THE SAGA OF SKATH
Of Noble and Novel Ventures – Part One
Better gear than good sense a traveler cannot carry
Prologue
Three Moons After the Burning of the Witch
Half a day’s journey east of Ironwood Forest lay a bay covered in black sand. Called Serpent Bay by the Jotuns, the bay owned its name to the enormous basalt formations that stretched across the sands and extended into the ocean, resembling a colossal, coiling snake. Ironically, the ancient Jotuns who bestowed this name could not have foreseen that the bay would one day become associated with an entirely different kind of serpent. To the long-standing residents of Serpent Bay, their home just served as a lucrative source of income and they paid little heed to its name.
Prominently nestled within the deepest reaches of the bay, stood an unsightly fortress, as dark as the surrounding sands. Its crumbling walls wrapped halfway around the largest of the basalt stacks, flanked by two equally grim towers. On the far side, two more collapsed towers cascaded down the stack—one side facing the mountains, the other the ocean—creating the illusion the fortress had existed first, only to be cleaved in two by the enormous dagger thrusting forth from the earth. In truth, the stacks had existed well before the fortress. Some older inhabitants of the bay even believed the tail end of the serpentine stacks, stretching offshore into the ocean, was the very rock Audhumla had feasted on to bring the first Jotuns to life. Its salty shine, after all, matched the ancient descriptions. The more cynical visitors, however, insisted it was merely covered in seagull droppings.
Whatever the true age of the fortress, over time, it accumulated many names—chosen by various rulers who liked naming it after themselves—most of which were long forgotten. Thanks to the distinctive dagger piercing its centre, the commoners of Serpent Bay, however, never called the fort anything but Speer.
It was there, at the base of Speer’s crumbling East Tower, three moons after the burning of the Witch, that a delegation from Asgard had agreed to meet with the House of Vanir to carry out the second part of their three-fold armistice.
This was much to the chagrin of the Last Keeper of Speer, who—blissfully unaware of the 'last' part of his title—was growing rather irritated with the gods using his home as their favoured cesspit for divine messes.
They had been frequenting his home for four whole seasons—first to negotiate an armistice, then to debate its terms, then to convict and burn the witch. When that failed, they returned yet again, to try to off her by any means possible. The last time the gods had gathered at the Keeper’s hall, they had drained his entire supply of mead—an event coinciding with the witch’s third burning, which, much to everyone’s relief, had done the job. An achievement in itself, considering he possessed the largest brewing kettle in all of Yggdrasil.
This time the Keeper was prepared. He had stashed away his finest brew to toast in peace once they had vanished for good. For the gods themselves, he’d thrown together a tremendous batch using leftover grains and hard, crystallized honey, trusting they’d be too preoccupied with the day’s events to notice. They had gathered to negotiate the exchange of members between their Houses—a matter which, as far as the Keeper was concerned, could have been settled with a couple of letters. Instead, his entire household was in turmoil catering to the deities’ endless demands, oversized Vanir vessels clogged his grey waters, and Asgardian foot soldiers trampled his already battered coastline. He couldn’t wait for them all to sod off.
The Keeper, known as Hymer, was one of many children sired by the Vanir King, Elder God Aegir, over his long, long existence. While most of Hymer’s siblings—half-breeds and bastards like himself—had long since succumbed to their mortal fates, a rare few had inherited a touch of their father’s power, Hymer among them. It wasn’t enough to make him extraordinary in any way, just enough to extend his life a little beyond the limits of ordinary beings—possibly earning him the title of demi-god. Hymer couldn’t be bothered with titles, though, happy to leave those to his power-hungry sisters, the Waves, and his only legitimate brother, Saer, all of whom lived at their father’s undersea court.
He really only cared about one sibling—another bastard, called Mímir—who lived a day’s journey west of Speer. Like Hymer, Mímir had never known the privilege of their father’s court. Instead, both were raised in Jotunheim, where they were tasked with overseeing the Vanir’s few colonies on land. Unlike Mímir, who frequently grumbled about his burdensome duties in his remote home—far from both uncivilized society and the outright savage—Hymer had been mostly grateful for his own position. Up until the Witch’s War, he had always found comfort in his rugged home at Serpent Bay, which rather resembled him: disproportionbly large and grotesque. It was nothing like the sleek elegance of the Vanir’s court, which he absolutely hated—idle chatter and lethal politics included. He could never quite understand Mímir’s inexplicable envy for it.
These recent, far too frequent gatherings of the gods were therefore particularly unpleasant, as they combined the two things he despised most: conversing with strangers and engaging in politics. That was more Mímir’s domain—who, incidentally, was a great admirer of both, ideally at the same time. Hymer had lost count of the times he’d endured Mímir's lengthy monologues on how he would govern Vanaheim, complete with plans for regulating their father’s waters, redistributing tolls, and, of course, bringing peace and justice to all their father’s subjects—whether legged, finned, or tentacled.
Hymer, by contrast, believed if mortals and gods alike talked less and worked more, things would fall into place on their own, and there’d be no need for rulers at all. He had long since given up trying to convince Mímir of this, if for no other reason than the near impossibility of getting a word in once Mímir got going.
For once, though, Hymer was deeply grateful for his brother’s fondness for talking, as Mímir had agreed to take charge of the entire miserable affair, sparing Hymer his usual stammer and awkwardness in the role of mediator. Hymer had been somewhat surprised when their father informed him of Mímir‘s appearance, as he rarely emerged from his hideaway, except for his seasonal supply run. In fact, Hymer wasn’t sure anyone present even knew who Mímir was—save their father, of course.
Mímir had always been oddly secretive about the exact location of his home as well as the mysterious task he was trusted with by their father. Hymer had long since stopped asking. Instead, whenever Mímir made one of his rare appearances, Hymer would greet him with a cup of his famed brew and a brief rundown of all that had transpired in and around Serpent Bay. Mímir would devour every word with wide-eyed fascination, as if it were the most gripping news he’d heard in a long time—because, well, it probably was.
Afterward, Mímir would go on a long rant about how he’d have gone about things, before inevitably running out of ideas and drifting into a mind-numbing account of his daily tedium; which birds had nested, how many snails he’d encountered and which ointment he had last tried in his ongoing fight with his foot fungus. Once, a grey necked kestrel attempted to steal his hat, and this thrilling incident remained the highlight of Mímir’s life for years to come. Hymer could only imagine the exhilaration Mímir would feel over the upcoming event.
Hymer scanned the crowd lounging around the bay, searching for the unmistakable point of Mímir’s hat, but his frail, grey figure was nowhere to be seen. Unlike Hymer, whose towering height often had mortals mistaking him for a Grjótar*, Mímir was small for a Jotun. Still, even with his modest stature, he would easily match the tallest of the Asgardian soldiers, most of whom were fallen warriors from Midgard, reanimated by Elder God Odin‘s powers.
Down the shore, the Vanir delegation set foot on land. Hymer’s father stood prominent among them, his fiery trident resting upon his broad, bronze-clad back. He was deep in conversation with Hymer’s substantially younger uncle, Njord, whose laid-back manner hid a formidable strength. The golden-haired god had lost much of his former sunny charm since the War, though. Instead he was beginning to resemble Saer—Mímir and Hymer’s younger brother and heir to Vanaheim—who stood pale and unassuming in their shadow. The trio was flanked by the Waves, who, in a playfully menacing manner, dipped in and out of the ocean, crashing onto the shore as their bodies shifted effortlessly between water and solid form.
The otherwise mild autumn had taken an abrupt turn, ushering in a cold drizzle and one of those indecisive winds from Myrkheim that couldn’t seem to settle on a direction. It didn’t bother the Waves, though, whose long hair whipped dramatically around their chiseled faces and muscular bodies, merely enhancing their ethereal beauty. They contrasted sharply with the Asgardians, who huddled near one of the larger rock stacks, their lips chapped by the salty air and their hair hanging limp over their fur-covered shoulders. Several of the women looked particularly miserable, having forsaken more sensible attire for colourful, light fabrics and form-fitting dresses.
Only Odin, one of Asgard’s three Elder Gods, stood unfazed, a faint smile playing on his lips as he surveyed the scene with his one sharp eye. Beside him, Tyr, his infamous firstborn and second-in-command of their army, stood with rain-slicked, bronzed skin, looking more in tune with the rest of their group, his expression far less pleasant.
Hymer was pulled from his search for Mímir by the chatter of one of the less unfortunate Asgardian goddesses. A tall blonde with a generous bosom, her long, voluminous hair was plastered to her powder-clogged face. Perched sadly atop her head, a small crown of precious metals threatened to fall off entirely as she leaned in toward a tall man with a shiny chestnut mane. Even with his back turned, Hymer recognised the man instantly—Loki, the Asgardians' adopted son and Jotun deity. The woman beside him, however, was unfamiliar, though the way she clung to Odin’s foul-tempered son, Thor, with one hand while she conversed with Loki made Hymer suspect she was Sif, daughter of Vili, Thor’s wife. The goddesses of Asgard seldom visited Serpent Bay, unlike their male counterparts, who had far more difficulty minding their own business.
> "I wonder what sort of sorcery keeps them so dry…" the blonde beauty murmured, her back hunched against the damp gust of wind as she glanced at the Vanir delegation.
>
> "Or perhaps they have scales instead of skin?"
Loki surveyed the scene, wrinkling his nose in distaste as he took a whiff of the air.
> "That would certainly explain the stench…"
Hymer ground his teeth. Where on Yggdrasil’s Ash was Mímir? He wished they would get on with it. Judging by the way both delegations fidgeted and twitched, they did too. The two houses might have forged an alliance to end the War, but it didn’t mean they weren’t still itching to rip each other’s guts out. The Waves' alluring smiles, in particular, bared a little too much teeth.
A sharp "hush" rang out from somewhere within the Asgardian delegation, aimed at the two gossiping deities. Undeterred, the blonde leaned closer to Loki.
"Do you reckon if one were to touch them, they'd feel... slimy?"
Loki's shoulders shook with quiet laughter. Hymer shifted his gaze to the sky, where hundreds of seagulls circled above. Punching a goddess would start another war, right? Above him, a pair of seagulls waged their own war, squabbling over a fish. Not keen on having the fish land on him, Hymer took several steps back, the crunch of shells beneath his heavy feet punctuating each movement. He kept a wary eye on the battling seagulls when something unpleasant landed on his right shoulder. With a grimace, Hymer scooped up the thick chalky smudge with his meaty finger, then smeared it off onto the pipe of his left trouser. He glared up at the culprit, certain it must belong to his father. The seagulls at Serpent Bay knew better than risk Hymer‘s wrath.
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The murmurs faded into an ueasy hush. Around the corner of one of the jagged rock pillars, Mímir appeared, gambolling toward them. Hymer let out a quiet sigh of relief. Upon meeting the stares of the gathered crowd, he slowed his pace, his smug expression shifting into the humble mask he always wore around their father. Clad in his usual forest-green woolen cloak, with stray hairs from his balding head draped over his shoulders like errant threads of silver, Hymer couldn’t shake the feeling something about him was different.
A few feet away, the blonde gossip leaned toward Loki, her eyes glinting with amusement.
> "Look at his shoes."
And there it was. Protruding from under the hem of his cloak were brand-new auroch leather boots, complete with intricately carved buttons made of whale bone, laced along the edges with red embroidery. Hymer’s eyes bulged at the extravagance, so unlike his brother’s usual austerity. What on Yggdrasil’s Ash did Mímir need new boots for?
> "Perhaps he’s taken up dancing," Loki said, to the blonde's amusement. "And if you're fortunate enough, he might take you for a spin once we’re finished..."
The blonde's stifled laughter burst out in an unintended snort, slicing through the tension and drawing the attention of both delegations. Hymer's stomach churned for his brother, who, oblivious to the slight, coughed politely, effectively silencing the few remaining chatterers. Mímir’s red fingers twitched and trembled, as though stung by the cold, but Hymer knew better: his brother was barely containing his excitement at the sudden attention on him. He cleared his throat once more, falling into a brief fit of coughing before he recovered and addressed the assembly in his crisp Jotunheim accent.
> "My esteemed and benevolent highnesses."
Mímir bowed his head toward the Asgardians, then to Hymer, and finally toward their father.
> "I humbly extend my deepest gratitude for the trust you have placed in me—and in my dear brother, the Keeper of Serpent Bay—your humble and loyal servants, deeply unworthy sons of the illustrious King Aegir the Great, Elder God of Vanaheim, Sovereign of the Oceans, cherished Protector of the Merfolk, and revered deity to all aquatic beings and land-dwelling mortals alike..."
Any sympathy Hymer might have held for his brother drowned in a wave of secondhand shame.
> "Get on with it...", he ordered through gritted teeth.
But the seagulls must have drowned out his words, for Mímir carried on undeterred. With elaborate proclamations of lengthy titles, as was customary in Vanaheim and some of Midgard’s larger kingdoms, he launched into a speech brimming with gratitude for this so-called honour bestowed upon them. Hymer rather wished he hadn't included him in it as well, feeling a great many things—none of them grateful.
The Asgardians, unceremonious and blunt like their Jotunheim cousins, listened with growing frustration. As Mímir’s drawn-out words held them captive on the damp beach, the wind joined in their complaint, tugging at his pointy hat and howling as he solemnly announced the start of the armistice’s second phase.
Clasping his hat with both hands, Mímir pressed on, outlining the armistice’s terms. He detailed how an Elder God from each realm would appoint a deity from the other to stay with them for as long as the peace held, and how these chosen envoys should be treated as equal members of their new divine families—stressing the dire consequences should anything happen to the envoys while under their host’s care.
All of this was interwoven with a long recitation of the genealogies of the Houses, laced with excessive flattery and convoluted words—some of which Mímir stumbled over. The word 'honourable' seemed particularly treacherous, slipping from his tongue no fewer than six times.
By the time Mímir reached the end of his grand display, Hymer could no longer bear the weight of anyone’s stare. Loki and his blonde companion, for one, struggled to contain their mirth.
> "…and in the name of Odin, Vili, and Vey, children of Bor, son of Búri, and Bestla, daughter of Bölthorn, Sovereign Lords of Men and the Asgardians, Incarcerators of Surtur the Terrible, Captors of Heida the Heartless; Slayers of Farbauti and the Liberators of the Jotun Folk."
Hymer’s lips curved in a tight smile as Loki’s grin faltered. Mímir cleared his throat.
> "The most honourourable King Aegir, Elder God of Vanaheim, may go first."
Their father nodded approvingly. Then, with a pat on their younger brother Saer’s sloping shoulder, he stepped forward toward the Asgardians. Four Waves flanked him, their webbed feet carving wide, sweeping marks in the black sand as they moved forward with unnerving grace. Hymer could taste the pungent tension in the air. Even the blonde gossip and her patronizing Jotun companion were subdued by the gravity of the moment. Before long, one of them would be forced to leave their House for good, bound by duty to live among their former enemies.
On both sides, soldiers and servants exchanged eager glances, the weight of their wagers thick in the air. A curse slipped through the crowd as their Vanir King father came to a halt before Odin’s two eldest sons, his gaze shifting between them. Tyr, the very embodiment of a warrior, stood impassive beneath heavy-set dark brows, unshaken by the king’s penetrating stare. Beside him, however, his brother Thor—rumoured to be the bravest of them all—was turning a shade matching his strawberry-blond hair, bringing to Hymer’s mind a Jotun battling an ill-timed bout of the skitters.
> "We welcome Tyr, son of Odin, into the House of Vanir!"
A shudder shook Thor‘s towering frame. Beside him, Tyr offered a curt nod in acknowledgment. Hymer approved. The half-breed god was a spectacular warrior; an impeccable blend of feral prowess and godly might. Thor, on the other hand, though rumored to be even more powerful, relied too heavily on his magical artefacts.
Silver, gold and other trinkets, slid between hands in the crowd as the Vanir King settled back into position between Njord and Saer. Mímir motioned for Odin to step forward.
> "On behalf of the three Elder Gods of Asgard, the most honorable Odin of House Ansar may proceed next."
Hymer bore no affection for the one-eyed deity, but he couldn’t help admiring the way he strode—strolled even—towards the Vanir Elite, unaccompanied and unconcerned. As he passed Mímir with a polite nod, Hymer was struck by the resemblance between him and his brother. It wasn’t merely the long grey beards or their humble wool cloaks; it was the spark of intellectual curiosity in their eyes. But where Mímir resembled an old potion master, Odin carried the unmistakable air of a king.
He came to a halt a few feet from Njord, and Hymer’s stomach lurched. He had been hoping the Asgardians would pick Kólga or Blódughadda—frankly, any of the Waves would do. He would regret seeing Njord go, and so would the Vanir women, judging by the glances they cast at the god—though undoubtedly for different reasons.
> "A deity of such immense power naturally requires an exchange of equal measure..." Odin’s commanding voice rang out across both sides.
>
> "However, a son for a son seems a more fitting arrangement."
Confused murmurs rippled through the crowd as all eyes turned from Njord to Saer, who appeared equally bewildered.
> "In return for my son, Tyr, we shall welcome Mímir, son of Aegir, to the Realm of Asgard."
Every head turned toward Mímir with audible gasps, as though drawn by an invisible cord. Had Hymer not been astounded himself, he might have burst out laughing. Instead, his gaze shifted to his brother, expecting to find the same shock mirrored there. But Mímir straightened, chin lifted in a proud, almost defiant pose.
He knew.
A sharp pang of betrayal pierced Hymer. Mímir was deserting him for some fancy court life in Asgard? And without so much as a word? The respite he’d been looking forward to, sharing a drink with Mímir while lamenting their pompous family and Asgardian counterparts, now felt hollow. What was supposed to be a simple farewell until the next supply run had become something far weightier. It could be years before they saw each other again—if ever.
The incredulous whispers of the crowd swelled, pressing into his already burdened mind, drowning out even the cries of the seagulls. The two leaders stood in silence, their gazes locked in tense anticipation. The Vanir King broke away first, his expression easing into a broad grin.
"Excellent!"
The crowd fell silent.
“The House of Vanir hereby agrees to the trade.”
Odin relaxed his stance. As he returned to his entourage, he passed Mímir with a subtle wink. Unease settled over Hymer.
„And you, my dear son—come forth, come forth!“
Mímir moved toward their father, his solemn expression at odds with the lightness of his step. Fate mocked them as the ageless Vanir king rested his hands on his son’s weary shoulders. The visible signs of time etched on Mímir’s face gnawed at Hymer as he considered the steep cost of wisdom for mortals. He was being unfair. He shouldn’t be upset; he should be happy for his brother, at last granted some adventure so late in his life.
Their father turned Mímir toward his new family. The frail man’s shoulders groaned beneath the force of his touch.
> "Hold your head high—If you are to rule among gods at the court of Valhalla, you must conduct yourself with the utmost decorum—not stoop about like some old hermit."
Polite chuckles rippled through both delegations, though some stayed tight-lipped in silent contempt, directed at whom—Hymer couldn’t tell. Mímir, oblivious to the glances aimed at him, beamed. The Vanir King tugged at his sleeve, worn and patched from countless repairs.
> "And no more garments fit for wart-ridden hags. Do you not agree, brother?"
Clad in the finest oceanic furs, Njord jerked his head in acknowledgement. Hymer fidgeted, his unease rising in tandem with the growing ferocity of the wind.
> "You must rule with strength—be ruthless when it is called for—but always maintain your manners," the Vanir King went on, his hands moving to adjust the hood pooled around Mímir’s neck.
>
> "You must bring honour to our name."
>
> "I give my word," Mímir proclaimed. "And... I promise to—to exert every effort in fulfilling my duties with the highest honour, proficiency, and..."
> "Yes, yes. I have no doubt that you will."
The remnants of their father's smile faded. Hymer’s stomach twisted in discomfort, mirrored by the expressions of the surrounding crowd. Expectant glances flickered from both sides toward the three Elder Gods of Asgard. But none moved, their gaze fixed, coldly polite. Above, the seagulls raced frantically on the fierce wind, their cries rising to a maddening pitch.
> "But, let us not forget your origins. You are a Vanir, and the House of Vanir was founded upon the Nine Nautical Tenets."
Their father grasped Mímir by the shoulders, turning him back around to face him.
> "You do recall the Nine Nautical Tenets?"
Mímir glanced up at their father, confusion apparent in his eyes.
> "Sir?"
The storm fell silent, and with it, everything else, save for the rhythmic crash of waves against the black sand. Even the seagulls held their tongues, drifting away in silence. A dread of unknown magnitude surged through Hymer, his mind lagging stupidly behind, unable to grasp its meaning. Their father’s grip on Mímir's shoulders tightened.
> "Tenet Seven: Repay a herring with a haddock."
Mímir stumbled backwards as their father released his grip on him. In one fluid motion, the Vanir King brandished his trident, eyes blazing with contempt. Pale faced, Mímir cast a gut-wrenching glance at Odin. Hymer’s shout faltered in his throat as the trident’s sharp tines cleaved through Mímir’s neck with ruthless force, sending his head hurtling through the air. The black beach trembled beneath Hymer as he fell to his knees with a strangled sob, reaching for his brother’s lifeless body before it crumpled to the ground. Somewhere farther, the blonde screamed in disgust. The severed head bounced once before landing at her feet, decorating her skirts with crimson dots.
Their father seized Mímir's head by its thinning hair, the terror still etched on the pallid face. Blood dripped, carving a dark trail in the sand before he halted in front of Odin. With an outstretched arm, he offered the head to the one-eyed god, locking eyes with the empty socket.
> "Will a head suffice for an eye?"
*Grjótar – A subspecies of Jotunfolk known for their ability to transform into stone