Thor spotted the waiting longship before they spotted him, though it was a near thing. It was, after all, somewhat difficult to miss the uprooted tree flying through the air seemingly of its own accord. He began to bleed altitude, coming down by the river’s edge near the longship. The tree settled to earth with a thump, shaking off dirt from its roots and pale faced warriors from its branches.

Wolfric was the first to ‘disembark’, the one eyed man half falling in his haste. He lay on the snow, staring up at the sky and uncaring of the cold given the multiple extra layers he wore, taking deep breaths.

Tyra was the second, staggering off after untying the rope that secured her to the tree. “Never again,” she swore, green eyes wild as they roved to find Thor, tearing the cap she wore from her head. Her red hair had been shorn short, with only a few inches remaining on top. “I care not for your power. You will never take me into the skies again.”

“The journey was not that bad,” Thor said, laughing it off. He hesitated as he watched the other ten warriors free themselves from their ride, many mimicking Wolfric and making as much contact with the ground as possible. “Was it?” he asked uncertainly.

Tyra gave him a final scorching look, and not the good kind, before turning to the longship that waited just off the bank. Those aboard had already started reacting to their presence, running a gangplank out to the shore. “These are our allies?”

“They come from two of the other villages in the area that suffered under the Aeslings, yes,” Thor said.

Tyra grunted, and made to help secure the gangplank. Like the others who had taken Air Thor, she was covered in even more furs and hides than usual, but under them she wore armour looted from slain raiders. She was not alone in doing so; the others wore better armour than any most had worn in their lives, if only for the breadth of coverage. From what Thor could see of those on the ship, they had done similarly. Their force would not lack for protection, at least.

“Thor!” came a call from the ship. Gunnhilde raised her spear to him as he turned to look, and he raised his axe in reply. She hopped over the rail to run along the gangplank, heading for him.

“Who is that?” Wolfric asked, pushing himself to his feet.

“That is Gunnhilde, the first of my Valkyries in this land,” Thor said.

Wolfric stumbled. “Your what?”

“My Valkyries,” Thor repeated. “Defenders of the innocent, warriors true.”

The one eyed man gave him a queer look.

“I’m sorry, you cannot become one,” Thor explained. “Only a woman can be a Valkyrie. I was heartbroken when I found out as a child.”

“Gunnhilde is your first?” Wolfric confirmed.

“There is another,” Thor said, and Wolfric tensed, “but she is not of this world. Her name is Brunnhilde.” He stopped, considering. “Amusing, how that works out. Brunnhilde and Gunnhilde. You would like her, I think.”

“Then it must be so, god of thunder,” Wolfric said, just as Gunnhilde reached them.

Whatever greeting Gunnhilde had been about to give Thor, she was distracted by Wolfric’s words. “You know Thor for a God?” she asked. Around them, the others began to approach the gangplank.

“I do,” Wolfric said, eyeing her. “He saved my life, and that of my sisters.”

“He broke my chains and let me loose on those who killed my family,” Gunnhilde said.

“I saw him purify a well spoiled by the Unclean One,” Wolfric said, turning to face her fully.

“He hallowed a spear cursed by the Hound and granted it to me to wield,” Gunnhilde retorted.

Wolfric made to reply, only to stop and scowl, glancing at the fine spear she bore. His hand lingered on the simple axe at his hip.

A smug look was his answer, at last until a large hand was clasped on both their shoulders.

“Play nice, children,” Thor said. “It took the belief that you both hold for me to achieve what I have.”

The two looked away from each other, just like the squabbling children being scolded that they were to him. “Aye, Lord Thor,” they both answered.

Something seemed to occur to both of them.

“Is our belief that strong?” Wolfric asked, doubtful.

“We are not your only believers, surely,” Gunnhilde said.

“Astrid and Elsa believe as well,” Thor was quick to point out. They were alone now, the other warriors going about the business of boarding the ship.

There was a pause, and Gunnhilde turned to Wolfric with a question on her face.

“My sisters,” Wolfric said to her, before glancing at Thor. “You are a newborn god? But…you turned the gaze of the Schemer from us.”

“I am certainly not newborn,” Thor said, puffing up. “I have fifteen centuries under my belt! I am only new to this world.”

“You strode fresh from the Realm of the Gods,” Gunnhilde said. Her faith was still strong, but Thor could feel her uncertainty as she absorbed this information.

“How new are you?” Wolfric demanded. “When did you come to our world?”

“Oh, about five minutes before I met you,” Thor said.

“...I prayed for aid from any who would listen as we fled,” Wolfric said.

“Fortunate timing,” Thor offered. He wasn’t sure he liked where this was going.

“You appeared as I prayed for a chance to slay that guard,” Gunnhilde said. “You named yourself the protector of mankind.”

“Yeeeessss,” Thor said, drawing the word out.

“We called for help, and you answered,” Wolfric said.

“I cannot be summoned through prayer,” Thor said, but they didn’t appear to be listening.

“Not newborn, but new to this world,” Wolfric said, sharing a look with his fellow believer. “Our belief is truly that valuable to you?”

“You are vulnerable,” Gunnhilde said, realisation in her words. “Faith is strength, and we are your main sources.”

“I do not control the storm through faith,” Thor said.

The pair stared at him, frowning as they attempted to understand.

“You fight the other gods with our faith as fuel,” Wolfric said. “You were wearied, after you banished the Schemer.”

“And after you hallowed my spear,” Gunnhilde said. “I was spent, but I saw.”

The pair shared another look, laden with meaning.

“We will find you more believers,” Wolfric declared.

“All will know the might of Thor,” Gunnhilde said, tone ominous.

Thor swallowed, unpleasantly reminded of the end of his first days on Midgard. "Belief will come from my deeds. I will earn it, or I will not."

Wolfric shook his head. “But what if -”

“Then I shall meet them with steel and storm,” Thor said, patting Stormbreaker. “My believers will choose to worship me.”

“You will break chains, and protect the innocent,” Gunnhilde said suddenly. “And they will know who to thank.”

“I will,” Thor said, “but that is not the reason I do it.”

“You do it because the innocent need protecting,” Gunnhilde said.

Thor smiled at his Valkyrie. She understood.

Wolfric ran a hand over the stubble on his head. “You were insistent that I acknowledge you as a god, after you turned the Schemer’s eye,” he said, seeking to understand.

“You needed hope,” Thor said, “and you wanted to believe. I felt your sincerity at the well.”

Wolfric nodded, thinking deeply.

Thor watched the pair of them. He could feel the bridge of their faith to him, still strong and true, now tempered by a truer understanding of where the world stood. Their connections deepened, and he could feel it leading to the well within him, gradually refilling after hallowing the spear. In time it would be full, and then it would grow. Slowly, and not as swiftly as gaining new believers, but grow it would.

“Lord Thor!” came the call.

Thor turned to see Harad leaning on the rail, all the warriors he had brought aboard and waiting. The old man looked pointedly at him, before glancing up at the sun. It was low in the sky, already well into the afternoon, and they still had a journey ahead of them. He raised an arm in acknowledgement, and began to make for the gangplank.

“Is that Harad of the Axe?” Wolfric asked suddenly as he followed.

“I had not heard the title, but that is Harad,” Thor said, glancing back at him.

Wolfric spoke no further, but his eyes tracked the man as he walked away from the rail, giving orders to his men. There was no malice in them, but they hid something all the same.

“Come,” Thor said to the pair of them. “The sooner we depart, the sooner we free the town.” He led the way up the gangplank, and his believers followed. He had a bounce in his step.

X

Vinteerholm was no city, but it was magnitudes greater than the small villages Thor had seen so far. Nestled against a broad, slow flowing section of the river, it had clearly grown outwards as its population demanded, town planning clearly completely foreign to them. Angled streets, untidy rows of buildings, a tannery deeper into the town than he suspected the residents would like; it seemed those that lived here had put all their efforts into maintaining the wall that surrounded their home. From where he lurked just beneath the clouds, he could see where previous iterations had been torn down as the town had expanded in the past. Quarried stone and thick lumber offered residents a reassuring defence, but it had not been enough when the Aeslings came to call.

Some few rickety docks had been built on the riverside, and it was here that the Aesling longships had been berthed, three vessels tied off where there should only be small fishing boats. It appeared that the raiders had taken the gate closest to the river by force, for they hung open, splintered, as if shattered by a mighty blow. He could still spy bodies here and there, some hanging from the walls, some left to freeze where they fell. The clouds, already ominous, darkened further. Though it was mid morning, it felt closer to dusk, and the rumble of thunder warned of a storm to come. Few walked the streets, and those that did either scurried quickly or swaggered. In the centre of the village, a bonfire roared, and the doors of the nearby longhouse were open, a steady stream of warriors flowing in and out.

Thor had seen enough. He turned upriver, and flew to join his companions. It was time to liberate Vinteerholm.

When he reached his comrades, they still waited upriver where he had left them, eager and waiting. Two score men and women, armed and eager for blood and vengeance. Gunnhilde and Wolfric were the first to look up, some instinct telling them of his approach, and the others followed their lead. He set down on the deck, a small circle of space growing around him.

“What word?” Tyra asked, eyes hungry for news. Her hand was stroking the edge of one of her axes subconsciously.

“The Aeslings make merry in the longhouse,” Thor said. “They’ve a bonfire in the square, but few roam beyond it.”

“Numbers?” Harad asked. He wore his sleeveless steel armour, double headed axe peeking over his shoulder, and a skullcap of iron.

“Three dozen in the square, but more hidden,” Thor said. “There are three longships by the docks.”

Tyra scowled, clenching a fist. “They came with six.”

“Those three, one destroyed, one captured…one missing,” Wolfric said. He had taken the armour worn by a man whom Thor remembered decapitating. There was a sword at his hip and a round shield on his back.

“How many men to a longship?” Thor asked.

“Depends how well they can get along,” Harad said. “Could be forty, could be four times that.”

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter,” Thor said. “They’ll die all the same.”

The drumming of feet and growling cries were his answer.

“Just down the river, Vinteerholm waits,” Thor said. “In it are raiders and murderers, preying on those who cannot defend themselves.”

“Innocents,” Gunnhilde said. She wore splint mail, and leaned against her spear.

“Just so,” Thor said. “For their crimes, there can only be one punishment.”

“Death!” Tyra said, pounding a fist on the ship’s rail, and her spirit was echoed by many others.

“Our foes number less than three hundred,” Thor said, “but there were five thousand souls before they came. No matter their ferocity, they cannot fight the entire town.”

“You think they have taken hostages,” Harad said, voice grim.

“Likely children,” Thor said. “I have seen it before. Easy to control, and the surest way of cowing their parents. Killing the raiders is the lesser goal here today.”

There was some murmuring as his words sunk in, but none gainsaid him. They all knew what it was to be at the mercy of one stronger, some more than others.

“I will rescue them,” Gunnhilde declared. “As a Valkyrie of Thor, I will take this task.”

Thor nodded approvingly. “Tyra,” he said, turning to the woman. “Where would they keep their hostages?”

“The longhouse has storage basements,” the redhead said. “Hard to get to, locks on the doors. If they’ve claimed it, that’s where they’ll keep them.”

“The longhouse is the most defensible point,” Harad warned.

“And that is why we will lure them out,” Thor said. “Once we have thinned their numbers, we will move into the town as a group, splitting when we hit the centre. Harad, the square is yours to hold. Wolfric, you will take the longhouse. Tyra, you will guide Gunnhilde to the likely hostages, and kill any raider that gets in her way.” The muscled woman likely would have objected to being told she was on guard duty, but she bared her teeth in a grin at his words. It was all in the phrasing.

Nods and grunts were his answer, all accepting his directions, though some glanced first to Harad.

“How do you mean to draw them out?” Harad asked. He glanced up at the storm clouds, darkening still. “Those who follow the Hound do not respect wizards and their magics.”

Thor smiled, nostalgic and sharp. “I will do as my brother would, and ask nicely,” he said.

X

Thunder boomed, leaving silence ringing in its wake. But then there came another kind of booming, a voice rising over the walls of Vinteerholm.

“They tell me you Aeslings worship the Hound,

So I went to the kennels, and that’s what I found!

Your father I saw, his desires unclean,

Rutting away, how I wish I’d not seen!

You’ve the face of a dog, for which no maiden could care,

With your bitch of a mother, you surely do share!”

Thor rocked back on his heels, unable to help the smile on his face. Loki would have despaired over his verse, he was sure, but he cared not. He would pay tribute to his memory in his own way, and if that meant hurling abuse at his foes in terrible rhyme, that was what he would do.

The quiet stretched out after his words faded away, and he could feel those behind him exchanging looks.

“Do you think they heard him?” someone asked quietly.

“Can’t just say it again, you’d sound a fool,” someone else answered.

Suddenly, the gates began to creak open, and a small party of warriors were revealed. A dozen strong, armed and armoured, but some held tankards or food. Many seemed to be steaming in anger, but when they saw the forty odd warriors waiting outside, their ardour cooled.

“Fuck you!” one of them roared.

“You’re supposed to say it in verse!” Thor shouted back.

The man only seemed to swell further, stepping out past the gate and jabbing a finger at them. “You fat cunt!”

Thor sighed, deeply. “No, no…this is how you’re supposed to do it.” He cleared his throat.

“Thy mother was akin to a hamster,

For she couldn’t keep her pants up,

Thy father was limp but merry,

And overly fond of elderberry!

You’ve many brothers, but he one son,

‘Twas your mother who had all the fun!”

The Aesling gaped at him, ale foam dripping from his beard as his face reddened rapidly.

“Now you try,” Thor encouraged him.

A scream was his only answer, and then the raider was charging towards him.

Thor held back another sigh. He could hardly expect flyting to be a tradition everywhere he went, but he would at least hope to find some culture. “Wolfric.”

The one eyed man stepped forward like he had been waiting for it, putting himself between the Aesling and his God. He made no move to draw his sword or pull his shield from his back, even as the raider neared and drew back an axe. The foe gave a great bellow, all reason lost, and swung for Wolfric’s head.

Almost too late, Wolfric ducked low, leading with one shoulder. He caught the raider in the legs, bracing himself as he did. The axe found only air, and then Wolfric rose with an explosive motion, sending the foe hurtling over him to land in the dirt and snow, face down and rattled. Before he could do more than start to push himself up, Wolfric was on him, seizing him by the hair to drag his head back. A dagger appeared in his hand, and he dragged it across the man’s throat, spilling bright red blood onto the snow.

“For Thor,” he snarled as stood and turned to the gate, holding the bloody dagger high.

There was a moment of stillness, as the Aeslings stared at their freshly butchered fellow, and then Tyra let out a shout.

“Death!” she screamed, already charging forward, crossing the last distance between them and the gate. Harad was only a heartbeat behind her, weight of experience ensuring she wasn’t charging alone.

It was Gunnhilde who claimed the next kill though, her spear taking a man through the chest before sliding free with a squelch as she called it back. She spun with it, bleeding off momentum, but caught it in hand. The rest of the Baersonlings charged with a roar.

The Aeslings had no time for fear, for Tyra and Harad were upon them, the two axe wielders bloodying their weapons as one. Tyra was a dervish, her axes whirling with her, while Harad felled men like a lumberjack, strong sweeping blows impossible to resist.

Thor leapt forward, crossing an impossible distance in one stride, kicking a man in the chest as he tried to stab Tyra while she had an axe buried in a man’s neck. He was hurled back, ribs crushed and folded near in two to collide with the wall of a building within the town. The raider next to him turned and fled, either cowardice or going to warn the others. Either suited Thor’s purpose, and he turned for another victim.

The rest of the Baersonlings reached the gate, crashing into their hated foes, and there was only one way it could end. The portal became a charnelhouse, the drunk and unprepared gate guards unable to match those that had come for them. They had grown arrogant and cocksure, safe in the knowledge that the town was cowed and there were no forces nearby to challenge them.

They were wrong.

The last foe fell, Tyra turning his head into a pulped mess as she rained down blows again and again, splattering herself with blood, bone, and brain matter.

“Tyra,” Thor said, voice sharp and quick.

She spun to face him, still caught up in the battle rage.

“I think he’s dead,” Thor said mildly.

“Hnrngh,” Tyra grunted. She touched a hand to her face, and it came away with viscera on it. She swallowed, and began to look for a rag to wipe it off with from amongst the dead.

“One got away,” Wolfric said. “Should we follow?”

“No, let them come to us,” Thor said. “Catch your breath. They can die tired.”

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Low laughter was his answer, and they waited, checking their armour and wrapping what few injuries they received. It did not take long for the man who had fled to return, and he brought friends. A battle cry from within the town drew their eyes.

The street leading deeper into the town was narrow, paved in cobblestones and filth, but down it Thor could see a mob of raiders approaching. Their blood was up, and they made no secret of their anger upon seeing their dead comrades.

A shutter in a house across the street cracked open, and Thor saw a child peeking through. He raised his axe to him, and the kid stared with wide eyes.

“Where are we?” Thor asked, turning to those who had followed him.

“Vinteerholm,” Wolfric answered.

“Who does Vinteerholm belong to?”

“The Baersonlings,” several answered.

“Who are they?” Thor asked, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

“Aeslings!” they shouted.

“What do we do with Aesling raiders?”

“Kill!” came the roar.

Thor turned as the Aeslings neared, Stormbreaker at the ready. The clouds above began to rumble, lightning arcing across them. His eyes began to glow, and those that opposed him had only a moment to suspect that perhaps they had made a mistake before the mob crashed into them, and then there was no time for anything but bloodshed.

The storm above only grew, thunder booming with every swing of Stormbreaker. Thor put himself in the thick of the fight, bellowing and laughing, drawing the eye of every raider to himself and away from his people. They may not have been his people in truth, but they had followed him into battle, and that was enough for him. He could have slain this unruly mob before they had reached them, struck them down without the others having to do so much as draw their blades, but that was the easy road. To do so would be to rob those they had wronged of something important, and he was no impudent young prince, eager for gratification. He backhanded a frothing raider hard enough to snap his neck, sending him tumbling through two of his fellows. Every warrior with him would wet their blades, and through them those who couldn’t fight would share victory.

The gate was a packed scrum now, each group pressing and struggling against the other. The Aesling’s greater numbers meant little when the gate was only a dozen men wide, and the Baersonlings were reaping a bloody toll.

The Aeslings were feared for a reason though, and a woman screamed in agony as she was stabbed through the gut, scavenged armour not enough to turn the blow. Thor shouldered a foe out of the way and trampled another as he made for her side, seizing the sword with his spare hand and snapping it off before the wielder could pull it free. He headbutted them, caving in their skull, and put himself between the fight and the wounded woman.

“Get her to the back!” he ordered to those behind, voice heard clearly above the fight.

The woman was pulled back, passed through the ranks away from danger, and a man stepped up to take her place, catching a blow upon his shield and leaning in to bite the enemy. A bellow of pain followed, and red stained teeth spat out most of an ear.

The fight was packed tight now, so tightly that there was hardly any room to breathe, let alone swing a weapon. More were doing as the ear biter had done, using any inch of space to strike however they could, pulling free daggers to strike between shield and small gaps. Already savage, now the fight turned vicious.

A blade snapped against the ribs of his armour, ill made iron no match for the craft of Nidavellir, but not all were so lucky. He saw Tyra jerk her head away from a stab that would have taken her eye, and instead it only carved a line along her cheek, while another man gasped as a dragger was driven through his armour into his shoulder. Thor reached out and snapped a man’s neck after they tried to hook his legs out from under him, finding him an immovable boulder in the midst of the brawl. He scowled. This fight reminded him more of an assassination attempt outside a tavern than a true battle, and he decided enough was enough. He took a step forward, the press of bodies yielding before him.

Unable to contest his strength, the foemen tried to give way, but those behind them had them trapped, eager to join the fight. He strode through them, crushing or trampling those before him, until he was deep within their ranks, leaving crumpled bodies in his wake. Those with him were quick to take advantage, pouring into the gap he had created, slitting throats and cracking skulls, as the crack became a breach. Thor emerged out the other side, finally with room to swing his axe. He split a howling man wearing nought but pants from shoulder to hip, crushing another’s skull on the backswing. Wolfric was right behind him, watching his back, but they were not alone. The scrum turned into two separate fights, the Aeslings split and dismayed after being treated like errant children by the fat blond warrior with the axe, and the Baersonlings pressed their advantage. Victory was close enough that they could smell it, and they had precious little mercy to show their enemies.

Thor pulled a huge raider off one of his people, and the smaller man sucked in a lungful of air, bruises already forming around his neck. He tossed the raider upwards, and he collided with the arch of the gate with a squelch, before falling back to the ground. He joined the corpses of his fellows, unmoving. He was the last of them.

“Alright there?” Thor asked, extending a hand.

The man accepted it and nodded, trying to force out words, but all that emerged were rasps. He swallowed, trying again as he steadied himself. “Praise you, Thor.”

Thor felt a metaphorical bucket poured back into the well within him, and he beamed, clapping the man on the shoulder. “Check your fellows,” he said, turning to the others. “See to our wounded, and the fallen.”

Those who had heard began to obey, checking each body. Each body was checked, and dead or alive, any Baersonling taken away from the carnage and outside the walls, while Aeslings received a slit throat.

“This can’t be all of them,” Tyra said, breathing deeply and raggedly.

“Fifty, perhaps? And those who were first watching the gate,” Thor said.

“More to kill then,” Tyra said, grinning. There was a cut on her cheek, from cheekbone past her ear.

Thor glanced at the work being done. They had slaughtered the raiders, but it was not without casualties. He saw four dead, and several more than that too wounded to fight on. “We make for the town centre,” he said. “Stay together. They surely still outnumber us, and we will not make easy pickings of ourselves.” He glanced at the shutters he had spied before; the boy was still peeking through them, looking thoroughly awed.

“What of the wounded?” Gunnhilde asked. She had been carrying them away from the scene of the fight. Her spear dripped with blood, though she was uninjured.

“I don’t like the idea of leaving them out there,” Harad said, stomping over to join the conversation. He had picked up a cut along his bare arm, and likely a new scar too.

“The sooner we kill the Aeslings the sooner we can get them to a healer,” Tyra said. “And we need every blade in the fight to come.”

“We will not leave them where any fleeing foe might make a corpse out of them,” Thor said. “Nor will we leave them undefended, though we cannot spare many. Gunnhilde, ready the wounded to be moved.”

Gunnhilde was already moving as Tyra gave a tsk of impatience, but she did not argue with him as he strode away, making for the house across the way. It was a narrow home, one in a row of many, made from wood stained dark by smoke and two stories high.

Thor knocked three times, rattling the door in its frame. He heard shifting on the other side, someone lurking in wait, but whoever it was made no move to open the door. He was about to knock again when there was the sound of a bar shifting, and the door began to creak open, but only an inch.

A gaunt, dark eyed man glowered through the gap. “What do you want.”

“I saw a child through your shutters, and -”

“You’ll not take him!” the man shrieked, wrenching the door open to reveal a hatchet poised to strike.

Thor caught the axe easily. “I do not want him,” he said forcefully, staring down at the father.

The man hesitated, and then there was a pounding of small footsteps on wooden floors. The boy he had seen through the shutters appeared, a wooden sword in hand.

“Pa!” the boy said, rushing forward.

“No!” the man said, trying fruitlessly to free his weapon from Thor’s grip.

“He killed the Aeslings!” the boy chattered excitedly. “I saw it, I saw it, he cut a man in half with his axe!”

“I told you to stay away - what?” the man said, despair giving way to confusion.

“We’re here to deal with your raider problem,” Thor said politely, letting go and stepping back, away from the door.

The father looked past him, and glimpsed the carnage in the gate. His eyes snapped back to Thor. “You’re no Aesling.”

“I am not.”

“I can fight the Aeslings with you,” the boy said, brandishing his sword. He couldn’t have been more than six. “They took Ma away, but we can get her back!”

Thor glanced to the man, and saw a look of masked grief on his face. He asked a silent question, and received a slow shake of his head in answer. “I am sure you would sl-defeat many,” Thor said, “but if you come with us, who will guard your father?” He accepted the small tragedy of the family and focused on the task at hand.

“We can both fight, right Pa?” the boy asked, looking up at his father.

The boy’s father looked out over the street of corpses, ready to deny his child, before he was distracted. “Is that Tyra?” he asked, spying the redheaded woman.

“She was among the first I rescued from these scum,” Thor said, “but not the last.”

“And Harad of the Axe,” the man said, more to himself.

“Pa?” the boy asked, insistent.

“No, son,” the man said. “Warriors like these don’t need our help.” He sounded beaten.

“But you’re a great warrior,” the boy said, trusting and sure.

The man seemed to fold in on himself at the words like they were physical blows.

“I do have need of a pair of warriors like you,” Thor said. “We make for the longhouse, but we have wounded. I require a strong arm to watch over them, and keep them safe.”

The father looked out over the warriors who had slain the raiders occupying his town, gaze lingering in places. “...bring them in,” he said. “We’ll hide them.”

“I’ll leave you some aid,” Thor said, speaking less to the child now. “But we must move quickly.” He turned, gesturing to the others, and Gunnhilde was already guiding the wounded over. She had a man’s arm over her shoulder, helping him hop along with a lame leg. The woman with a broken sword through her belly was being carried on a makeshift stretcher made from spears, and a few more came behind them.

“Some of the lighter wounded can guard them,” Gunnhilde said to Thor.

“Aye,” Thor said, as the wounded were helped or carried into the house.

“Son, go ahead and light the lantern in the basement,” the father said. He was quick to help them inside, getting them off the street and out of sight, but Thor could still feel eyes on them. Not that it would matter who saw what, but he understood the man’s nerves.

It did not take long to get them squared away, reducing their numbers to thirty. The gaunt, tired townsman gave him a jerky nod as they departed, a cold hate surfacing just long enough to be seen. His tale of a lost wife, a mother gone, would not be unique in this town after the depredations of the Aeslings, and Thor felt an angry tide building in his chest. It was reflected in the clouds above them, and as they made the final march to the town centre, the storm heralded their coming. It was an ill day to be an Aesling in Vinteerholm.

X

When they neared the square, the Aeslings were waiting. Some seventy men were arranged in a rough group before the bonfire outside the longhouse, the time it had taken them to deal with the fights at the gate and the wounded allowing them time to prepare. They were clad as most of the raiders had been, though at their head was a man in better gear than most. He looked superior even to Reket, the man Gunnhilde had bested, his armour akin to that of some Midgardian knight, a fine sword in one hand. They waited as Thor and his people approached, making their way down the street that led to them without hurry.

Shutters and windows opened as they passed, townsfolk looking out while trying to avoid being seen. The fight by the gate had not been quiet, and the scent of blood was on the air. Blood and thunder. They hoped, some even daring to pray, whispering pleas to whatever god might be kind enough to listen, even as they knew it was for nought. There were no kind gods, not in these lands. Lightning crashed, and the sky darkened ever further.

Thor came to a stop in the square proper, Wolfric to his right, and Gunnhilde to his left. Harad was over on the right wing of their group, while Tyra had taken the left, each falling into place without need for discussion. He beheld what waited for them, and the tide of anger within grew.

The obvious leader was holding his fine sword, and its tip was at the neck of a young woman. She was shivering in the cold, naked from the waist up, and she bore the signs of past abuse as she held herself, barely daring to swallow lest the blade at her throat slice it open. Lightning flashed in the distance, and raindrops began to plink on steel.

The leader smirked at the growing fury on Thor’s face, and opened his mouth to speak.

Thor did not deign to give him the chance. The storm erupted, opening to release a deluge, and with it came a lance of lightning. It struck the raider captain dead on with a roar, leaving all who saw it blinking away blinding afterimages. When their vision cleared, there was only a smoking corpse in ruined armour, and a sword sticking out of the ground before it. Thor himself was standing by the once-hostage, staring down at his defeated foe. No one had seen him move. He tugged at his cape, freeing it from its clasps, and draped it over the woman.

Hisses of disgust arose from the raiders, whispers of ‘wizard’ and ‘sorcerer’ shared between them, but words froze in their throats when glowing eyes were turned on them.

“You are safe,” Thor told the woman.

Standing within spitting distance of the raiders who had brought fire and ruin and suffering to her life, she believed him utterly. His eyes glowed with untold power, and the cape she was wrapped in was finer than anything she had ever seen in her life. “Who are you?” she asked, grasping his arm.

“I am the God of Thunder,” Thor said, and the heavens rumbled with his words. His gaze drifted over to the Aeslings, and the weight of his disregard was a physical thing. “Tell me, who were you again?”

There was no answer, and yet he smiled.

“Ah, that’s right,” he said. “Dead men.”

This was too much for one man, and he ran at Thor with a bellow. Thor backhanded him, sending him flying over the rest and into the bonfire behind them. The burning wood collapsed under his weight, burying and entrapping him. He gave a single tortured scream, though he continued to thrash, but to no avail. A wave of fear swept through his fellows, awed by his might.

On another day, Thor would have faced them with a quip and an invitation. He would have sent them on to Hel with a laugh and a quip to his comrades.

Not this day.

He readied Stormbreaker, drawing it back and to the side. With a thought, it would sweep through their ranks like the farmer’s scythe swept through wheat, and -

The corpse beside him shifted.

Thor turned, as the body of the raider captain began to swell, bursting from the remains of its shattered armour, skin reddening. “Go,” he said to the woman in his cape, gently pushing her towards his people and away from the still growing thing.

She stumbled into a run, disappearing through the ranks between Wolfric and Gunnhilde, but Thor’s eyes never left the mutating beast. He watched as its cooked flesh split and tore, revealing swollen muscles as spikes of bone grew from its knees and elbows.

“Khorne!” came a cry from the Aeslings. “Praise Khorne!” The cry was taken up by the raiders, and a foul joy rose within them. “Khorne! Khorne! Khorne!”

Thor’s grip tightened on his axe as a cancerous presence descended on the square. It was eager and hungry, and it fed off the cries of the raiders, directing their faith into the still growing beast. An extra set of arms sprouted from below its armpits in a shower of blood and gore, but instead of hands they ended in blades of bone. Yet more flesh split and swelled as it continued to grow, towering over him now, but instead of muscle, fang filled maws were revealed, snake-like tongues flicking out of them. Its head was tiny on its new body, its eyes so bloodshot there was no white to be seen. There was not a hint of rational thought behind them.

“Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Skull Throne!” came the roar.

The beast gave out a howling shriek, lurching for Thor on uneven legs, and its cry made him wince, but he had heard worse. The Baersonlings were more affected, some collapsing and clapping hands over bleeding ears, many backing away in fear. Others dropped their weapons entirely, though Gunnhilde and Wolfric only clutched at their heads, staggering.

Thor had no time to see to his people. He met the charge of the beast head on, Stormbreaker carving off one arm and blocking a bone blade that sought his neck, while he parried the other with his vambrace. His boot lashed out, catching it in the belly, and it staggered back. One of the maws tried to bite his foot as he did, though it was much too slow, and Thor brought his axe around, taking off one leg at the knee. It fell, all of its mouths screaming in agony, and the raiders faltered in their jeers and taunts.

“Where is your god now?” Thor bellowed, incensed by the foul touch of one of the Chaos Gods. He could feel their gaze on the fight, could sense the Bloodlust heavy in the air. He would not have. He would not.

His words gave his people strength, and those affected by the mental attack regathered themselves, taking up their weapons once more and stepping back up to form ranks once more. They did not join the fight, and neither did the Aeslings, an unspoken demand forcing them to bear witness.

The mutant did not answer his taunt, thought its screams intensified, and soon he saw why. The limbs he had removed had begun to grow back, new flesh and bone sprouting in showers of gore. Already it was forcing itself back to its feet.

“KHORNE! KHORNE! KHORNE!” the Aeslings chanted, beating their weapons against their shields.

“Thor!” came the sole answering cry, Wolfric sounding his defiance. He was not alone for long, as more voices joined with each repetition. “THOR! THOR!”

The beast gnashed its teeth together, wary of him now. Overlarge fangs cut into its mouths, adding to its pain and rage, and its slavering drool hissed and spat where it dripped onto the ground. It charged mindlessly once more, reaching with clawed hands and blades of bone.

Thor could not help but sneer. This was what Bloodlust sent against him? This was all it could conjure? It was an insult. He brought Stormbreaker back, winding up for a swing, not even trying to disguise the blow.

Unthinking hunger and eagerness for blood was all that could be seen in the beast’s eyes as it neared him, and it was then that Thor struck. His axe came up in an underhand strike, delivering a mighty blow to its groin and continuing upwards. From crotch to skull he split it, and it died with that same unthinking hunger on its face as each half of it was carried on to either side of him by its own momentum. Black blood sizzled in the dirt as the corpse halves thrashed briefly, before they went still.

Thor turned to the Aeslings. The clamour of each side had fallen silent, and rare was the raider who could meet his eyes. He cast his gaze over them, these small men who had used their devotion to the cancerous mass of thought they called a god as an excuse to bring terror and misery to their neighbours. He inspected them, and he found them wanting.

“You are not worthy,” he said. The storm had arrived in truth during his fight with the cancer spawn, and the rain began to fall in sheets. Lightning danced amongst the clouds, and the thunder only paused long enough for his words to be heard.

One raider found some scrap of courage, and he ran screaming at Thor, sword raised. “Blood for the Blood-”

Thunder boomed, and lightning struck, blinding all who were looking at him. When their vision returned, all that was left of him was a pair of smoking boots.

“None of you are worthy,” Thor said, and it had the weight of judgement.

The raiders had only enough time to feel fear, and the heavens opened once more. Lightning roared, shaking the ground with its might in a display that seemed to last an eternity. An unknown number of heartbeats later, it came to an end, thunder slowly fading in its wake. There was only silence, though that may have been because no one could hear in the wake of such elemental fury. The storm eased, and the rain stopped.

In the quiet, Thor stared at the smoking corpses that were all that remained of the Aesling raiders. He could see scorched faces screwed up in agony, and the ground they had stood upon had been reduced to a ring of twisted and blackened glass. He turned away, facing the warriors who had followed him. Many were awed, some were frightened, but it was the surety and confidence on Wolfric and Gunnhilde that drew his eye. He had seen similar on the faces of civilians he had rescued on Midgard, but this went further. This was devotion, and he was not sure how he felt about it.

“Gunnhilde, Tyra,” he said, looking to the two women.

“Hostages, aye God of Thunder,” Gunnhilde said, already moving towards the longhouse that bordered one side of the town square. Tyra was quick to join her, only pausing to give the smoking bodies a look of disappointment, and several warriors followed in their wake.

“Harad, three longships still wait on the docks,” Thor said, turning to the axeman.

“I will see them secured,” Harad said. He gave Thor an indecipherable look before taking half of the remaining fighters, heading towards the river.

Thor turned to his first believer. “Wolfric, the town must be secured,” he said. “Take those who remain and scour it for any raiders that linger.”

Wolfric beat his fist against his chest and set about directing the ten men and women left to him. It was unlikely they would find many, if any at all, but it would be irresponsible not to check.

Thor’s eye was caught by the sword that the beast had used to threaten the hostage when he had still been a man, still sticking up out of the ground. It was finely made indeed, and bore a green gem in its hilt.

“Oh, Wolfric,” Thor said, reaching down to pull the blade free. It was absent of any foul taint, and he felt confident in his decision. His follower turned, and he tossed it to him. “You should have this. Call it a bonus for your deeds by the gate.”

Wolfric caught it by the handle, surprised but quietly pleased. He held it out, narrowing his sole eye as he looked down the blade, and gave it a few swings. He smiled. “My thanks, God of Thunder.”

Thor gave him a put upon frown, as a teacher might a foolish student.

“Lord Thor,” Wolfric corrected himself.

“Bear it well,” Thor said. “And when I regain my strength…” he trailed off, shrugging.

Wolfric glanced after Gunnhilde. “I will,” he swore. He strode off, intent on his task and fresh steel in his spine.

Thor looked about the square, empty now as it was. The bonfire had been blown apart by the force of his lightning, leaving small clusters of burning wood scattered about. He would do no good to those he had set to work by hovering over their shoulders, so he kept himself busy by kicking the wood back into the firepit, piling it up around the half cooked body of the raider he had backhanded into it. In short order, he had a fire going once more. There was a woodpile nearby, and from it he dragged a large stump to use as a seat. He planted himself by the fire, away from the glass and corpses, listening to it crackle and enjoying its warmth. Distantly, he heard a brief clash of steel on steel, but there were no shouts, and it ended quickly.

Footsteps reached his ears, shoes squelching through the slush that had come from his brief rainstorm, and he turned from the fire to see who approached. It was the woman he had rescued, still swathed in his cape, and she was hesitant as she drew near.

It was the work of a moment to procure another stump for her to use, and he set it down by his own. At his unspoken invitation, she joined him in staring into the fire. She did not speak, and he was in no rush to hurry her.

A thought occurred to him, and the woman gasped as his armour faded in a gleam of seidr, leaving him in his comfortable hoodie and sweats. He began to rummage about in his pockets, until he found what he sought. Lunchable in hand, he peeled the foil from one corner and offered it to her.

With a bemused expression, she accepted the offering, inspecting the strange thing. Her interest rose when she caught a whiff of its contents, and she quickly puzzled out how to get at them. The wafers, cheese, and ham within were quickly devoured, and then she went looking for crumbs. Thor smiled at the near rapturous expression she wore. Truly, Clint had been speaking the truth when he introduced the Midgaradian delicacy to him.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, offering the plastic remains back to him.

“It is no matter,” Thor said, tucking the rubbish away in his pocket. “I am glad you enjoyed it.”

She swallowed, but found the courage to speak again. “I mean - for-” she broke off, pulling his cape tighter about himself.

“I know,” Thor said. “You are safe now. They can never harm you again.”

The woman inched closer to the fire. “What if they come back?”

Thor glanced over at the corpses. “If they do, I will strike them down again.”

“There were more,” the woman insisted. “They left days ago, but what if they come back?”

Thor frowned at the confirmation. He had known there was a longship missing, and the numbers they had fought were fewer than they had expected from Tyra’s information, but still he had hoped. “What is your name?

“Kirsa, God of Thunder,” Kirsa said, glancing at him quickly. Her eyes were brown, and full of anxious fear.

“Kirsa,” Thor said, meeting her eyes. “If any raiders return to this town, I will smite them with the fury of the storm, and smash their vessel to splinters. You have my oath.”

The fear receded, warded off by his promise, but still she was wary. “Even Sigurd Twice-Slain?” she asked.

“Even Sigurd Twice-Slain,” Thor said, marking the name.

“He killed my father,” Kirsa said, her voice small.

“Should we meet, he will never slay another,” Thor said. He ran a thumb along Stormbreaker’s edge where it sat against his knee.

The longhouse doors were kicked open, drawing their eyes, and Gunnhilde was the first to emerge. She carried a small child on her hip, and her spear was wet with fresh blood. The sun began to peak through the clearing clouds, and a beam lit upon her hair, making it glow akin to gold.

“Who is that?” Kirsa asked, eyes wide and her tone betraying her youth.

“That is Gunnhilde, first of my Valkyries,” Thor said proudly. “Defender of the innocent and uh, revenger upon the wicked.”

Kirsa’s eyes tracked Gunnhilde as more emerged from the longhouse, all carrying children or guiding them along. A pair of old women came with them, squinting in the sun, as if they hadn’t seen it for days. They too bore signs of abuse, one missing an ear and the other with one eye swollen shut.

Thor’s mood darkened. “This Sigurd will reap what he has sown,” he said. “He will come to regret commanding these raids.”

Kirsa glanced up at him, tearing her eyes from Gunnhilde. “Sigurd wasn’t the one who ordered this.”

“Was he not the leader who fled in the days past?” Thor asked.

“Aye God of Thunder, he led the raid,” Kirsa said, nodding, “but he didn’t order it.”

“Then who?” Thor demanded.

Kirsa leant in, as if afraid to speak the name too loudly. “They call him the Aesling,” she said. “Valmir Aesling.”

“Valmir the Aesling,” Thor said, as if tasting the name. Gone were the days where he would tempestuously swear revenge and go haring off on an adventure, but he would note the name nonetheless. “I had thought to let some flee, and spread their fear amongst their fellows,” he said. “I do not think I mind that none have survived.”

“Good,” Kirsa said vehemently.

They fell into silence, watching as the warriors who had rescued the hostages began to lead them towards the fire. Tyra had a child on each hip and one seated on her shoulders, the domestic image greatly at odds with the blood splattered all across her front. The clouds above continued to fade and a bright day dawned over Vinteerholm.

Gunnhilde reached them first, the toddler on her hip peeking out at them from where he had hidden his face in her neck. Thor raised his arm in a wave, brightening at the memory of the times Steve had taken him along to visit the children’s hospitals.

“Children,” Gunnhilde said, voice raised. “This is Thor, God of Thunder and the man who has saved us all.”

There was a doubtful silence, as the hostages took in his hoodie and sweats, faces unimpressed. A flash of panic crossed Gunnhilde’s face, and Thor held back a chuckle.

Thor rose, calling on storm and seidr, and his armour rippled into being across his body once more. “Call me Thor,” he said, “or Lord Thor if you want to be formal.”

Doubt turned to awe, and Thor beamed down at all the little faces staring up at him. No one spoke, and the silence began to stretch out.

He clapped his hands together. “Well. Yes. We should see about finding your families, little ones.”

“We know them,” one of the old women said, the one with the eye bruised shut. “We can bring them.”

“Gunnhilde will protect you,” Thor said, glancing at his Valkyrie. She nodded quickly. “Tyra, take the warriors and join Wolfric in cleansing the town.” The redhead grinned, revealing bloody teeth, and he chose to believe it was from an unlucky splatter.

“What about the children?” the other old woman demanded. Her voice was hoarse, and there were finger shaped bruises around her neck to go with her missing, scabbed over ear.

“The children are under my protection,” Thor said, meeting her gaze. Stormbreaker jumped up into his waiting hand with a hum of Uru.

The elder inspected him, gimlet eyes running from toe to crown, and she gave him a grudging nod. “...praise Tor.”

“Ah, it’s ‘Thor’,” he said. “Easy mistake to make, no harm done.”

She gave him a suspicious look, but said nothing, only sharing a glance with the other woman, who on closer inspection looked to be a sister or a cousin.

“Gather round children,” Thor said, giving Gunnhilde and Tyra a nod to send them about their tasks. They departed, leaving Thor and Kirsa alone with the children. He took up the stump he had sat on in one hand and began slicing discs off it with his axe. “Here, take a seat to keep yourselves dry.” As he cut, he handed each child a disc and they sat, knees drawn to their chests to keep their feet out of the slush on the ground. When he was done, he had used up his seat, and Kirsa made to rise to give hers to him, but he shook his head.

The children had watched him work, eyes wide, and now that he was done they watched him still, and Thor suddenly realised he had volunteered himself to keep two score odd children occupied until their families could be found. He glanced at Kirsa, but he was only met with more of the same. The silence verged on awkward.

“Who wants to hear a tale of my adventures?” Thor asked brightly. When in doubt, tell a story. It had worked for the hospital visits, and it would work here.

The children perked up. They looked to be in better shape than he would expect, having been held hostage as long as they were, but the worst he could see were deep bags under their eyes and dirty clothes. The promise of a story breathed new life into them.

“Many centuries ago, in a distant land, a young and foolish warrior sought adventure,” Thor began. “With him were his boon companions, the Warriors Three - Fandral, Hogan, and Volstagg - the Lady Sif, and the warrior’s brother, Loki Silvertongue.”

Thor warmed to his tale, beginning to pace back and forth with the fire behind him. The attention and awe of the children warmed him more than any fire ever could, and it helped him ignore the knowledge that he was the only person from the story that yet lived.

“This band of heroes came to a cold place much like this, filled with people much like you, and though they were hardly more than children, they did their best to aid those they found, for their admiration was pleasing to them…”

He continued speaking, talking of a feud between villages, of the stronger village that was led by a giant of a man taking advantage of the weaker. As he did, he glimpsed figures gathering in the streets beyond the square, unwilling to come closer. A broad gesture to emphasise the size of the strong and cruel giant let him glance over his shoulder, and he saw the same on the other side of the square, yet he continued with his story. He had Stormbreaker in hand. No matter what came, the children would be safe.

“...the warrior was foolish indeed, because he became very drunk at the feast marking peace between the villages, so drunk that he misplaced his hammer, a magical weapon forged by the dwarfs of Nidavellir…”

From the watchers, a figure emerged at a run. It was a woman, and her shawl flapped behind her as she approached, heedless of anything but the child her gaze was fixed on. She shouted a name as she neared, and the boy jumped up and turned, the tale forgotten. Thor held back a pout as his story was interrupted, but he couldn’t complain overmuch as mother and son were reunited, the boy swept up into a crushing hug.

The mother checked her son over for injuries with a frantic energy, but on finding none she looked up to Thor. “Thank you, thank you lord.”

“I was happy to help,” Thor said. He could have said it was nothing, and perhaps the effort was to him, but it was everything to her.

“What do we call you, lord?” the woman asked.

“That’s Thor,” the son piped up. “He’s the god of thunder.”

The woman paled, and her grip around her child tightened.

“He was tellin’ us a story,” the boy added.

“You may join us if you wish,” Thor said generously.

The woman took her son’s seat, cradling him in her lap protectively. Though he was perhaps a little old for such, he did not protest, already looking back to Thor with an expectant gaze.

“Right, where was I…” Thor said. He spied a number of other townsmen approaching cautiously, now that no harm had befallen the mother, but he focused on his story. “Yes, the strong and cruel giant was unhappy with the peace he had been forced into, and he saw his chance to take his revenge upon the ones responsible. He stole away with the magical hammer, fleeing back to his village, where he hid it away…”

His audience grew, the bravest and most desperate coming in search of news. The glassed patch of the square and the bodies on it received a wide berth and many glances, and a game of whispers was played as small groups joined. Thunder god they said in hushed tones, and if they believed or not they respected and feared a man in armour such as he wore, to say nothing of the axe he held and gestured with, the weapon turned into a prop to entertain children.

“...the giant was cunning, and he knew the value of what he had stolen, and refused to reveal where it was hidden,” Thor said, his tone lowering, inviting listeners to lean in to hear him. “But then rumours began to spread, helped by Loki Silvertongue, telling of a golden beauty from a neighbouring kingdom. Her beauty and strength were unmatched, so the tales said, and she was in search of a husband - but only one who could provide a bride price of something greater than mere material wealth.”

Quiet reunions were taking place under his gaze as parents found their children, holding them close after being separated for who knows how long. More and more residents approached, those who had witnessed the end of the raiders, or heard word from those who had. Many were not sure what to think, having come expecting a force of their own tribe, only to find a strange blond giant telling tales, but questioning those with power was a dangerous idea at the best of times, and this giant clearly had power.

“...the wedding came, and Floki, the bride’s brother, demanded to see the hammer Mjolnir. The cruel giant was besotted with his bride to be, even hidden by a veil as she was, and he brought it forth without thinking,” Thor said. “Can you guess what happened next?” he asked the children. Many now were in a parent’s arms, or held close to one’s side, but they still listened eagerly.

“Was it a trick?” “Did Floki steal the hammer too?” “The warrior was hiding in the crowd!”

“All very close, but not quite!” Thor said, giving a booming laugh. He had been incensed at the time, furious with his brother’s plot and with his father for the rules laid upon him for interacting with the Midgardians, but a thousand years on he felt only nostalgia. “The bride took off her veil, to reveal the foolish warrior! The cruel giant gaped at his bearded foe, giving him time to seize his hammer and strike him with a mighty blow!” He swung his axe through the air, hammer side first, and distant thunder rumbled with it, simulating the blow.

“What happened next?”

Thor spent a moment to consider his audience against the slightly debauched events that had followed. “Ah, they finished the wedding feast, no need to waste good food, and everyone returned home afterwards to get some sleep. The end.”

A ripple of impressed noises ran about his audience, mostly from the children, but some of the adults joined in as well.

“Are you the god of stories too?” a child demanded.

Thor’s smile faded. “No, that was my brother, Loki.”

“Like in the story?”

“Exactly like the story!” Thor said. “The tales my brother spun, when the mood suited him…” he trailed off, before shaking himself lest a familiar melancholy sink in.

“Does that - are you saying you were the warrior from the tale?” Kirsa asked, hesitant.

“Gods can’t get drunk,” someone said, but they sounded doubtful.

“Not from mortal wines, but I was young and foolish,” Thor said, “and I had borrowed a keg from the cellars of my father.”

“It must have been long ago,” Kirsa said. “You’re so -” she broke off, gesturing at him.

“To some it would seem that way,” Thor said. “I am not so young any more, but I can still be foolish from time to time.”

Many glances were exchanged amongst the crowd, now grown to a healthy size, as something unsaid seemed to pass between them.

“What was this land called, god of thunder?” a man dared to ask.

Thor frowned, thinking. “I can’t recall. It was long ago, and I’m not sure which realm it would fall within today.”

There was a pregnant pause, as many seemed to be working up the courage to question him further, but it was broken by yet more arrivals. Not townsmen this time, but Harad and his people.

“Harad!” Thor called, drawing attention to them. “How did you fare?”

“The longships are taken,” Harad said, the crowd shuffling out of his way to allow him to approach. “We freed those within.” His voice was hard as iron, and there was blood on his axe. He had lost no warriors, indeed his numbers had grown, as he was accompanied by a dozen hollow eyed young men and women.

“I see,” Thor said, his tone going flat. His gaze was fixed on the one amongst them that did not belong, a limping man with his hands bound before him, blood dripping from a broken nose. “And this one?”

“Surrendered,” Harad said. “Claims he has knowledge on where those that were taken went.”

An ugly mood descended on the crowd, as they turned nearly as one on the Aesling prisoner. The promise of violence was heavy in the air, the joy of reunions and the tale all but snuffed out.

Thor approached the captive, drawing all eyes. He stared down at the man, head and shoulders above him, and felt nothing but contempt. Here was a man who preyed on those weaker than he, and who proved himself a coward when the consequences of his actions caught up with him. “I will make you a deal,” he said. “You will tell me everything you know, and I will give you a clean death.”

The raider looked very much like he wanted to spit, but after a glance at the axe in Thor’s hand decided better of it. He still found the nerve to complain. “That’s no deal at all. I tell you what I know, and you set me loose downstream.”

“You will tell me everything you know,” Thor repeated, “or I will leave your judgement up to the townspeople.”

Shifty eyes darted around, taking in the crowd, hungry for vengeance. Then he glanced back at those that Harad had rescued from the longships, and he shuddered at the looks in their eyes. He nodded quickly, tongue stilled by fear.

“Good,” Thor said, putting on a fake grin as he clapped the prisoner on the shoulder, nearly buckling his knees. He caught sight of Wolfric and Tyra entering the square from a side street, roughhousing with the warriors with them. The blood on his new sword and the smirk on her face told him they had been successful. “Vinteerholm is liberated,” he announced, turning to the crowd, “but the work is not yet done. Spread the good word, and give aid to your neighbour if you can. The Aeslings are gone, but the work is not done. We will meet in the longhouse in two hours, so you might plan for your future.”

“Praise Thor!” Wolfric shouted, having joined them. “Protector of Man, God of Thunder!”

“Aye, Praise Thor!” Tyra called. “A better god than those that abandoned me!”

Thor felt somewhat like that one Midgardian skald he had met, with the hype man, but the townspeople still caught on and cheered. “Thor! Praise Thor!” Some were sincere, but most didn’t want to seem ungrateful, or be left out. He couldn’t say how he knew, but he knew it for truth, knew it in his bones, just like he knew Wolfric and Gunnhilde believed, and now Tyra too. The crowd began to disperse, the people starting the arduous process of picking up their lives, and he smiled as a rescued child waved at him over their father’s shoulder. He waved back, feeling the first wavering flicker of a connection, warm and bright.

Vinteerholm was free. A worthy day’s work.