“So! It would appear all our tasks for today are finished, yes?” asked the flaming-haired god, Myim.

“Along with my entire store of mead, apparently,” lamented Sorgi, Selti’s eldest brother. He was average height for a Halderman, although his musculature was on the wiry side. His long hair and beard were a deeper auburn, closer to brown. He wore his hair in a single ponytail.

“Oh, don’t be sour, Sorgi. Look upon it as offerings to your favourite god. A worthy sacrifice in the pursuit of being a devout man of faith,” the god retorted with aplomb, a broad, toothy grin splitting his face.

Sorgi snorted and shook his head. He then sighed, and said, “I’ll go get three horses ready.”

“No, no. There will be no need for that. I will get us there. Have we got everything? Are we all ready to go? Vylder, you might consider wrapping those shields in a blanket. You will ruin the surprise.”

Vylder held the shields and the hammer behind his broad back. “It’ll be fine, Myim. See?”

“Hm. Indeed. Bijáš, the bear god’s blessing, rings clear in you, I see. Erik is fast catching up to you in size,” replied Myim.

“What do you mean? Who is this ‘Bijáš’ you speak of? There are only five gods,” said Vylder, although his crinkled brow belied the certainty of his statement.

“I will explain another time. All right, my friends, through this door,” said Myim.

“That’s the pantry, your divinity, er, ship? How do I address you?” asked Sorgi.

“Myim, just Myim. We have been drinking together for half a day. Surely we are beyond formalities by now?” the ruddy faced god asked plaintively.

“Sorry. But as I said, that is the… huh. That is clearly not the inside of Mother’s pantry,” Sorgi said, as he slowly stepped towards the doorway, his eyes wide, and his mouth slightly agape.

The three of them walked into Brenda Sogard’s pantry, only to emerge in the dining room of the Bosberg keep, where Sigtrin, Vylder, and Sorgi’s family, along with Briga, were about to dine.

“Ho, sister! It would appear my timing is divine, as always!” Myim exclaimed, and then he chuckled heartily at his pun.

Briga tilted her head and eyed him in a manner meant to rebuke, but her slight smile ruined the sternness toward which she strove. “Myim, it is customary to attend by way of a home’s entrance when you arrive without invitation.”

“Bah! Nonsense! I am welcome everywhere, because I bring joy and celebration to every home.”

Briga eyed him a moment longer, then sighed, turning to the others and said, “This is my brother, Myim. Myim these are…”

“Yes, dear sister, I know. Sigtrin Soderholm, who owns this home. Brenda Sogard, and Selti Sogard, Sorgi’s mother and sister. And then there is Venna, and Erik. Lastly Orn, whom I have already met. Did I leave anyone out?”

“No, brother. Well, now that that is settled-”

Myim cut her off, saying, “Before we settle down to the eating and the drinking, Vylder has some gifts.”

“Myim, surely this can wait until after we eat,” said Vylder with a pained expression.

“Nonsense! I will not hear of it. Come, come, bring them forth, Vylder. Your day’s toil should be seen, and then we shall have food and drink to celebrate it!” Myim intoned in his deep voice, then he gave a hearty laugh. He gave Vylder a comradely slap on the shoulder that almost drove the giant man to his knees.

Vylder winced and gave a wan smile, which broadened, becoming prideful as he brought forth what he’d had concealed behind his back. “I repaired and improved both your shields, Venna, and Orn.”

Everybody gasped as they looked upon the two shields. They had the slightest of glows surrounding them. Venna took up her scarlet shield with its black protective rune emblazoned on its face, and Orn took his black shield. Both shields had gleaming boss’ and edgings.

Orn spoke first. “But father, it’s not my birthday for two more months. It’s Eriks on Starsday-”

“Never mind that. I have something for Erik too,” Vylder interjected, before turning to Erik. “For you, Erik, I replaced the haft of your hammer, and Myim here made some additions of his own.”

Vylder reached behind himself once more, unhitching the war hammer, which was once his, from his belt. He held it out to Erik. The haft was a creamy beige hardwood piece, hewn from a single limb of a beech tree, and the handle was re-strapped with new maroon coloured leather. The hammer’s head and reinforcing saddles were burnished to a fine sheen. It too, like the two round-shields, had the slightest of glows about it. Most noticeable was the black etching along the face of one of the reinforcing strips of steel that made up the saddle along the haft. A strange, compelling script that read- ᛏ ᚺ ᚱ ᚢ ᛗ ᚢ ᛚ ᚨ ᚷ

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Erik’s eyes were wide as he beheld his father’s hammer. He reached out his hands tentatively as he looked at the writing. “What does it mean, Divine One?” Erik asked, his voice hushed.

Myin laughed, as he said, “‘Divine One’? What is this business? Call me Myim, boy. ‘Divine One’, indeed. In answer to your question, this is his new name- Thrumulag. It means ‘Thunder Song’ in a language from a place far from here, long ago. That hammer will know you. It will never break, or blemish, and it will always find its way to your hand. It is the same for your shields, Orn, and Venna.”

“Myim,” said Venna.

“Yes?”

Venna went on, “I would not, for all the world, offend you, but I would like for Selti to have my shield and my sword…”

“No! You can’t!” Selti suddenly exclaimed.

Myim smiled, and said, “Only those with yours and Vylder’s blood may wield those shields, Venna. It is the same with your sword, once Vylder replaces the pommel and cross guard. But worry not, for Selti will marry soon. She will have plenty of gifts. Yes, plenty of gifts.”

Venna regarded her husband and the flaming-haired god with tears welling in her eyes.

Myim cleared his throat. His brows furrowed slightly, and an awkward grin spread across his face. “So, shall we eat?”

Later that night, Briga watched Orn as he slept. Her brows creased with worry as Orn tossed and turned. A thin sheen of sweat covered him, but she couldn’t detect anything wrong.

And then he spoke as though he was in conversation. “I can’t quite understand you…”

“I don’t know your language...”

“Where is this place?”

“Yelling won’t make me understand you any better. Speak slower…”

Briga was about to shake Orn awake when she heard the door open, and Myim stepped in. “Ah, I was afraid of this.”

“What? What is it, Brother? What is wrong with him?” pleaded Briga, a slight tremor in her voice, as she wrung her hands.

“The spirits of Skofnung have awakened. They must be confused, now that they reside within the boy. Worry not, Sister. I shall talk with them, though I must enter his mind. Can you help me? I can do it alone, but I do not have a gentle hand. Mayhap you can ensure that my entry into his mind is a smooth one.”

“I will go. I will talk with them,” said Briga.

Myim shook his head, and said, “They do not know you. Our father and I put them into the blade. They know me, and so they will listen.”

“All right. Kneel at the head of his bed,” instructed Briga.

Myim did that. Then Briga placed a hand on his head. As her palm neared Myim’s flaming hair, bolts of energy crackled and sizzled as they leapt from Myim’s head to her hand, then wove in and out of her arm as they travelled along it, and into her body. She inhaled deeply, and the wild energy seemed to settle within her.

Briga then reached her hand towards Orn’s head. There was a slight buzzing and small pops as smaller, less volatile bolts of energy travelled between Briga’s hand and his head.

ᚲᚺᚱᛟᚾᛁᚲᛚᛖᛊᚱᛁᚾᚾ×ᛟᚱ×ᛟᚱᚾ

Orn looked around. He was in a grass field, with wispy fog swirling and eddying about his feet. Then he heard a deep, gravelly voice in a strange language. His mind teased at the edges of understanding, but the meaning of the words eluded him.

“Hverr er thú?” the voice demanded.

“I’m sorry, I can’t quite understand you,” replied Orn.

A second voice, a tenor voice with a rich timbre, spoke. “Ek finn at thú ert konungsblód.”

“I don’t know your language,” said Orn.

And yet another, the thin, reedy voice of an elderly man. “Thú ert eigi minn konungr. Sonr konungs míns, kannske?”

“Where is this place?” Orn asked aloud, but more to himself than to these disembodied voices.

Yet another voice sounded, a baritone, much louder than the others, forceful, even. “Nei. Thessi stadr. That er undrlegt fyrir mér. Veistu um Thór? Eda kannske Ódinn?”

“Yelling at me won’t make me understand you any better. Speak more slowly.”

Then, in the distance, Orn could see a figure coming into focus. He heaved a sigh of relief as Myim strode towards him. Then Myim stopped, and tilted his head to the side, as yet another voice exclaimed, “Thór! Thú ert! Hvar erum vér?”

Myim responded, “Bída augnablik.”

He then reached out, and brushed his fingers across Orn’s forehead. This caused Orn to flinch as sparks leapt from the god’s fingers into his mind.

The first voice spoke again, only now Orn could understand. “What ho, Divine Thor? Where hast thou brought us, and why? Wherefore art mine king, and who art yon child? Didst not we serve thee well?”

“Be at ease. You have served me beyond measure, and know that I am well pleased with all of you. If you are willing, I would have you serve still. Your king’s era has long passed, and my father brought you to another world within the realm of Midgard. This is Orn. Denizens from a different realm threaten his world. One not within the branches of Yggdrasil. Will you lend him your aid?”

There was a murmured conversation for a short while, and then finally the thin reedy voice answered, “We shalt serve hine, mighty Myim, an it pleaseth thee.”

“It is well, my noble spirits. From this point on, I would have you align yourselves with the Avdlak bloodline. Skofnung is a part of this fine lad. Know his blood, and seek it out in others and offer up your strength unto them,” said Myim.

Orn heard a tone that gradually faded. The voices of the spirits trailed off, vowing, “Thy will be done, Divine One.”

Myim then turned to Orn, and said, “You can sleep now, my brother. They will trouble your dreams no longer. They now know you. You may call upon them, and impart unto them your thoughts. Sleep now.”

And so Orn did. The field faded away, and Orn passed into blissful slumber.

ᚲᚺᚱᛟᚾᛁᚲᛚᛖᛊᚱᛁᚾᚾ×ᛟᚱ×ᛟᚱᚾ

The crackling bolts of energy that surrounded and passed through Briga’s body lessened and then ceased. She lifted her hands from Orn’s and Myim’s head, as Myim’s eyes opened. Orn’s body relaxed, and his breathing returned to the deep, rhythmic cadence of those in deep sleep.

Briga looked upon her beloved and allowed herself a small smile of relief, and then she turned and flashed Myim a dangerous look, and accused him. “You knew this would happen.”

“Now, just a moment, Sister. I didn’t know precisely. I felt that something like this might happen, but I didn’t know. But all is well now. He won’t have this happen again, I assure you.”

“When playing around with the spirits of your old world, perhaps ensure they are aware of that which you intend, prior to them being subjected to it,” Briga said, her eyebrows raised archly.

Myim’s eyes avoided meeting his sister’s, a blush colouring his already ruddy face as he shrugged.

Briga shook her head and looked to the sky, and then let out a sigh. She turned her back to her brother as she reached down and gently stroked Orn’s hair and said, “It is well, Myim. Thank you for your help. Just please, have more care in future. You may leave now, dear brother.”

“Of course, little Briga. Goodnight.”