Chapter 1 A Council in the Halls of Nidavellir
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A Council in the Halls of Nidavellir
The sixth realm, to the north, the dark fields lie.
And in halls of gold lives Sindri’s clan.
Thori knew the verses by heart. Now, as he set foot into the heart of Nidavellir for the first time, he felt like he could hear his mother singing them to him again.
The Great Hall of Sindri gleamed as golden as the most spectacular sunset, for the tree-high posts carrying the roof of the legendary mountain hall were covered with thousands and thousands of gold plates, just like the walls.
It seemed like a golden dragon had shed its scales all over the place, making it shine in a soft, unearthly light.
Thori adjusted his ceremonial armor. Although it fit perfectly, the intricate scales covering his chest felt too tight. He would have preferred his simpler leather and chain mail, but a prince couldn’t afford to look like an ordinary warrior in front of his enemies.
“Cease the fidgeting,” Odin hissed, his single eye scanning the hall’s intricate stone archways for any sign of the delegation from Vanaheim. “You look like a boy at his first holmgang.”
Forcing his hands to still and his shoulders to relax, Thori straightened.
He’d seen half a century, more winters than many human men lived in their entire lives.
He was hardly a boy, though his father never missed an opportunity to remind him he was still considered young among the gods and had yet to accomplish a deed that would make him worthy of the name Odinsson.
And right now, he felt his father’s disapproval like a weight on his shoulders.
Three weeks had passed since the Battle of Nóatún, when Thori had led five hundred of Asgard’s finest warriors to raid Vanaheim and returned with less than half of them.
The slaughter of Nóatún, they were already calling it in hushed tones.
A stain on his honor that Thori didn’t know how to erase, except to make up for it with even greater deeds.
“Soon the Vanir will arrive to beg us for peace,” Thori said. “Surely that means they recognize our superiority.”
Odin huffed a mirthless laugh.
“Njord doesn’t come seeking peace from weakness. He hopes to dictate his terms from strength. Learn to recognize the difference before you lead more of our warriors to their deaths.”
Stricken by his father’s words, Thori itched to summon lightning, to let the thunder of his rage echo through these cursed halls.
The dwarves had offered their sacred meeting grounds as neutral territory for peace negotiations, a place where neither Aesir nor Vanir could claim advantage.
And negotiations were what Odin had ordered, even though Thori didn’t quite understand his intentions.
They’d sailed to Nóatún to retrieve the Hort of Nerthus, a treasure stolen from Asgard, and now his father hoped the Vanir would give it back if they just asked politely.
With some difficulty, he swallowed down his irritation and faced forward as the carved doors of dark ore-pine swung open.
The delegation from Vanaheim stepped in front of Lofarr’s high seat in a formation that looked both ceremonial and battle-ready, Njord of Nóatún at their head.
The Shipbreaker.
God of Storm and Sea.
Heart beating faster, Thori studied the Vanr chieftain.
It was the first time he saw him properly outside the turmoil of battle.
Taller than Odin, his presence matched the sagas of his ferocity.
His sea-gray eyes surveyed the hall with cool appraisal, and his dark hair was pulled back in intricate braids interwoven with silver threads that caught the light of the torches.
A handsome warrior, Thori had to admit. But when Njord’s cold eyes settled on him, they flashed with such palpable contempt that Thori almost took a step back.
King Lofarr of Nidavellir rose from his throne of polished hematite, and it irked Thori that he greeted the Vanir as respectfully as the Asgardian delegation.
“Welcome, sons of Asgard, children of Vanaheim.” Lofarr’s voice rumbled like distant rockfall. “You stand now in the Halls of Sindri, where the forges never sleep. There will be no bloodshed here except of the ceremonial kind.”
The King of the Dvergar grinned ferally, as if he couldn’t wait to see his guests slaughter each other in ceremonial combat. The stout warrior with hair and beard the dark red of glowing embers, standing by the king’s right, patted the handle of his ax.
“Arngrim Frekegar,” Odin whispered, following his gaze.
Thori inclined his head ever so slightly. So that was the famed Arngrim Frekegar, whose ax had allegedly severed the heads of thirty frost giants in a single day. Frekegar’s gaze swept over the assembled warriors with unconcealed distrust.
“We welcome the emissaries of Asgard and Vanaheim to Sindri’s Hall,” King Lofarr continued. “May your negotiations be profitable.”
Lofarr pointed to a long table of polished stone set in an alcove at the side of the hall. Although it stood under an archway that was lower than the main hall, the room was still as large as an entire longhouse. The dwarves were master builders indeed.
“Seat yourselves and share my ale before you talk about treaties.”
Njord nodded in agreement.
“Odin,” he greeted, walking over to them. Not Allfather. Not King of Asgard. “We come as agreed, though I question the wisdom of negotiations when the blood of your warriors still dyes my sea.”
Thori was momentarily struck speechless at his impertinence.
“We’ll see,” Odin replied coolly. “The sooner we settle our quarrels, the sooner the bloodshed ceases.”
His father’s placating words only fueled Thori’s anger. They were Aesir, gods of war and victory. It was their birthright to raid and conquer, and the Vanir had stolen from Asgard. So why was his father suddenly so keen to forge a peace with the bloody sorcerers of Vanaheim?
Fuming quietly, Thori followed Odin to take their seats.
As the delegations took their places at the great table, he found himself directly across from Njord. A coincidence? Or were the Dvergar looking to provoke a confrontation?
Odin had commanded him to stand back and listen during the negotiations, but he couldn’t help but take the opportunity to examine Njord carefully.
Up close, he could make out the fine lines etched into the corners of the sea god’s eyes, evidence of centuries that made Thori’s decades seem like mere moments.
The sleeves of Njord’s blue tunic were rolled up, his forearms adorned with tattoos and smooth scars that bore witness to relentless sword training.
He looked pretty warlike for a god of fishermen and sea-faring merchants.
Frekegar had positioned himself behind his king as Lofarr took his seat at the head of the table, his hand never straying far from the haft of his ax. The dwarf’s eyes seemed to linger on both Njord and Thori in turn, as if measuring who might provide the greater threat should tempers flare.
“Let’s speak of wergild,” one of the Vanr advisors began, unrolling a parchment filled with precise runes.
Wergild? The Vanir expected compensation for their fallen at Nóatún? First of all, they should repay what they owed Asgard! Still, Thori shifted uncomfortably as the list of damages was recited. Longships burned. Homes destroyed. Lives cut short.
“And of course,” the advisor continued, “there is the matter of Jokull.”
Tension rose among the Vanir, and Njord’s knuckles whitened where they rested on the stone table.
“Who?” Thori asked before he could stay his tongue.
Njord’s gaze, murderous with rage, locked onto him.
“You attack our shores, slaughter our people, and don’t even know the names of those you’ve killed?”
“I know the names of my fallen warriors,” Thori shot back. “Each and every one. I personally see to it that rune stones are erected for them to tell of their honorable deeds.”
“And yet you ask about Jokull as if she were a missing piece of silver rather than a sacred being.”
“It was considered common knowledge among the wise that the ice wyrm had left the Nine Worlds,” Odin interjected, words laced with burning curiosity.
Njord’s responding laugh was as sharp as breaking ice.
“Common knowledge? So you decided to test this rumor by leading your forces against Vanaheim’s shore? See if you could lure out a dragon?”
Ice wyrm? Dragon? The words made Thori’s stomach turn with a dreadful suspicion.
The massive creature he’d seen that day, its scales gleaming in the white and blue hues of a glacier.
It had come over their war fleet like an avalanche, breathing devastating hailstorms instead of fire.
The warriors had called it a frost giant’s seier, possibly the work of the ghastly Perhonen.
And Thori had believed their words. But now…
“I didn’t know of your dragon,” Odin said smoothly. “We simply strove to reclaim the hoard you stole from our lands after you decided to disregard the peace treaty our fathers negotiated.”
“Jokull was the last of her kind in the Nine Realms, my companion for decades, as you very well know. And you send your foolish brat to kill her.”
“I didn’t know—” Thori began, then hastily interrupted himself.
When the beast had descended upon his men again and again, he’d picked up a discarded spear.
It had been an impossible throw. Utter desperation.
Yet it had found its aim. A fortunate cast indeed, finding the gap between armored scales at the joint of the wing and shoulder.
But he hadn’t known the creature had a name. That it had been someone’s companion.
“I was defending my lie,” Thori argued.
What had Njord been expecting him to do anyway? Should he have spared the monster that killed his warriors? The notion was just laughable.
“Defending? It was your warriors who were raiding our homes!” a Vanr shieldmaiden said sharply.