river that led back to ‘his’ village with only a glance. In minutes he covered ground that would have taken mortals hours, hair and beard whipping in the wind.

In time, he grew close to his goal. He knew this because of the rising smoke he could see, and his grip on Stormbreaker tightened. The clouds overhead darkened, and he bent more of his focus upon his speed, hoping he was not again too late.

The village had not fallen, not yet. He dropped altitude, falling low enough to see details of the scene. The smoke came not from the village, but from an enormous bonfire that had been lit outside its wooden palisade. A swarm of warriors were gathered around it, drinking and cheering. They looked more like a rowdy party than the raiders they were, in sharp contrast to the grim and haggard faces that Thor could see behind the walls. A longship was nearby, staked to the riverbank, and a few guards were on it. There was an iron grate on its deck, and through it, his keen eyes could just make out a huddled mass of bodies.

One of the raiders was shouting at the village, standing before the gates. Whatever he said, the gates began to open, and an old greybeard stepped through. He was armoured in steel, and his bare arms were thickly corded with muscle. He carried a double headed axe like it was a hatchet, and he bellowed something back at the raiders, but it spurred only laughter from them. The challenger and the old man began to circle, and Thor knew it was time to intervene.

The greybeard was strong, and as Thor watched he spilled the guts of his challenger over the snow. Another man was already stepping up, but he trusted in the warrior to survive. He had others to save first.

Like the Midgardian heroine Mary Poppins, Thor descended from the sky, landing on the deck of the longship with nary a sound. The few guards were completely occupied by the fight by the village, cursing and insulting the greybeard and their fallen fellows with great cheer, as the warrior cut another one down. They had time to wonder at what had caused the creaking of a deck plank, before Stormbreaker severed their heads from their bodies with a single blow. Thor stepped out of the way of the arterial spray, already making for the stairs that led below.

The longship lacked the foul feeling of the other he had come across, but it was just as large. He made straight for the underdeck where the oarsmen usually worked, currently repurposed to hold prisoners. It was dark and cold, only a single source of light to be seen.

Thor ghosted up behind the Aesling who was looking over at the thirty or so prisoners, much in the way a farmer might inspect their cattle. He was leering at a young woman in a torn dress, the blonde near snarling back up at him, even as her fellows clutched at her, though it seemed more to stop her from lunging at him than to protect her. Their ankles bore iron manacles, and chains connected them.

Most were women, but there were some men too, and some saw him approach from the darkness. He gave them a reassuring smile, and held a finger to his lips as he came to a stop almost directly behind the raider. He breathed lightly on the back of the man’s neck.

The raider shivered, confusion clear in his frame, and he turned with a question on his lips. “Wha-”

“Boo,” Thor said.

He was rewarded with a shriek, and he buried his fist in the man’s gut, cutting it off and knocking him back into the crowd of prisoners. It was like watching a side of beef be dropped to piranhas; as one they swarmed the man, biting and scratching and hitting. Manacle chains were wrapped around his neck and pulled tight. A dagger at his belt was pulled free and driven into every bit of flesh the wielder could reach. He did not survive for long.

Thor grabbed the corpse and hurled it off to the side. “I am Thor,” he said. “Are you ready to take your vengeance on those who wronged you?”

“Free us,” the blonde woman demanded. The bloody knife she had seized was still held tightly in one hand, and the rags she wore, already filthy, had only become bloodier.

He freed her first, taking the manacles in hand and tearing them apart like they were made of foam. The blonde woman wasted no time in rushing off, heading for the lower deck. If this ship was anything like the other he had boarded, that was where the armoury was. He worked quickly, following the chain from person to person and breaking their bonds. Every man or woman that could stand was quick to go below, and he could hear rummaging and cursing as the armoury was looted.

There was one young man with a broken leg, and Thor took the arm of the one he freed after them. “Fetch a blanket for this one,” he said, “and perhaps a crossbow. He shall have a fine view from the deck as we slaughter the Aeslings.” Both men bared their teeth in response, and the less injured one hurried off to do so.

By the time he was done, every prisoner had armed themselves, and had at least a few bits of armour. They waited by the stairs, expectation in their eyes. Many were bruised or bore days old wounds, and they stank horribly, but there was a fire to them, a hunger.

“The Aeslings drink and carouse out there,” Thor told them. “They think themselves safe, that they cannot be challenged. Is that so?”

“No,” came the answer from dozens of throats, scratchy and dry from disuse.

“They think themselves great warriors, raiders without compare. Is that so?”

“No,” came the growls, louder now.

“They think their god will shield them from your wrath. Is that so?”

“No!” they hissed, eager for vengeance.

“I am Thor, God of Thunder and protector of mankind,” he said. “Will you do me the honour of fighting beside me as we cleanse their taint from the earth?”

There was a moment of stillness. Then the blonde woman began to bang the base of her spear against the deck, and like a wave the others followed, willing to follow the man who had freed them and given them their chance at vengeance. They did not believe, not truly, but they would follow, and that was enough.

Thunder rumbled and boomed overhead, loud enough for them to feel it in their bones. Then, they began to believe.

To the main deck he led them, and they spread along the side of the ship, making no effort to hide. Thor looked upon the raiders; the old man was still fighting, but no more did he dispatch his foes with ease, and he was conserving his strength. The sky roared again, making some of the raiders look up apprehensively, while others seemed to think it a sign of their god’s favour, raising their arms, faces upturned, rapturous. He felt the urge to smite them for their presumption, but refrained. He had not freed these people only to steal their victory from them.

A gangplank ran from ship to bank, and Thor led the way down it. They spread out on the riverbank, drawing the eye of the Aeslings. One of them, almost as big as Thor, clad in metal and furs and a helm with horns rising from it, began to beat his men into some form of order, rousing them from the heady sense of unearned victory they had fallen into.

“Guard those beside you, for they will guard you in turn,” Thor said, “and if you must die, you will not do so without taking three of them with you.” He eyed the rough ranks of raiders across the snow covered field, the village behind them. There was perhaps eighty foemen, all armed and well armoured. He glanced at his own forces; they were not nearly so well equipped. He would have to draw the bulk of their attention himself.

“I’ll kill five before I die,” a young man to his left said.

“Ten for me,” said a woman.

“I’m not going to die,” the blonde woman said, eyes fixed on the enemy. “I’m going to put this spear up Reket’s arse and out through his mouth.”

Thor watched as, behind the foe and their bonfire, the greybeard buried his axe in the chest of his latest enemy, wrapping on the gates behind him. There was movement beyond the walls, and he let out a boisterous laugh. “If you do not hurry, I will kill them all before you can wet your blades!” He began a slow walk towards them, and the thunder overhead began to pick up, sounding with every footstep. His eyes began to glow.

Stolen novel; please report.

The raiders began to look nervous now, those who had been so sure that the thunder was a sign in their favour clearly having second thoughts. As Thor and his warriors began to move faster, so too did the thunder, each boom flowing into the next. The Aeslings attempted to scream their defiance, but they were drowned out. Thor began to charge, and the thunder was ceaseless, a single unending roar that seemed to shake the very earth.

The virtues of the Aeslings were little, but at the least they did not break and flee in the face of what bore down upon them. Their enraged victims, chains broken and intent on bloody vengeance, were as an avalanche, and the immense warrior with hair of gold at their head did not help matters. It was only when the man began to spark with lightning to match the thunder overhead as he leapt into the sky to crash into them from above that some of them began to question the choices that had brought them here.

Thor crashed into their ranks and lightning came with him, destroying whatever cohesion their frontline had held. Men were swept aside with each swing of his axe, thrown into their air contemptuously. If they were lucky they were merely broken, caught by the blunt side of Stormbreaker, but if they were not they were in pieces, spraying their comrades with blood. All gained intimate knowledge of the crafts of Nidavellir.

The raiders’ victims hit them a heartbeat later, shredding the disorganised line. One woman headbutted a raider, sending him staggering and tearing his throat open with her daggers in the opening it gave her. Bright red blood sprayed her in the face, and her teeth seemed to shine as she bared them, already lunging for another kill.

Behind the foes, the gates of the village opened, and the defenders spilled forth, the old axeman at their head. They charged in silence, and took the raiders by complete surprise as they hit them in the rear, cutting them down in swathes.

There was a change in the air; the battle was already lost for the Aeslings, and they could sense it. Not a man amongst them begged for mercy or tried to lay down their arms, and not a single Baersonling asked for it. The ground became a mire of mud and blood, carpeted in corpses as the raiders were chewed up and spat out.

They did not go quietly, and there was only so much Thor, or the greybeard with the axe could do to draw their attention. Some defenders fell, killed where they stood or so wounded that their fellows had to drag them out of the fight. Thor saw as a young man was slashed across the arm, his sword dropped from nerveless fingers, and he had enough. Lightning struck in a ring around the Aeslings, forming a wall. Those raiders unlucky enough to be standing where the wall was made were struck dead, their corpses left smoking. The lightning left afterimages in the eyes of all who beheld it as it faded away, and the constant thunder overhead with it.

The remaining Aeslings drew back in the sudden silence, cowed by the display of power. They were pinned against the bonfire they had lit to entertain themselves while they played with their prey, so sure of their supremacy. Now it would be their pyre.

“I would let one of you keep your wretched lives, so to spread the tale of what comes for raiders in these lands,” Thor said, “but I do not think these good people care to spare even that.”

From the middle of the compressed pack of foes, one man forced his way to the front. It was the leader, the horns on his helm bloody and his spear wet with blood.

“Reket,” the blonde woman hissed from Thor’s side. Her spear had broken, and she wielded half in each hand. She had picked up a cut across the bridge of her nose, and it bled sluggishly.

“Your magiks betray your weak will, and your girth the softness of your hall!” the raider captain shouted. “I dedicate this battle and your death to the Hound and take your skull for his throne.”

A sliver of a presence was felt, hungry for blood and death. It was only barely noticeable, so well did it blend in with the carnage of the field.

Thor ignored it, focusing on the matter at hand. “Well, I dedicate this battle to me, and I’ll point and laugh when I beat you.” He stepped forward, intent on ending the life of the miserable cur.

“God of Thunder!” the blonde woman said, interrupted the ‘duel’ before it could start. “Grant me this fight. Let me kill him.”

Reket, the raider leader, threw his head back in a mocking laugh, but Thor turned his eye on the woman beside him. She was without armour, and stood barefoot in the slush, but her eyes were bright, fixed unerringly on Reket. She was still like a hunter, breathing evenly despite the fight.

“If you wish for this fight,” Thor said slowly, “then you shall have it. What is your name?”

“I am Gunnhild,” she said, meeting his eyes fearlessly.

He had learnt much from watching Steve, short though his years were, and part of being a good leader was positive reinforcement. “I may not be the god of victory,” he said, “but I am the god of strength. Go and seize victory with my blessing.”

Gunnhilde seemed to swell with his recognition, and she turned to face her enemy. There was a hunger on her face, an all consuming desire for Reket’s death spelt out clearly. “Reket!” she shouted. “My name is Gunnhilde. You killed my sister. Now I will kill you.”

Reket laughed again. “Your sister was a warrior worth remembering. I could not defeat her without killing her! You though, you were easy to capture. A shame you will die here, I had such plans for you.” He turned to his men, bellowing. “Aeslings! We will kill this arrogant wizard, raze the village, and take the most comely for slaves! Who is with me?”

The Aeslings shouted and hollered in return, but there was a brittleness to it, and Reket knew it. He turned back to Gunnhild, and levelled his spear at her. It was an elaborate thing, with an angular head and a hunting dog etched in the metal.

The Baersonlings drew back, giving the fighters space, but the Aeslings were still pinned against the fire and had nowhere to go.

Reket lunged forward, hoping to catch Gunnhilde off guard, but it was not to be. She hopped to the right, light on her feet, and lashed out with the splintered end of the spear haft that she held in her left hand. It scraped uselessly against his chain, but the force of the blow drew a grunt from him. He spun his spear like a staff, forcing her to duck under its butt, and followed up with quick jabs, forcing her to duck and weave, parrying one with the head of her own spear to avoid being impaled. The thrusts continued, and she may have been overwhelmed, if not for the marauder slipping in the slush, nearly losing his balance.

Gunnhilde wasted no time, darting forward, her spear blade and splintered haft seeking shoulder and leg. Reket recovered quickly and spun his weapon, turning both blows away, and brought the head down on her heavily. She crossed her weapons, catching the blow in the cradle, but he leant into it, pressing his full weight down upon her. Despite his greater height and mass, she was holding, but for how long?

“You were always going to end up beneath me, Gunnhild,” he snarled, breathing heavily into her face. “Unlucky for you it had to be this way.”

“Hey Reket,” she grunted out, straining against his wait. “Go fuck yourself.” And she spat into his eye.

Reket flinched, unable to control his reaction, and Gunnhildedeliberately collapsed under him while he was blinded. He had no time to adjust his stance, and he fell onto the spear she had waiting for him. It entered his open mouth and exited through the base of his skull. He gurgled, trying to force himself up, but then he collapsed, and was still.

Gunnhilde pushed his body off herself with a heave, getting to her feet and sucking in a ragged breath. The sheen of his spear caught her eye, and she took it up, pointing it at the Aeslings. “My name is Gunnhilde. You killed my sister. I will kill you.”

Battle erupted once more, but the fight had gone out of the raiders, and they were cut down without mercy, and though some defenders were injured grievously, none were slain. Short minutes of frenzied combat ensued, until the last marauder fell, clutching at his intestines. The fight was over, and the village was safe. Now came the aftermath.

The dead and the wounded had to be seen to, but there were many hands eager to speed the work, and for some reason no one wanted to see Thor doing any of it. Every time he made to throw an Aesling into their bonfire, or carry a Baersonling to a fresh patch of snow, someone else would step forward and take on the task themselves.

In normal times, he would have felt aggrieved by their apparent insistence that he stand around and do nothing - such was the domain of layabout princes without any idea of the responsibility they should have been shouldering - but on this day, he felt…different. With the victorious end of the battle came a feeling of lightness, like he could float off towards the mountains, and the mountains would move from his way. He could only recall feeling similarly on a few occasions of his long life; the first time his father had taken he and Loki out to hunt and he had speared a great beast, the moment he had risen after being struck down by the Destroyer, and upon feeling the heft of Mjolnir in his hand once more, proving himself worthy in front of his mother.

This though, this was different.

“So then,” a deep voice said. It sounded like the shifting of mountains. “God of thunder and strength, wielding an axe and calling the lightning. You must be Tor.”

Thor roused himself from his thoughts, turning to the one who addressed him. It was the old axeman, and there was an equally old shield maiden at his side. “It’s pronounced ‘Thor’,” he said. “But yes, I am he.”

The axeman scratched at a thick, but short cropped beard. His fingers were the size of sausages. “If you have not been struck down for the claim, I will not argue with you. I am Harad, and this is the light of my life, my wife Helena.”

Unlike her broad husband, Helena was as a willow, silver hair that was likely once blonde braided close to her neck. She wore a shield, and had a sword at her hip. “You have our thanks,” she said. “Harad could have killed them all, but he would have been wounded, and he doesn’t need another scar to boast about.”

Harad grumbled, but the hand he laid on her shoulder was gentle, and Thor was struck by a memory of his parents, in the times they weren’t on display for the court.

“I have no doubt,” Thor said. Around them, the work continued, and the stench of burning pork began to waft through the air. He snorted out through his nose. “Let us move away from the pyre.”

Harad grunted an agreement, and the three of them stepped away, upwind.

“Is your village capable of hosting all these extra people?” Thor asked.

“For a few days, and then a few more if we strain,” Helena said. “If you have coin to spare and a need to house them for longer, we might trade with Vinteerholm…” she trailed off as she saw Thor shaking his head.

“Vinteerholm is fallen. The Aeslings occupy it now. They have razed the village downstream, and tried to do the same for the one on the fork to the south,” Thor said. “I have not yet checked on the village further south than that.”

“You are taking responsibility for the protection of this area,” Harad said, dark eyes observing.

“I have strength that many lack. It is my responsibility to use it wisely,” Thor said.

The words seemed to strike a chord in Harad. “Yes…yes you do,” he said, more to himself than to him. “I will have my people bring yours into the village, and we will talk more once we have rested.”

“I thank you,” Thor said. “Gunnhild!” he shouted, turning back to the work.

“Aye, God?” Gunnhilde answered. She was in the middle of impaling dead Aeslings with her new spear, and using it to hoist their corpses into the fire.

“Have someone retrieve the young man with the broken leg from the ship,” he commanded. “Harad and Helena have invited us to share the hospitality of their longhall.”

“Your will, God,” Gunnhilde said. She began to give out orders, and Thor realised he had just appointed a deputy for all to hear.

“I should tell them to call me by name,” he said, more to himself.

“You would have your followers call you so familiarly?” Helena asked.

“Well, ‘god’ or ‘king’ just gets awkward, you know?” Thor said.

“I don’t,” Harad said, but he sounded amused. “Come, join me in my hall. It is time to reassure the children, and boast of our victory.”

Thor brightened, his already good mood improved even further. “Lead the way.”

X

A long bed of embers smouldered in the centre of the longhall, and a row of tables ran along each side. They were full to bursting with people and food, Harad having broken open his larders for the evening, and Thor felt guilty at the thought of Wolfric and the others back at their damaged village, forced to eat mammoth meat yet again. The hall was full of good cheer, dark fates having been averted for both parties who had come together to celebrate the destruction of the Aesling party. Close as their villages had been, many knew each other, and they spoke and drank together as they did their best to turn their minds from the thought of friends and family that they would never share such things with again.

Harad sat in the chieftain’s chair, holding court. It was carved from a single huge stump, and the skin of a bear had been draped over it so the head and paws framed his head. Helena sat at his right hand in a similar chair, but with a snow leopard instead of a bear.

Thor sat to Harad’s left, making merry with the rest. At first, many of those whom he had rescued from the longship had looked ill upon him being given the lesser seat, even if it was Harad’s hall, but he had shown no discontent and they had followed his lead. He looked over the hall, smiling as he saw Gunnhilde laughing as she slammed down her tankard, barely defeating the woman she was racing to the bottom. The spear she had claimed as spoils rested against a pillar behind her, within easy reach.

Conversations paused and heads turned as Harad rapped his knuckles against the table, the sound echoing loudly down the hall.

“We are victorious this night,” he said, voice deep and smooth enough to be heard even without raising it. “And I saw many valorous deeds. Now is the time for the telling!” Many cheered, and more beat their fists or tankards against the table. “Halvar! Tell us of the shot I witnessed you take.”

A young man, barely more than a boy, rose and began to speak. His voice cracked, but none called him on it. “I put an arrow through the eye of an Aesling about to cut one of us down as they ran for the walls. Eadric!”

Another man stood now. “I cut down two Aeslings with a single blow, and took not a scratch in the fighting! Alivia!”

“I dropped a rock on the head of a man trying to climb our walls, and it popped like a ripe berry! Val!”

Around and around it went, every boast being answered with cheers and recognition, no matter how great or small the deed - so long as it protected their village, the people cheered. Even those from the razed village were included, and eventually it reached Gunnhilde, and she stood slowly.

“I slew the man who destroyed my home and killed my sister,” she said, and there was no cheering, for this was not a boast to cheer, only bowed heads. Then Gunnhilde started to grin. “Then I stole his weapon and killed the rest of his men! Thor, God of Thunder!”

The hall looked to him, anticipation in their eyes. What would a man who called themselves a god boast of?

Thor could have boasted of his feats of power or martial might, but that was not what he was proud of. “I broke chains,” he said, looking out over the hall, “and gave the oppressed the chance to seize their freedom.”

There was no cheering, only the drumming objects on the table. Taken together, it sounded like the rumbling of thunder. Those he had saved looked up to him with respect and awe. He did not seek devotion, but there were threads of that too, and he could feel a connection between himself and Gunnhilde as she stared at him intensely.

He did not know who to nominate next, but Helena caught his eye, and she flicked her gaze to her husband.

“Harad!”

Harad rose, leaning on the table before him. Thor could see him thinking, changing what he had been about to say. “I meant to give my life today, to kill as many raiders as were foolish enough to face me one at a time.” His people listened as he spoke, nothing but respect in their bearings. It was obvious that this man had led them for many years, and well. “I did not have to, because of the one we know as Thor.” He raised his tankard. “Skaal!”

“Skaal!” came the answer, and all mirrored him, and drank.

“The shadows grow, and it is near time to rest,” Harad said. “I know my old bones are tired. My tables are open for as long as there is food upon them.”

Many raised their tankards once more, and Harad accepted their thanks. Once their attentions had returned to the food, he turned to Thor. “Would you join me at my home?” he asked, quietly. “There is something we must discuss.” Helena rose, joining her husband.

Thor nodded, and rose to walk with them, joining the pair as they left the hall. Eyes followed them as they went, but none stopped them or inquired as to their purpose.

The cold outside the warm hall was quick to grasp them, and the snow crunched underfoot as they walked towards the largest house in the village, a loghouse of two stories. A pair of sentries stood watch in a narrow tower by the gate, but that was an abundance of caution after their victory that day.

Harad and Helena’s home was well lived in, and everything in it had obviously been made by the same hands, from the solid walls to the table and chairs. A ladder led up to the upper level, and a curtain hid half the ground floor from view. There was a thick wool rug over much of the floor, and Thor followed suit as they wiped their feet by the door before stepping onto it.

“You have the look of one with ill news,” Thor said, as they took seats in the living room.

“I do,” Harad said. “It is about Gunnhilde. The spear she has claimed - it is cursed, and if it is not dealt with, she will fall to the same evil and ruin as the one who slew her sister.”

Thor accepted the news as well as could be expected. “Very well. Let us destroy it.” He made to rise to his feet, thoughts reaching for his axe.

“Steady there,” Harad said, raising one hand.

“This is not a matter served by haste,” Helena added.

“You have experience in this matter,” Thor said, and he seated himself again.

“Aye,” Harad said. “You saw my axe, hanging behind my chair in the longhouse?”

Thor nodded, gaze fixed keenly on his hosts.

“It was a cursed weapon, though I knew it not when I took it up. The Sender, it was called, and through it I wielded great strength, though through me it sought to do great evil,” Harad explained.

“It is cursed no longer,” Thor said. He may not have divined the nature of the spear, but he was sure that the axe he had seen Harad wield was entirely mundane.

“It is not,” Harad said, “though only thanks to my wife. Were it not for her, I would no longer exist.” He looked down at the table, gaze distant.

Helena placed a hand on her husband’s knee, and it seemed to break him from whatever memories had grasped him. He took her hand in his own, dwarfing hers.

“We both would have met ill fates without each other,” Helena said, and it had the ring of repetition.

“That sounds like a worthy tale,” Thor said, ear pricking up at the hint of a saga.

“Another time, perhaps,” Helena said. She worried the end of a grey lock of hair between the fingers of her free hand.

Thor nodded. “At least you know how to deal with such a thing.”

The couple exchanged a glance.

“...it won’t work on the spear, will it.”

“We purged the taint from my axe, but the way we did it will not work for the spear,” Harad said.

“How did you do it?” Thor asked. If nothing else, it would perhaps put him on the right track.

“I walked alone into the Chaos Wastes and slew its maker,” Harad said.

“And we don’t know who forged the spear,” Thor said.

“Even if we did, it may not work,” Helena said. “No two corrupted smiths forge their creations in the same manner.”

“This would not be a problem for a god,” Harad said. “The taint of a weapon such as this is potent to a mortal, but nothing to such a power.”

Thor raised a brow at the old man. “You do not believe me to be a god, do you.”

“I do not,” Harad said. “Gods do not walk the mountains as you do.” His words were said easily, but there was a tension in his shoulders, and Helena was watching him closely.

“That’s your choice,” Thor said with a shrug. He was no Tinkerbell.

“You have power still, and the spear is no Daemon,” Harad said. “I see no reason why you could not deal with it.”

Well, some of his best plans were made up in the moment. He ignored the internal voice of his brother scoffing derisively. “I will deal with this curse, one way or another,” Thor said. “Though first…you said you walked into the Chaos Wastes? The fell lands to the north?”

“I did. I will not speak about what I saw there,” Harad said.

“What of the Realms beyond the Wastes, where the gods of this land dwell? Did your quest take you there?” Thor pressed.

“I will not speak of it,” Harad said again, and his tone was iron. “They are no gods of mine.”

Thor leaned back, satisfied with the unspoken answer. “Then I shall not pry.” He got to his feet. “Neither will I dawdle in dealing with this threat.”

“We will join you,” Helena said, also standing. “One caught in the grip of a weapon such as this can be unpredictable.”

Harad joined her, grim agreement on his face, and the three of them left the home behind, making for the longhouse once again.

In their short absence, the celebration had only grown rowdier, and many of the youngest had apparently been packed off to bed. There was a keg on a table, and a warrior was doing a graceless handstand over it, helped by friends, lowering himself to dunk his head and drink before pushing back up. That was hardly the most enthusiastic celebration of life going on in the hall either. Their entrance was almost unnoticed, and those that did only gave nods of respect before going back to their joy and cheer. Harad and Helena moved off to a shadowed corner, seeking to remain unnoticed.

Thor spied Gunnhilde easily, given that she was dancing atop a table with a young village lad. The cause for concern was resting against the same table, its steel head gleaming red in the torchlight. The flicker of flames made it seem like the hunting dog etched on it was almost moving. He moved towards her, threading through the staggering revellers, and she saw him as he drew near.

“My God!” Gunnhilde shouted, raising the tankard she held. Some mead escaped, but she paid no mind, and some of the nearer and less drunk villagers heard, turning to watch. “You have returned to us!” The cut across her nose curved with her smile, making it seem like she had a red crescent running from eye to eye.

“Gunnhilde,” Thor said. “Call me Thor.”

Gunnhilde looked aghast. “I could not, God,” she said.

“What if I asked really politely?” Thor said seriously.

“I could be persuaded,” Gunnhilde said, and her gaze traced a path from his toes to his face. Her blue eyes were bright.

“Then please, I would greatly appreciate it if you were to do me the kindness of addressing me as Thor,” he said, calling on centuries of courtly etiquette. Well, decades perhaps. He had not held an abundance of patience for the court of Asgard in his youth.

“As you say - Thor,” Gunnhilde said. “Have you come to make merry with us?”

“I have not,” Thor said, a sober expression on his face. “Would you join me outside?”

“Yes G - Thor,” Gunnhilde said instantly. She hopped down from the table, leaving behind her dance partner who looked heartbroken, but only long enough for another woman to join him on the table. Gunnhilde slowed only to grab her spear, before following Thor from the hall.

Thor noted the action, pleased that he didn’t have to mention it and worried that she had done so. Not everyone could summon their weapon with a thought, but a walk outside in a walled settlement surely did not call for going armed. Though given her recent travails, perhaps he was overthinking things.

Harad and Helena slipped in behind them as they left the hall, and the sound of merrymaking was left behind, muted by the snow. Their breaths fogged the air as they walked, heading for the centre of the village, an open area that perhaps saw small markets in better times. When they reached it, Thor turned to face the woman whom he had freed. The two old warriors stood behind her, somewhat apart, and Thor realised that they were preparing to box her in should she turn violent. There was little chance she had not noticed, but there was a surety in Gunnhilde’s gaze that showed her lack of fear. For all that they had met only that day, and exchanged a scarce handful of words, there was a devotion to her strong enough to feel. She had no fear for herself then and there, for all that she held her spear near at the ready.

Thor stepped closer to her, making the scene less like a target caught between three foes. “Gunnhilde,” he said seriously, “your spear is cursed.”

Harad visibly winced in the background, and Helena closed her eyes with the look of someone praying for patience.

“Cursed?” Gunnhilde asked, looking at the weapon she held. She moved it off her shoulder, though she made no move to release it, the butt resting on the ground.

“If we do not deal with it, it will leave you cruel and twisted like Rekat,” Thor said. “Will you give it to me?”

“For you, My God,” Gunnhilde said, and she handed it over without another thought.

“Thank you for your faith in me, Gunnhilde,” Thor said. He accepted the spear, but that was not all. With it came a weight less physical but no less real, and it joined a well of similar feeling, deep within him. He felt bolstered, buoyed by her action.

“Just like that?” Harad demanded. His grey brows bristled in anger, but it was aimless, and there was a sorrow at its core. “I’ve seen good men left with a core of rot after a single battle with such a weapon, but you just hand it over?”

“My God asked for it,” Gunnhilde said.

“He is not a god,” Harad said.

Gunnhilde’s eyes flashed. “Yes,” she said, low and cold, “he is.”

“Husband,” Helena said. She met his eyes when he turned, and they seemed to hold an unspoken conversation.

At length, Harad grunted. “I will not argue with you. The weapon must still be dealt with.”

All eyes were drawn to the spear that Thor held. Even in the pale moonlight its head seemed to shine red, and its wooden haft looked to be stained by blood.

“Deal with it I shall,” Thor said. He could feel it, now that he held it in his hands, but it was a distant thing. He felt like he had grasped a branch of thorns, only to find them unable to pierce his flesh. At its core was a touch of corruption that he was beginning to recognise.

Contrary to what many might have thought, Thor was not an unthinking brute. To be sure, there had been a time where his only method of problem solving was to deliver a mighty blow from Mjolnir, and if that did not work, to deliver a second, mightier blow, but those days were gone. He had learned and grown with the aid of his Midgardian comrades, and where once he might have broken the cursed spear over his knee or scorched the evil from it, now he chose a third path.

For all the ills that she had done, he owed his sister a debt of thanks. It was she who had taught him to grasp the truth of his nature, to wield the thunder and the lightning, to harness the storm that was his soul. Without that lesson he may not have understood what was happening to him in this strange new land, or how to feel the changes that were being wrought to his very being.

But she had, and he did.

As he had when he had denied the attentions of the Four cancers, and when he had purified the well, Thor reached within himself to find his truth. He was a god, and long had he been worshipped as such, but it was clear that this had more weight to it here. He was strength, he was the hallowing of evil, he was the protection of mankind, but most of all, he was the storm. He was not just a god, but a God.

From his truth, he drew power. It was no bottomless well, no power truly was, but as the waking world fell away and he stripped away its distractions until it was just him and his power, he could feel it being refreshed. He could feel Wolfric, the one eyed hunter, patient and hopeful, he could feel Elsa and Astrid, two sides of the same coin, their potential untapped, he could feel Gunnhilde, fervent and true, utterly sure of her choice. There were others, distant faces that he recognised from the village or the longship, but they could not yet compare to the richness of the connections he felt first.

With power drawn, he readied it, allowing it to billow and swell like a stormcloud heavy with rain. His eyes were closed, but light shone out from under them, and he clenched the cursed spear tight in his fist. He was ready.

Thor shepherded the storm within into the spear, and it collided with an unthinking thirst for blood. For a moment it seemed it would devour the storm, taking its strength for itself, but he refused, pouring more of his truth into the fight, and the storm prevailed with a calamitous roar. Rain prepared the ground, lightning broke the curse, and thunder forged it anew, hallowing the spear into something more.

Had he attempted this even yesterday, Thor knew that he would have failed. Perhaps he could have purified the weapon, but greater contests required greater power, and he knew now that power was fed by deeds. Deeds, and belief.

The spear shifted in his grip, and Thor opened his eyes. The quiet village square was still that, snow falling gently, the world quiet in the way that only freshly fallen snow could make it. His audience was staring, not at him, but at the glowing spear in his hand, blindingly white, as it shifted and changed. Harad was wary, having stepped in front of Helena, and she had a hand on his shoulder, ready to pull him back and away, but neither moved. Gunnhilde was watching with wide eyes, drinking the sight in as he worked. It could have taken a minute or a moment, but the glow began to fade, revealing the form of the spear anew.

Where once the head had been angular, now it was as a leaf, and the hound motif was gone. Instead the metal was unadorned, save for the rippling lines in the steel itself. Its haft was like that of an ash tree, and on it were countless patterns of valknuts, but it seemed like they had been grown, not carved.

“Gunnhilde,” Thor said, holding out the spear. His voice echoed like distant thunder in the quiet of the night, but as if from far away. “This is yours.”

Gunnhilde took the spear like it was a fragile glass rose, and she let out a soft sigh as her hand closed around it. “As I am yours, Thunder God.”

There was a yawning void within him, and her words eased it some, though not nearly enough. He felt thin and stretched, like Hulk had used him as a stress toy or sparring partner, but deep within his soul. “It is yours to name, if you wish it,” Thor said, pushing his weariness aside.

“When it has done something worthy of it, I will,” Gunnhilde said, after a moment’s consideration.

Thor nodded his approval. “Now, throw it.”

“My God?” Gunnhilde asked.

Ever so slightly, Thor frowned.

“That is, Thor?” she corrected herself.

“Throw it, as far as you can,” Thor said. “Maybe not over any buildings.”

Puzzled, but obeying nonetheless, Gunnhilde prepared to throw her spear, taking only a moment to marvel at its balance. She eyed the lane that ran from the village square to the far side of the village to end at the wall; it was the longest distance she could see.

Thor, Harad, and Helena watched as she took two quick steps and threw, sending the spear flying silently across the village. It was good that none were wandering the village, for it flew straight and true and didn’t stop when it hit the wall.

Thor made a note to apologise to Harad. “Good! Now, get it back.”

Gunnhilde took a step, only to stop when her God spoke again.

“Without moving.”

Though she would have very much liked to question him further, Gunnhilde held her tongue. She had been given her instructions and she would not fail. She just…didn’t have any idea of what to do.

“That spear is yours,” Thor said to her. He raised his arm, and something thrummed through the air, before landing in his open hand with a meaty thwack. His axe had come when called, and he leaned against its head, haft resting on the ground, seeking to ease a tiredness that had nothing to do with the physical. “Reach out and call for it.”

Thor watched as Gunnhilde swung her gaze back to the wall her spear had disappeared behind, understanding crossing her face. A look of great concentration fell over her, and she narrowed her eyes. He felt a tug, much as he had when Steve had wielded Mjolnir, but he let it be. There was the sound of splintering wood, and then Gunnhilde’s eyes widened in alarm.

The spear sped back towards them, metal-shod butt first, and Gunnhilde was almost fast enough to catch it. She seized it by the middle, but she was not swift enough to stop it from nailing her right in the gut, and she was knocked back, wheezing.

“Ah, yes,” Thor said. “You do want to remember that when you summon your weapon, you are summoning your weapon with considerable speed.”

“Aye Thor,” Gunnhilde choked out, holding her stomach as she lay in the snow.

“Good thing it wasn’t point first,” Harad muttered.

Thor glanced at the spear that Gunnhilde gripped tight even as she recovered. He had wanted to share the enchantment he had found most useful on Mjolnir and Stormbreaker, but he hadn’t fully considered what the differences in weapon type might mean. “You should practise before trying that in battle,” he said, pretending he had expected this outcome.

Gunnhilde levered herself up with the spear, but stood hunched and still holding her stomach with her free hand. “I will prove worthy of it,” she swore.

“I have no doubt,” Thor said, but it seemed something in his response was lacking.

“I will!” Gunnhilde said, forcing herself upright. “You have freed me, blessed me with the strength to slay that animal Reket, and now you have saved me from becoming him. I will serve you until the end, if only you will have me.”

Thor stilled. Harad and Helena were watching him closely, but said nothing as he thought. “I have not done what I have done because I desired service,” he said. “You are indebted to me, but not to those heights.”

“I do not care,” Gunnhilde said. “All my life I have wanted a purpose, and now I have found you.”

“There are other purposes,” Thor said. “Your village will need a leader.”

“That was my sister,” Gunnhilde said, and there was pain in her words. “I am not her. Let me swear to you.”

“Oaths to…one such as this are not lightly sworn, girl,” Harad said in warning.

“Lives taken and words spoken are things that cannot be undone,” Helena added.

Their words had the weight of experience, but Gunnhilde was not dissuaded. “My path is clear,” she declared. “I prayed for the chance to slay that Aesling in the hold of that ship, and you appeared. You are my God from now until the End Times.”

A weight fell upon him, and he knew instinctively that this was a moment more important than the oath of a single believer. He was deeply weary, but this was not a thing to take lightly. This was a request from one who believed, truly and utterly.

“Please.”

“You do not know what you ask,” Thor said, “but you will.”

Gunnhilde’s eyes brightened with hope. “You will accept my oath?”

“Your faith is true, though in truth you barely know me,” Thor said.

“My head may not, but my heart does,” Gunnhilde said. She stood even straighter, though it hardly seemed possible.

“In my home, the Valkyrie were a band of elite warriors,” Thor said. He was committed to this path now. “They served my father as his blade, until they were slain by my sister, almost to the last.” He stopped, pausing in remembrance and respect.

Gunnhilde drank in his words, blue eyes blazing. Harad and Helena listened to the side, keeping their thoughts to themselves.

“You will be the first of my Valkyries here,” Thor told her. “A Valkyrie is a defender of the innocent, and serves in this life, and the next. In return, you will have a place at my hearth, at my side in battle, and in Valhalla beyond. If you are taken I will retrieve you, and if you are slain I will avenge you.” The words flowed from Thor, something greater moving him. He became aware of truths that he had not known, and he remembered a dream of Asgard, Old and New and all at once. “Will you serve?”

“I will serve,” Gunnhilde swore. She fell to one knee, opposite hand on her spear. “As you have done for me, I will do for others. I will break chains and slay the cruel. I swear it on my faith in you, Thor, God of Thunder. Let lightning strike me down if I lie.”

Thor became aware of the thread that connected him to Gunnhilde, and he felt it as it thickened and strengthened, a current running through it, going both ways. He could feel other threads too, but none were as strong as hers, and they only went one way. “Then rise a Valkyrie, Gunnhilde,” he said. He would ponder what it meant when he wasn’t running on sparks and borrowing strength from his axe.

Gunnhilde rose, smiling so wide as to threaten to split her cheeks. Her hair shone under the moonlight. Then, she fell forward, face first into the snow. Save for her breathing, she didn’t move.

Thor glanced at the others; they looked bemused. “I think she’s just tired.”

“I’ll get her to bed,” Helena said, stepping forward to scoop her up over her shoulder with a strength that belied her age. She hesitated only long enough to glance at Thor, questions clear on her face, but then she trooped off. The spear trailed behind her, Gunnhilde’s grip never faltering.

The two men watched them disappear around a corner. “I wasn’t expecting to end this night with so many questions,” Harad said in the quiet.

“Ask them quickly, for I am almost spent,” Thor said. He leaned more and more on his axe.

“I will ask only one, for it is the most pressing,” Harad said. “What are your dealings with Valkia the Bloody?”

“Who?” Thor asked, puzzled.

Something eased in Harad, a great relief making itself clear on his face. “No matter. I will speak with you on the morrow. You have given me much to think on.”

Thor watched him go, the old warrior following after his wife. A fresh wave of exhaustion hit him, though it wasn’t physical tiredness. Hallowing the spear had taken everything he had, and he needed to rest.

X x X

Thor dreamed.

Asgard, Old and New and all at once, opened before him, its paved streets of gold stretching further up and further in. The enormous gates swung ponderously closed at his back, the watcher taking up his post on the other side. An enormous city lay before him, and in the distance he could see the towering gold palace, his throne waiting within it.

He turned away from the main road that led to the palace, unwilling and unable to seek out what lay within. Instead, he began to wander the city, walking alone through its lanes and paths. Thankfully, not all were paved with gold, some merely with marble or quartz.

For all its size, the city was empty, devoid of the hustle and bustle of life. Echoes of small thoughts and old memories flitted about, darting around corners and out of sight before Thor could do more than glance at them. He passed by a pub that Korg had enjoyed visiting, next door to a garden that Fandral had spent a few decades using to refine his poetry.

Thor was hit by a sudden yearning for the familiar. The city he walked was not enough, not for a god adrift from his comrades and family. He missed the wisdom of his father, the compassion of his mother, the mischief of his brother. This new land needed him, but it was not home. Not yet, and perhaps not ever.

His feet took him down strange and familiar paths, over cobblestone ways and up gravity lifts, guided only by instinct. In time, he came to a small square, an eclectic mix of buildings lining it, but he had eyes for only one. A shadowed tavern, squeezed in between a golden tower of Old Asgard and a community centre of New. He had not visited it in truth for centuries, not since the last time he had bailed his brother out from his troublemaking within it and they had been forced to flee, barred from entering forevermore.

The tavern door creaked open, and it was clear that none had crossed its threshold for some time, but he pushed forward all the same. The interior was dark, and it smelt of old smoke and spilled ale. The lanterns were unlit, the bar unattended, and the bottles behind it were dusty. Upstairs, he knew, was a game room rented by a boy with green eyes and dark hair using seidr to appear as a man.

He climbed stairs that he remembered being thrown down by an off duty Einherjar, scammed of his coin, and he passed empty rooms that he remembered ignoring, blushing at the sounds from within. When he came to the door at the end of the hall he paused, listening for the roll of dice and the clink of coins, but there was only silence. He pushed lightly on the door, and it swung open.

There was nothing, as he knew there would be. No card game run by an errant Prince seeking to grow his allowance, no soldiers and tradesmen being swindled by a trickster just learning his craft. There was only a single faded card on an aged wooden table. Thor stepped into the room, and took up the card. It was Midgardian, of a type that was certainly never present when he and his brother had been young. Joker, it read, and on it was a familiar figure in green, wearing a horned helmet and a smirk.

“The sun will shine on us again, brother.”

Thor turned, but the hall was empty. He was alone.

X

Thor woke slowly this time. He lay in the bed that Helena had given him, the room to himself. He rolled over, freeing the arm he had lain on as he sought to get more comfortable. As he did, however, something poked him in the side. With a moment’s fumbling, he retrieved the small object, and frowned in thought.

The Lunchable that he held had certainly not been in his bed before he slept. It looked normal enough, cheap plastic covered by a foil, and food that never failed to make Tony turn up his nose in disgust held within. How it had found its way to him, he had only the faintest suspicions, but what to do with it?

Well, he was in no hurry to decide now. He tucked it away in the pockets of his pants, and began the struggle of getting out of bed. A heartier breakfast surely waited in the longhouse.

The village was already waking when he left the house, many going about the tasks that had been put aside in favour of those more urgent yesterday. He found food in the longhouse as he had hoped, his plate piled high with eggs, bacon, and berries by a grateful cook, and he set to with a will, taking a seat at a side table. There was no can of fizzy drink to wash it down with, but perhaps that was for the best. Physically, he was well, but he still felt strained in a way that was difficult to describe, though it was better than it was after hallowing the spear. Though many eyes and curious gazes fell on him, he was left alone in respect by most.

Halfway through his breakfast, he was joined by Harad, the man sitting across the table from him with a plate of his own.

“My wife checked on Gunnhilde,” he said by way of greeting. “She’s still snoring, though so are many of her fellows.”

“They went through an ordeal,” Thor said. “What do you plan today?”

“Catch up on the work those bastards interrupted yesterday, make sure they’re all properly burned,” Harad said as he worked on his meal. “What of you?

“It is time for Vinteerholm to be reclaimed,” Thor said, munching on a thick piece of bacon. “I could slay every raider there myself, but…”

“It would be better for our people to take it back ourselves,” Harad said, nodding. “Many of us have family there.”

“I freed a captive from another longship, and she tells me that there were three hundred Aeslings in the attack on the town,” Thor said.

“How many did you slay there?” Harad asked.

“Dozens,” Thor said. “If we are lucky, there will be perhaps two hundred raiders left in Vinteerholm.”

Harad grimaced. “If every man and woman fit to fight took up arms, we could muster threescore at most. Call it fourscore with Gunnhilde’s people.”

“The village I first encountered was hit hard,” Thor said, “and their warriors were already off to war. Wolfric could gather a dozen, maybe.”

“Fewer than one hundred, against twice as many hardened reavers,” Harad said. “Odds I would take gleefully in my younger days, when I had less responsibility.”

“Where are the warriors?” Thor asked suddenly. It was less apparent in Harad’s village, but there was still a lack of fighting men. It was possible that those from Gunnhilde’s village had fallen in the attack, but Wolfric was the last young fighting man in his village, and it was a situation that predated the raid.

“They do as all young warriors do, and die far from home for worthless causes,” Harad said, and there was a deep contempt in his words. “Their gods called for blood, and they answered, no matter the consequences.”

Thor regarded the old warrior. His feelings towards those who left were clear in his voice, but at its core was a hint of something else. “There is no hope of recalling these warriors?”

“They left two seasons ago,” Harad said, shaking his head. “Their gods only know where they are now.”

“‘Their’ gods?” Thor asked, brow rising ever so slightly.

“Aye,” Harad said, “their gods.” He ate quietly for a few moments, gaze far away. “I worshipped many in my youth, stupid and shortsighted as I was. I know better now.”

“That sounds like another tale,” Thor said, thinking about their conversation the previous night.

“It’s the same tale,” Harad said shortly.

“Settled down in your old age then?” Thor said, mopping up some yolk with a hunk of bread.

Harad snorted. “None of the gods are on my side, so why should I be on their side?”

“Fairly said,” Thor replied. Discussions on religion and why he was the superior god could wait until they’d known each other for more than a day. “Tell me of Vinteerholm then, of its defences and layout.”

“It’s a town that lasted long enough to be named,” Harad said, washing down his meal with water from his tankard. “Even has a stone gatehouse. Walls of strong wood, towers at the corners. Sits on the Lynsk, just like we do, but by a bulge in the river. Plenty of fishing, and they trade with Skogenberg to the west and the villages to the east.”

“I was told five thousand souls live there,” Thor said.

“Before the Aeslings took it, aye,” Harad said.

The quiet activity of the longhouse continued around them as they shared a moment of silence, thinking on what had likely befallen many of those who lived in the town.

“How would you retake the town?” Thor asked.

“I would slip in through the docks, pretend to be one of the returning fishermen,” Harad said. “Spend a few days killing Aeslings in taverns and dark alleys, then lead a riot against them when they realised what was happening. Challenge their leader if I could.”

“Risky,” Thor said.

“The Aesling are scum, but they’re scum who can fight,” Harad said. “I don’t know how they got here, but Vinteerholm is no Vinnskor.”

“Vinnskor?” Thor asked.

“Biggest town we’ve got,” Harad said. “Across the plains from the accursed Skraevold, of the Aeslings.”

Thor tucked the name away for later. “Then we must decide how to defeat the foes with an inferior force, with minimal casualties,” he said. “I like your idea of challenging the big one. They always seem to surrender after that.”

“There are few cowards amongst the Aesings,” Harad admitted, grudgingly. “They will likely fight on.”

“Well, it’s worth a try anyway,” Thor said. He drummed his fingers on the wooden table. “Do you think we could draw them out of the town to kill them without any innocents in the way?”

“Depends,” Harad said. “How sharp is your tongue, and how many of them can you insult in one breath?”

Thor laughed, sudden and boisterous, drawing eyes from around the longhouse. “My brother could have had them climbing over the gates in a blind rage to get at him in moments,” he said. His smile faded, as he remembered a pale face and the awful sound of - no. “I am not much for flyting in comparison, but I will do my best.”

“Even if they accept your challenge, not all will come,” Harad said, though he didn’t seem to be warning him off the plan. “Some will remain in the town. There will be some yoke to keep the people cowed. Hostages, I say.”

“Then they will die,” Thor said, like it was already ordained. “I will not shame your people, but nor will I stand idly by while hostages are killed.”

“We Baersonlings can be a prideful lot,” Harad admitted, “but none will hold such an act against you.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a third, setting their bowl down as they took a seat next to Thor. None had dared to join the village chief and the mighty warrior that claimed to be a god, but Gunnhilde was more daring than most.

“My God,” the blonde woman said, already almost inhaling her porridge.

“Thor,” he said pointedly.

“...Thor,” Gunnhilde said, almost like it pained her.

“Good morning Gunnhilde,” Thor said. “I thought you still asleep.”

“I had strange dreams, of a golden city and summer fields,” Gunnhilde said.

“Sounds like Asgard,” Thor said.

“Asgard?” Gunnhilde asked, trying out the unfamiliar word.

“My home,” Thor said. “Until my brother and I had to destroy it to stop my crazy sister from conquering the universe, that is.”

Gunnhilde lowered her spoon from her mouth. “I saw the home of the gods in my dreams? How?”

“So it seems,” Thor said. “Were you sleeping with your spear?” he joked.

The Valkyrie was suddenly intensely interested in her porridge.

“Helena was unable to free it from her grip,” Harad said, a hint of amusement on his face.

Thor blinked. “Well. Perhaps sleep without it tonight and see where your dreams take you.”

“Aye Thor,” Gunnhilde said, still looking down.

“I remember when I was given my first weapon as a boy,” Thor said. “I kept it under my pillow for weeks.”

Somehow, this didn’t seem to reassure Gunnhilde, and she only sank further down in her seat.

Harad took pity on the woman. “We have a plan for Vinteerholm,” he said, “but who will lead?”

“Thor should lead,” Gunnhilde said, throwing off whatever malaise had befallen her.

“Why?” Harad asked.

Gunnhilde was taken aback. “He is a God.”

“Is he a god of war?” Harad asked.

“Actually, I’m a god of thunder,” Thor said helpfully. “Lightning, storms, all that. Not of war specifically, but the ability to throw around lightning is quite helpful in battle, as you can imagine.”

Harad and Gunnhilde turned to him with two very different expressions. Gunnhilde was intent, but Harad was not quite wary, and he could feel his doubt like a physical thing.

“Humans call me a god of sacred groves, hallowing, and fertility, but that’s more because of what I do than what I am,” he continued, scratching his chin, lost in thought. “Those were an exciting few decades.”

Gunnhilde glanced back at Harad. “Thor should lead,” she said again. “He is the greatest warrior we have.”

“Perhaps,” Harad said. “But I have the most fighters. Why should I not lead?” His words were not challenging, and seemed more intended to draw an answer from the woman than anything.

“Thor will inspire them more,” Gunnhilde said, “and he is the one who makes this attack possible. If we are led by a god, our victory is assured.”

A flicker of a frown crossed Harad’s face. “Putting all your hopes in the gods will lead only to suffering,” he warned.

“I do not put my hopes in the gods,” Gunnhilde retorted. “I put my hopes in Thor.”

Harad grumbled, but it seemed he had never been intent on leading the attack himself at all, for it was without rancour. “Then Thor shall lead us, for this battle at least. I’ll not be giving up my chair any time soon.”

Thor held back a grimace at the thought of rulership, even of a small village such as this. He had never acquitted himself well from a throne. “It would be terribly rude for me to take it from you,” he said.

“How will we take Vinteerholm then?” Gunnhilde asked, eager. She reached out for her absent spear, not calling for it, but feeling the connection all the same. It was a curious thing to sense from Thor’s perspective.

“You say you can muster sixty fit to bear arms,” Thor said to Harad. “How many of those are blooded warriors?”

“Twenty at best,” Harad said.

“Gunnhilde?” Thor asked.

“A dozen,” Gunnhilde said. “Though more would fight if you asked.”

“And a small handful from Wolfric’s village,” Thor said to himself. “Forty, against two hundred.”

“A poor fight to take,” Harad said.

“Taking every man and woman who can hold a weapon will only lead to needless deaths,” Thor said. “This also avoids leaving the people here defenceless, should some beast wander close.”

“Wise,” Harad said. “My wife will lead here in my stead.”

Thor raised an eyebrow in silent question.

“I have been fool enough to leave my Helena behind many times to go to war,” Harad said. “Vinteerholm will be the least of such journeys.”

“How far away is Vinteerholm?” Thor asked. If the old warrior wanted to displease his wife in such a way, that was his business.

“A week by foot,” Harad said. “Two days by river, though we’ve not had a ship I’d trust to make the journey until now.”

“How kind of the Aeslings to provide one,” Thor said. He came to a decision. “We will leave today. You will set sail as soon as you can gather your people, and I will return to Wolfric’s village. We will meet downstream, at the point where the river forks,” he said.

“Raiders gift you another longship?” Harad asked.

“We burnt it,” Thor said. “It was corrupted and foul.”

Harad frowned. “If we leave today we’ll spend time waiting for you to meet us,” he said.

“You will not,” Thor said. “I will ferry them to the meeting point myself.”

“As you say, Thor,” Gunnhilde said for the two of them. She had no problem taking Thor at his word, despite Harad looking like he still had questions.

“Then it is decided,” Thor said. “We will drive the Aeslings from this land, and avenge all they have harmed in their raiding.”

“I will spread the word amongst my people,” Harad said. He took up his empty plate, rising from the table. “Break the news to Helena, too.” He did not look like he was looking forward to it.

Thor raised his empty tankard to him as he departed, leaving him alone with Gunnhilde. The woman was working through her porridge, mind obviously on the battle to come. He was not looking forward to passing by her destroyed home, but they had little choice but to follow the river. A thought occurred to him, and he dug about in his pockets.

“Gunnhilde,” he said, and she looked up. “On my way here, I passed through the remains of your village. I found this.” He set the carved token of the great cat he had found in the blood and muck on the table. “Do you recognise it?”

Gunnhilde’s eyes were fixed on it, and a deep pain was within them. “I do,” she said. “It belonged to my cousin. I taught him how to spear fish in the shallows.”

Thor sighed. It was as he feared. “His parents?”

“Dead. I saw them cut down.”

“I am sorry.”

She was quiet. Then, “may I have it?”

Thor pushed the small carved cat over to her. “It is yours by right.”

Gripping the figure tightly, she returned to eating, gaze distant. The activity of the hall did not seem to register for her, as other villagers came and went, eating and speaking with the relieved cheer of survivors.

“You said Valkyrie are protectors of the innocent,” Gunnhilde said suddenly. “What does that mean?”

A memory forced its way to the front of Thor’s mind. A blond child stood at the base of his father’s throne demanding to know what made a good king, a dark haired boy lurking behind him. As if such a thing could be achieved with a cheat sheet. He had been given the kind of answer one would give a boy too young to understand what he truly asked. Then he blinked, and the memory faded. “What is an innocent?” He asked instead of answering.

“A child,” Gunnhilde answered.

Thor thought of the dark haired boy again and held back a quirk of his lips. “That’s the simple answer,” he said leadingly.

Gunnhilde thought for a moment. “Someone who has done no harm to me and mine.”

“What if they have done harm to a stranger? Are they still innocent?”

“No,” she said slowly. “But how would I know?”

“You don’t,” Thor said. “It is not a simple thing. You cannot defend the innocent by seeking out monsters to slay.” He thought of giants with blue skin and red eyes. How naive he had been. “To defend the innocent, you must be there.”

“Where?” Gunnhilde asked, brow furrowing.

“There,” Thor said. “Wherever it is evil seeks to do them harm. There are those that have no place in war. The young, the old, the infirm. War still comes for them all the same. It is your duty to stand in its way, to shield them from harm. You will struggle, you will succeed, you will fail. You will fight by my side, and alone. One day, you will fall so far that you will never want to get back up.”

Gunnhilde was listening intently, eyes glued to him.

“You will do so anyway, because you are needed. Because if you do not, innocents will suffer. You will do this until you die, and on that day, you will join me in Valhalla,” he said with certainty. He could not say why he knew that Gunnhilde would prove worthy of its halls, but he knew it all the same.

“A sword and a shield then,” Gunnhilde murmured to herself, “in this life and the next.”

“Or a spear,” Thor said.

The Valkyrie opened her clenched fist to stare at the carved token she held. Carefully, she tucked it away in the pocket of her breeches. “I understand.”

Thor nodded slowly. He imagined she did. “Gather your people,” he told her. “Tomorrow, we share a battlefield once more.”

“I look forward to it, Thor,” Gunnhilde said.

The God of Thunder rose from his seat, leaving the longhouse behind. Already he could feel the gossip spreading, overheard conversations being whispered of and wondered at. He stepped out into the sun and snow, and he reached for Stormbreaker, calling it deftly to himself through the lanes of the village. A moment later he blasted into the sky, to the wonderment of those he left behind.

Vinteerholm waited.