A God Adrift: THORHAMMER

Few expected a big man to move softly, and fewer expected him to be able to eavesdrop from the next table over through the bustle of the hall. Those he sat himself with took a moment to realise just who had joined them and respond, but a finger to his lips had them subside, and one passed him a horn of ale.

Thor listened with a tilt of his head and watched from the corner of his eye, and the set of his shoulders eased as he did. It was Radek who was doing the talking for the Torites, although perhaps listening would be more accurate.

“-and then I went zzzip and zzzap, and he fell on his own sword!” Ragnar said with great enthusiasm, bouncing on his seat. His parents bracketed him, and Thor could imagine the expressions they were wearing as their son recounted his adventure to the three men sitting across the table. “I jumped on his back because Pa doesn’t let me jump on my bed and then I went zzzip and zzzap again and I got another Bloodletter.” The boy paused to suck in a breath. “Then I went and got another one! If I got them enough times it made them look like they were dancing.”

“I…see,” Radek said. He tugged absently at his messy beard, glancing first to Dragan at his right, then to the other Torite on his left. “And you had not the strength to do so much before?”

Ragnar shook his head vigorously. “I couldn’t at all before I was a faithful,” he said. He quietened, and leaned into his mother. “I would have made the raiders dance if I had.”

“Not a witch, then,” Dragan murmured, speaking Kislevite.

“If he tells it true,” the unnamed priest answered.

“My son is no liar,” Knut said, speaking their language. The set of his spine wasn’t aggressive, but it was firm, and something about the set of his wife’s shoulders spoke of a glare.

Radek only nodded, unfazed. “Then you say Thor gave you this power,” he said more than asked of Ragnar.

“He did!” Ragnar said, returning to bouncing, only to immediately slump again. “I can’t - I miss when I could zip zap around.” He brightened again. “I can still do this though!”

The boy held one hand above his head, just above a mess of brown hair. He was hunched with concentration, and a moment later, sparks began to dance between his fingers. His hair started to rise with static, and he kept at it until it was sticking up every which way.

Reactions were mixed. Ragnar’s mother couldn’t help but run her fingers through her son’s hair, while his father sighed, the sigh of a parent whose instructions had been forgotten yet again. The Torites were less casual, looking up - wary, an instinctive motion - but then they realised there was no imminent lightning strike, just a boy playing with sparks. The unnamed priest glowered, but held his tongue.

“A small thing,” Radek said, more to himself than anything.

“Favour is favour,” Dragan said. He was winding the braid of his beard around one finger, deep in thought. He shared a look with Radek, and something passed between them.

Radek held his hand out to young Ragnar. Ragnar took it very seriously, missing the sparking in the Kislevite’s hand. His mother didn’t, and her hand went to the dagger at the small of her back - but nothing happened. Ragnar seemed chuffed with his hand clasp as Radek released his grip, looking to see if his parents had seen, but the Torites were only more confused. They had expected some kind of reaction, only to see nothing at all.

Their polite interrogation of Ragnar was put aside as they fell to sharp whispers with each other, and it took a moment for them to remember their manners and remove themselves from the table, still debating. Thor watched them go; there was no need to insert himself into their talks, and he couldn’t do their thinking for them even if he did. Whatever the lack of reaction between the sparks had meant, they would decide on for themselves and doubtless approach him later. In the meantime, there was still a feast to enjoy, and revellers to speak with.

Thor won two more drinking competitions and bench pressed three maidens before he was approached for more than casual conversation.

“Lord Thor!” came a call. It was Stephan, the bard, weaving through a few clusters of revellers to reach him.

“Ho, Stephan!” Thor answered, raising his latest drinking horn in greeting. “You look well.” He inspected the man, taking him in - he still seemed almost too pretty for a man, but his shoulders had filled in and he had earned a wiry strength, his captivity with the Aeslings long behind him. His time with Harad had done him well.

“Harad has opinions on how my leisure is best spent,” Stephan said, a whole saga of meaning conveyed in the face he made.

“I am sure he does!” Thor said, not quite laughing. The last time he had visited, dropping off several beasts to supplement their supplies, Harad had complained bitterly of the habits that Stephan inherited from his father. “How fares the village?”

At that, the bard’s mood dipped. “The rats got to the winter crops,” he said, a grimace crossing his fair face. “Some kind of poison. Everything we harvested had a queer rot to it.”

“I see,” Thor said, frowning now. “What does this mean for your stores?”

“We won’t have enough,” Stephan said. “Harad sent me and the others to ask Tyra for aid.”

“I could hunt more for you,” Thor offered. He had brought them mostly the odd elk or moose and the like, but with the failure of the harvest, he could search for a mammoth herd, or for some great sea beast.

Stephan was shaking his head. “Perhaps if we had no other option, or were already hungry…but you are a god, and -” he hesitated for just a moment “-if we can stand on our own feet, it is wrong to ask you for aid.”

“Only in the same way it is wrong to suffer when there is aid for the asking,” Thor said, tone pointed.

“Tyra has already agreed,” Stephan said. “Said she would repay the debt of when Harad opened his granaries to her.”

Thor nodded; he would expect little else. “Her return is timely then, and the voyage to Harad is not so bad.” Nearby, two men started brawling to the cheers of those around them.

“We mean to - well, they mean to return to Vinteerholm, actually,” Stephan said.

“Ah,” Thor realised. “The soil cannot be trusted.” He received a nod, and shrugged. “Well, we certainly have the room.”

“I would call it lucky, but luck doesn’t double the size of a town’s walls,” Stephan said. A cat shot out from under a nearby table, racing across his shoes in pursuit of a mouse, but he hardly shifted.

“Indeed not!” Thor said. “The people have come together well to make it possible.”

For a moment, Stephan seemed to hesitate, but then he forged on. “Did - do you think Vinteerholm will need all that space soon?”

Thor heard the question he was truly asking. “The best time to seed a grove was yesterday. The second best…”

There was a hunger in the bard’s eyes. “And now that you’ve planted it, more will come.”

“Mayhaps!” Thor said, cheer in his voice. “They must want it, of course, but from what I have witnessed…” he made a broad gesture at the hall around them, encompassing Baersonlings, Aeslings, Sarls, Nordlanders, and Kislevites. What would be would be, but he did not doubt that the people of this northern land would seize the chance to make another choice.

“Someone will have to tell the tale,” Stephan said.

“Aye,” Thor agreed. “A good thing we have a skald here to witness it!” He clapped the young man on the shoulder, even as he caught a drinking horn that had been hurled across the hall. He drained what was left in it and placed it on the table, ignoring the brawl and cheers that had broken out in the direction it had come from.

Stephan regained his footing. “Has Tyra told you of her adventures in Kislev?” he asked, intent. “She has refused me four times.”

“No, she refused me as well, though I was not brave enough to ask her again,” Thor said. “The story will out tonight, have no fear.”

The tortured expression that crossed Stephan’s face amused Thor greatly. “Surely if you asked her to share the tale now-”

Thor laughed, a booming thing that men could feel in their bones. “Patience,” he said. But speaking of tales, how fared your time with Harad and Helena? Have you learned much of your father?”

The hunger for story was replaced by a small smile. “They have shared much, including some tales that I could have lived without knowing of him.”

“Oh?”

The smile was banished in turn by a pained look. “I knew that Neuner died of a burst heart on one of his visits to my mothers, but I did not know how his heart gave out. Nor am I glad to know.”

A chortle was perhaps not the sympathetic response he was hoping for, but it was the one he got. “Your mothers, they are the noble’s daughter, and the chaptermaster’s daughter?”

Horror crossed his face. “Does everyone know?”

“No, no, I only overheard Harad speaking with Bjorn,” Thor said, waving a hand to placate him. It didn’t seem to work all that well. “Is it common to have two mothers in the south?”

Stephan took the diversion gladly. “No, but the scandal of their relations with a Norscan-” he winced “-had already tarred their reputations, so there was little point in hiding it, and they raised me together.”

“Do they know you are well?” Thor asked.

“I am not expected back for some time yet; next Spring I will be overdue,” Stephan said.

“You will certainly have stories to share with them!”

They spoke for a time more, Stephan sharing tales learned from Harad and Helena. Now that they did not involve his father in bed with his mothers, he was more eager to share, and Thor was regaled with snippets of a life that could have been a saga of its own, if one deeply entwined with Harad’s. He was eventually pulled away by a gaggle of young and not so young children begging for a story, and Thor waved him on.

The celebration was at its height, and Thor made sure to enjoy it to its fullest. He laughed as he saw Wolfric and Gunnhilde glaring at each other over their entwined arms as they each raced to the bottom of a drinking horn. Earlier, he had heard them boasting of being blessed by his power, only to be reduced to fuming as they learned that the other had also shared in the same fortune. It was not the kind of rivalry that would end with them falling into bed, he thought, but it was entertaining all the same.

Finally, Tyra took to the stage at the head of the hall, leaping up onto the head table with only a slight waver. She was well drunk, but that only seemed to have cast off her dislike for being the centre of attention. All around the hall, people were turning towards her.

“Vinteerholm!” she hollered, raising a tankard.

“VINTEERHOLM!”

The answering roar from hundreds and hundreds of throats threatened to almost knock her back off the table, but she steadied herself, even as she drained her mead. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and stared out over the hall for a long moment, drawing a hush as her people waited on her words. Her dark red hair seemed to soak in the darkness as much as it reflected the flames of the fire pit and the lanterns.

“Many have asked me of what happened in the south, in the land they call Kislev,” she began. “How it came to be that we returned not just with grain, more than even fine metalwork and cloths pleasing to the eye, but with merchants and priests come to see for themselves He who watches over us.”

A ripple travelled the hall, first one way then the other, as many looked over to Thor where he stood leaning against one of the carved pillars of the hall.

“Heed me well, Vinteerholm, and I will tell you how we met a plot of the Schemer, and in smiting his pawns with the power of Lord Thor we won a bounty to see us through the summer!”

Tyra was no skald, and had no mind for crafting kennings on the spot, but the way she stared out into the mass of her people saw them enraptured all the same.

“To Zenilev we went, and by the word of Mikhail the Gospodar we were able to treat with them. Only twice did we need to crack thick Kislev skulls, though Gunnhilde must have hit her foe too hard - she has a husband waiting there if ever she wants!”

Friendly jeers rose, and Thor smiled to see his Valkyrie give a great scoff where she stood across the hall, tossing her blonde braids and ignoring the teasing of the women with her.

“South we sailed along the Lynsk, past villages and towns, past Kacirk even. Twice we met traders who wished to buy our treasures, and they offered enough to see us fed through to the harvest - but I did not leave you just to deliver a profit to traders! Vinteerholm’s labor profits Vinteerholm!”

The drumming of dozens and dozens of hands on wood and thigh rose up, and pride in one’s home with it.

Taken from NovelFire, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“All the way to Praag we went, that rich city of Kislev. They were wary of us, as they should be-” drunken cries went up around the hall “-but we sailed our ship through the river gates, and thanks to kindness from our Kislevite friends, we found ourselves a berth by the docks. They must have stretched half a mile! The things we saw there - I spied a bird with green feathers and a yellow beak, a wagon of spices that we could smell twenty paces away, and a man with skin the colour of fine river sand. All that before we had even tied off!”

Thor saw three children spontaneously develop the ambition to one day visit Praag and see the sights of the city for themselves, but Tyra wasn’t giving them time to daydream.

“Our first three days in Praag…we achieved nothing,” Tyra said, a harsh thread entering her voice. “Nothing but meetings with soft merchants who thought their thugs gave them the right to speak to us as savages, who offered us less for our treasures than the traders on the river did!” She shook her head, disgusted at the memory, even as her audience made their own displeasure known.

“But on the fourth day, things changed. As we walked the city, we stumbled across a child running from his carers, and-”

“The eagle!” someone shouted. They were enthusiastically drunk. “You skipped the eagle!”

Laughter came on its heels, both centred on those who had accompanied Tyra on her journey, and more joined the calls for the tale. Tyra and Gunnhilde were both pulling faces, and Thor only smiled, waiting for the calls to die down. Though he was curious as to what role this eagle - one he suspected he knew - had played in the tale, this was a time for boasting, and an important part of a good boast was in trimming the less impressive or embarrassing parts out.

“We stumbled across a child,” Tyra said, sending a pointed glare at the heckler and making an exaggerated motion across her throat as she reclaimed the flow of the story. “The boy was cornered in a side street by a man and a woman, and they named themselves servants of Salyak.” An uncontrolled twitch of her lip conveyed contempt. “They were not.”

Thor’s face lost some of its cheer. He was fond of Lady Dove, fond enough that he would have more than stern words for any who sought to cloak themselves falsely in her name.

Tyra accepted a fresh drinking horn from Stephan, the skald having seized a spot almost directly before her. “The boy asked for help,” she said, before taking a pull of the mead. “We gave it…and the so-called servants showed themselves to be slaves to the Schemer!”

A hush swept the crowd, but it was an angry one, the kind that would only take a single shout to turn into a torrent of outrage.

“We cut them down,” Tyra said, slashing her free hand across as if delivering a blow. “Their magic was no match for Gunnhilde’s storm-blessed spear, and their skulls no match for my axes, but that was not the end of things. The boy asked for help once more, not for himself, but for his friends, still at the orphanage he had fled from.” Her gaze went to Gunnhilde, mouth half pursed.

Thor huffed, amused and approving. He knew what would happen next.

“Perhaps it would have been better to go to the guards, to spend a night in a cell while they argued over our tale. Perhaps they would have gone to the orphanage and saved the other children. Perhaps that is what would have happened if we did not have a Valkyrie of Thor with us.”

Eyes across the hall went to Gunnhilde, and she stood tall under their weight. Her own gaze flicked to Thor, and on seeing his beaming pride, a blush crept up her neck.

“Three of us followed the boy: Hildur, Gunnhilde, and I. The orphanage was not far, and it was an old, weathered thing. From the outside, at least.” Tyra stopped, taking another drink from her horn. Her gaze went distant, a disturbing memory reminding her of its presence, and her audience leaned in, desperate to catch her words. “Inside, though, it was…it was not a thing of old wood and older nails. It was alive, or it woke up. We did not walk its halls; the floors took us up and down and through, towards doors that led to places that there would be no return from.” She took a breath, coming back to herself, and there was the memory of a snarl on her face. “We refused. Said no to the voices that came from the paintings on the walls, rejected the promises of a god that would have laughed as it watched us be butchered by Aeslings!”

A rumble began in the crowd, aggression and approval wrapped together and threatening to drown out all else, but Tyra was louder.

“‘Thor, your faithful ask for strength!’ came the cry, and Lord Thor answered!” Tyra bellowed.

The rumble turned into a roar, and a tide of faith washed over Thor like the warmth of a hearth after a hike through a snowstorm. He heard his name chanted, and saw the Torites looking mighty uncomfortable. Thunder boomed, loud and close, but not so loud and not so close as to frighten those who heard it. Still it drowned out the roar of his faithful, and in the reverent silence its wake left Tyra spoke once more.

“With the storm in our bodies, we broke the building that tried to trap us. With weapons in hand, we slew the daemons that spawned from its bones. With Thor’s name on our lips, we found the Schemer’s slaves and the eight children they had thought to sacrifice,” Tyra told her people. She raised her horn high. “When it was over, the slaves were dead and the children safe, all Lord Thor’s name! Skål!”

“Skål!”

The sounds of a hall full of people quaffing their drinks and wiping their mouths flowed through the longhouse.

“There is more, but it is only small things - talking, stubborn guards, and priests. Our deeds showed our worth, and earned us a deal that will not just let us eat, but let us grow,” Tyra said. Some of the fire had faded from her voice, the moment fading, but her people were listening intently all the same. “Let us, Vinteerholm and all who call it home, live.”

Pride in the fire haired woman who had doubted her ability to lead rose in his chest, and Thor stepped forward. Within his eye, there was a pinprick of white light, and it made it seem that he was looking back at every single person who looked upon him. A hush spread as they waited on his words.

“Praise be to Chief Tyra, who has made her people proud,” Thor said. “Valour and righteous deeds ought to be acknowledged. For those who would celebrate, a bonfire waits to be lit outside. For those who would bear witness, meet me in the grove.”

He did not wait for an answer, already turning for the doors. There was not a soul who did not follow.

X

The grove was full that night, and the moon shone brightly on the gathered faithful and curious alike. Low murmurs rose and fell between the small groups that were shuffling their way to the centre of the trees. Few knew what was coming, but all could feel it, though some were more wary than eager.

The outsiders, Kislevite priests and traders, had banded together. Bogdan and Devana, the leaders of each, were heading the group, inspecting the trees they walked under with the aid of moonlight and the odd torch. They could tell there was something different about them, but not quite what.

For all that the outsiders were receiving looks from the people of Vinteerholm, they were hardly more than a passing curiosity, especially compared to the small toddling figures escorted by Aderyn. Martin boldly led the way, though his tail was wrapped around Aderyn’s wrist, while Remy and Blika each held one of her hands. Splinter was perched up on one shoulder, lord of all he surveyed, but the way he clutched at Aderyn’s hair gave tell of his nervousness to be surrounded by so many people. Each child wore a stretch of red fabric - a cloak, a cape, a skirt, a shawl - and their small, clawed hands held them tight, treating the scraps that had once been their swaddling cloths like they were something precious, part talisman, part comfort blanket.

Thor stood before the ash tree at the centre of the grove, looking up into its boughs. The golden motes of light it shed each sunset had already come and gone, carrying Leifnir’s spell through the village, and he waited for the right moment to begin. Kirsa stood off to his side, Wolfric on the other, his sisters leaning into him. Tyra, Gunnhilde, and Hildur waited at his back, and there was a respectful distance between them and all who had come to witness.

Soft conversations continued, and Thor could not help but hear them. Many were wondering, others eager, but there was one that pricked at his ear.

“-cannot be skaven,” a Torite was saying to Dragan.

“No,” the man said, tugging at his blond beard in thought, “they are not nearly wretched enough.”

Thor could feel their surreptitious gazes on Aderyn and her charges; Splinter had produced a block of hardwood and was gnawing absently at it, calmer now that they were at the centre of the grove. His teeth grew faster than his siblings and bothered him more often, but the block did well to ease things.

“I have heard that the Norscans name the curses of the Enemy as gifts,” the first priest considered. “Perhaps they do not give their mutant born to the woods eith-”

Thunder rumbled overhead, the light shining down on the grove dimming as dark stormclouds partially obscured the white moon above. The Torites broke from their conversation as they hastily stepped out from under the tree they stood by, looking up cautiously. Dragan was the only one to look Thor’s way, seeing he had turned to stare at them, meeting his gaze and seeing no joy there. He swallowed, and Thor felt that his warning had been understood.

“Friends,” he spoke, satisfied that all who had followed had come as close as they could. His voice carried through the grove, and somehow all could catch at least a glimpse of him, no matter how far from the front they stood. “I welcome you to my grove, held free of betrayal. You have come to witness, either by faith or curiosity, and you will do so.”

Those gathered listened intently to his words. Selinda and Sunniva were drinking them in, surety in his strength plain upon their faces, and they were not alone, but so too were those who listened with blank faces, doing their best to seek the truth in his words and his being for themselves, caution and wariness lurking in their hearts. Thor did not blame them.

“Tyra,” the God of Thunder said, “step forward.”

Tyra stepped forward, and Thor held out one large hand. Without hesitation, she pulled her axes free from her hips and placed them into his waiting hand, hafts first.

“You have done good deeds in my name,” Thor said, taking in the weapons. They were fine enough, and the lichtenberg figures on the handles added a certain something to them, but she deserved more. He called upon his power, and his eyes began to glow, physical and not.

He could feel better what it was that he did now, no longer quite so blunt in his efforts to bestow power since his battle against the Rat. He placed his other hand over the axes, clasping them gently, and coaxed the truth of his power forth.

Sparks began to form in his grasp, crackling and hissing. Some spat free, aggressively at first, but they turned gentle as they drifted down to the ground. Most stayed within it though, slowly subsumed into the hafts and the heads. For a moment some watchers thought they could see them start to shift, but then the sparks grew too bright and they were forced to look away like their fellows. Thor glimpsed Bjorn trying to squint at the sight all the same.

When he felt the moment right, Thor released his power, and the light faded as the last of the sparks were absorbed by the axes. He raised them up, beholding his work and finding himself pleased with it, and offered them back to Tyra.

The chieftain of Vinteerholm accepted her axes with a straight spine and proud shoulders, but she couldn’t quite hide her excitement as she took the weapons in. The wood of the hafts had lightened, now resembling the wood of an ash. The lichtenberg figures that marked them remained, though as she gripped them there seemed to be a thread of blue-white light coiling within. The heads too had changed, losing any evidence of the bloody work she had put them to, and gaining a lustre that had been missing before. Tyra couldn’t help but smile, slipping into the stance of a fighter, testing how they felt. Thor grinned as he waited for her reaction to what would come next.

The lightning that burst to life the next moment shocked her - but only in the sense of surprise. A low buzz sounded through the grove, Tyra’s face illuminated blue-white by the chain of lightning that connected her two axes. It acted like she wasn’t there, swinging forward and back through her body without harm as she shifted and settled after the sudden eruption, hanging loose near to her knees.

Instinct - or perhaps a divine hint - saw her let one axe haft slip free of her grasp, holding it instead by the crackling chain. She began to spin it beside herself, slow and measured, and a whirring began to grow, matching the slightly unhinged smile appearing on Tyra’s face.

“Its power will never harm you,” Thor remarked, “though it is as dangerous as any other lightning to all others.”

Tyra let the momentum bleed off, pulling the axe back into her hand. A breath later the connecting chain flickered out, and she stowed them at her hips where they belonged. She let out an unsteady sigh. “Thank you, Lord Thor.” There was little else to say, and no need to say it - not when it was plain on her face.

Thor favoured her with a proud look, letting the moment stretch out to give Tyra the recognition she deserved. He spied all manner of reactions amongst the witnesses, though the envy on Astrid and Elsa’s face stood out, as did Stephan’s poleaxed mix of desire and awe. As the moment ended, he turned his gaze to the two women beside her, his eyes still glowing.

“Gunnhilde, Hildur,” he said, “step forward.”

They did. Gunnhilde was proud, her spear resting easily on her shoulder, the valknuts covering its body as unmarred as the day his power formed them, but Hildur was less composed. She gripped her spear tightly, and her other hand was trembling where she had it pressed against her thigh. He tried to smile at her, but it didn’t seem to help, her lips pressing even more tightly together.

He thought he knew the problem - they had shared a scant handful of words, but somehow she had taken him into her heart and her faith - all the awe and none of the familiarity. Time would fix that, but for now she had to show a different kind of courage to facing daemons.

“My Valkyrie, Gunnhilde, tells me that you would ask a boon of me, Hildur,” Thor said. He lapsed into silence, expectant.

Hildur clenched her jaw, making the scarred patch on her cheek stand out - that, and the crude approximation of Mjolnir that she had carved into it. “I would, God of Thunder,” she managed. “I have seen your d-deeds. Gunnhilde and Tyra told me of your rites. I have felt your p-power flow through me.” She swallowed, staring at his jaw rather than meeting his eyes. All traces of the prickly, mistrustful survivor he had once spoken with were buried under awe and nerves. “I wish to serve you, as Gunnhilde does,” she finished, voice growing firmer.

Thor looked to his Valkyrie.

“I would name her as my sister, if you would accept her,” Gunnhilde said in answer to the unspoken question. There was only the barest waver in her voice on the word ‘sister’. For a moment it seemed she would say more, but she held her tongue.

“A Valkyrie is a defender of the innocent,” Thor started slowly, turning his gaze back to Hildur. “She serves in this life, and in the next. It is not an easy life, nor a peaceful one. In return for your service, you will have a place at my hearth, at my side in battle, and in Valhalla beyond.” The words spilled from him as they had when he had accepted Gunnhilde, and he could feel the connection between himself and the Nordland woman deepening. “If you are taken I will retrieve you, and if you are slain I will avenge you.” The shine of his eyes grew brighter. “Will you serve?”

Hildur nodded rapidly. “I will, God of Thunder.”

“Your spear,” he asked, extending a hand once more. They would work on the ‘God of Thunder’ bit later.

Hildur was quick to hand her spear over, as if she would be chastised for any delay, and Thor accepted it carefully, holding it with both hands at the middle. There were no sparks this time, but there was light, a lumescent shine creeping up and down the body of the weapon. To some it was again too bright to look directly at, but others had no problem - little Blika was staring with blatant fascination. The spear shifted and changed, growing to fit the power invested in it, and when the glow faded all were eager to see what it had become, though none so eager as Hildur. She accepted it back reverently, running her hands along its body.

There was no ash wood this time, nor any traditional markings. It had become a thing of steel throughout save for a section wrapped in braided dark leather, its head three sided and angular. The weapon seemed to hum in her grip, as if waiting for something. There was a sense of vicious purity about it.

Thor allowed himself a moment of smugness, satisfied at how the spear matched its wielder. He realised that Hildur had pulled her gaze away from it to look at him, meeting his eyes this time.

“I will be worthy of it,” she swore.

“I know,” he told her. He looked to the gathered faithful and curious, seeing in them all the currents that flowed through them, mortal and divine. He held back a chuckle at the expressions on some of the Kislevites - but then he paused. Behind Bogdan there was a shadow of a figure, or perhaps it was an outline. Strong and broad, though without a beard to match - no, there was a most impressive beard - but then the figure shifted, and the beard was revealed as a trick of posture. He blinked, frowning, and the outline was gone as the light faded from his eyes. There was a sudden strain from his missing eye.

He would ponder the meaning of it later, when there were fewer waiting on his words.

“Vinteerholm,” Thor said. “My faithful, and the welcome faithful of others - we have heard a great tale this night, and seen just rewards handed out. We have feasted and feted…and we have mead yet to drink!”

A cheer went up, a sudden release of emotion after the ritual and ceremony. Trumpetter made his presence known with a blast of sound.

“To the bonfire, I say, and to a night to remember!”

This time Thor was not the one to lead the procession, and there was rather less solemnity as the conversations and chatter broke out. Even those who did not hold Thor first in their hearts - or who did not hold Thor at all - had been affected by what they had seen, and they had much to consider.

The night was not young, but there was still merriment to be had, and all those who lived hard lives knew such a thing was to be seized when it could.