Chapter 1 A Council in the Halls of Nidavellir #2
“By orders of the Allfather! To reclaim what’s rightfully ours!” Thori said heatedly, then immediately regretted the words as his father’s expression clouded.
What had he done wrong now? The Allfather’s decrees were beyond question! Even the Vanir had to realize that.
Arngrim chuckled darkly from his position behind the king. “The Thunderer has a sharp tongue that his mind can’t keep up with,” he said, just loudly enough to be heard all around the table.
Several of the Vanir snickered, and King Lofarr’s lips curled in what might have been amusement or calculation.
“Your son lacks a warrior’s foresight as much as a king’s wisdom,” Njord said, before Thori could start an argument with Frekegar. “Perhaps if he’d been better educated, this disastrous raid needn’t have happened, and fewer lives would have been lost.”
Heat rose to Thori’s face. Being reprimanded like a child in front of the assembled emissaries filled him with a shame that burned hotter than any battle wound. He clenched his fists under the table, and the smell of ozone filled the air as lightning danced between his knuckles.
“My son may be young,” Odin replied sourly, “but he learns from his missteps. A quality I have found wanting in elder gods who cling to old grievances and their ancient ways.”
“Some offenses can neither be redeemed nor forgiven,” Njord growled, eyes fixed on Thori.
Staring back defiantly, Thori struggled to control his anger.
Who did this Vanr think he was?
As the negotiations continued, Thori found himself increasingly irritated by the sea god across from him.
Njord spoke confidently on matters of territories and boundaries, trade routes, and wergild, never intimidated by Odin.
Each point was argued with a calm precision that made Thori feel childish by comparison.
His father had strictly forbidden him to demand a holmgang, but he could barely restrain himself.
Confused, he watched as Njord spilled out a bag of small, polished stones on the table. For a moment, Thori thought he was casting runes, but the stones had no markings on them, and there were too many to be a set of runes anyway.
“What are you doing?” Thori asked irritably. “Have we reached child’s play now?”
Njord gave him a flat look before flicking a stone over to Thori, who caught it on instinct.
“Captives.”
“What?”
“Each of these stones represents a captive Asgardian warrior.”
So many?
Thori’s stomach turned with a sickening mixture of shame and failure. How could he have let it come to this? He’d make the Vanir pay for this humiliation!
Vision clouding with anger, Thori fought to keep his emotions in check.
Right now, he wanted nothing more than to snap Njord’s neck.
He forced himself to focus on something else instead.
Anything else. He had to keep himself under control.
Involuntarily, his attention was drawn by Njord’s hands as they played with the black stones.
They were calloused like a swordsman’s or sailor’s, yet strangely elegant in their movements.
Njord kept negotiating like a confident merchant, and somehow his composed words seemed to carry more weight than the loudest declarations from the Asgardian delegation. When Njord paused, even King Lofarr leaned forward slightly, as if the very mountain held its breath.
Thori wanted to strangle him. Badly. Yet, something in his chest tightened with each calm word from Njord’s lips. A feeling he refused to name as envy, certainly not admiration.
“For each warrior of Asgard returned alive, we require one hundred coins of silver, a golden arm-ring, or an enchanted weapon,” Njord told Odin as if he were dictating his terms of trade to a lowly merchant in the town square.
“This is, by the way, less than was demanded after the raid on Fensalir in your father’s youth. ”
“Excessive,” Odin countered, features darkening. “The warriors of Vanaheim taken in fair combat number nearly as many as ours.”
An exaggeration, Thori realized, but he kept his mouth shut.
“Your captives were taken in defense of hearth and home,” Njord argued. “While ours were seized during an unprovoked assault on peaceful shores.”
His gaze flicked to Thori. “The price rises higher for those who strike without warning or cause. Just as the fisherman pays dearly for taking from waters not his own.”
Thori felt Njord’s accusation like a blade between his ribs. They were AEsir, royalty among the gods. And they were only taking back what was rightfully theirs! How dare Njord compare them to common thieves?
“What of those who chain their captives in salt mines rather than granting them warrior’s quarters?
” Thori challenged, unable to contain himself any longer.
Sure, those rumors weren’t confirmed, but there must be some truth to them if they persisted so stubbornly.
“The ransom for an einheri may be high, but it’s undeserved if the vanquished are treated as thralls rather than warriors taken in fair combat. ”
A dangerous silence fell over the hall. Njord rose to his feet slowly, the air around him churning with barely contained power. For a breathless moment, Thori thought he might actually attack, protocol and peace negotiations be damned.
Instead, Njord leaned forward, palms flat against the table, and spoke with deadly softness.
“Mind that quick tongue of yours, little thunder god, before it brings more disaster upon your people. What you are babbling about is nothing but rumors, and to spread them without ever having set foot in Vanaheim yourself is an impertinence. If we weren’t here on negotiations, I’d demand retribution here and now. ”
The words struck.
Not a roar of challenge but a dismissal, as one might scold a child too ignorant to understand the converse of elders. Thori felt himself blushing before the eyes of all present.
Lofarr’s eyes gleamed with undisguised interest at the exchange, like a raven on a battlefield spotting an enticing bite between the fallen. Arngrim’s hand had moved to his ax again as if hoping the words might give way to blows, and Thori rose himself, fuming.
“I believe a respite is warranted,” Lofarr intervened, though his tone suggested he would have enjoyed further conflict. “The negotiations shall resume after the evening feast. My halls have been prepared for celebration, if not reconciliation.”
And it seemed that both delegations were eager to take a break from the lengthy talks and alleviate the smothering tension hanging above them. Immediately, servants swarmed the space and began setting the table for the feast.
Perhaps Thori should have taken the opportunity to calm his flaring temper. But Njord was still standing there like a king in his hall, and Thori just couldn’t bring himself to leave first.
“This conversation isn’t over,” he grumbled, loud enough so Njord could hear him.
“Are you trying to threaten me, Odinsson?”
Yes, Thori wanted to reply, anger searing white hot in his chest. It wasn’t the glare of his father but the absolute murder burning in Njord’s eyes that had Thori reconsider his words.
“No—I wasn’t—”
Thori was rendered speechless for a moment, unable to look away from the light of the torches reflecting in Njord’s eyes, making them appear to burn with a cold, bluish flame.
Why was it so hard to talk to this man? Thori had no problem silencing other warriors with a well-dosed threat or a pointed comment. Why didn’t that work with Njord?
But the accursed sea god had already turned to Odin and Lofarr, the set of his shoulders somehow managing to convey dismissal without a single word.
Servants carried in platters of smoked meats and dark breads, while others were already filling drinking horns, and the Great Hall shone brighter than ever, quickly redecorated for a large banquet. Thori only hoped that the food would be acceptable, and he longed for a cup of mead.
It took Thori all his willpower to sit down again, to stop hurling insults at Njord, to see if he could make the sea god’s icy composure crack. The feast was a silent affair. Nobody was singing or reciting poems. Nobody laughed.
How Thori hated this diplomatic mummers’ dance.
He tried to ignore Njord, to not even think of him.
But they were seated so closely that he could smell the scent of salt and sea that clung to Njord’s skin.
Not unpleasant, he noted with irritation.
Like the first breath of air when standing at a cliff’s edge overlooking the ocean.
Chewing angrily on an overcooked piece of venison, Thori couldn’t take the silence anymore.
“You drink nothing,” he said as Njord once again waved away a servant with a pitcher of strong ale.
“Helps to keep your wits together in a hall not your own,” Njord replied without looking at him. “That is, if you have any wits to begin with.”
Thori gritted his teeth at the thinly veiled insult. How dare he?
“Or perhaps the mighty Shipbreaker cannot hold his drink?” he shot back. “I’ve heard many tales of Vanir who turn green-faced at the merest sip of Asgardian mead.”
Now Njord did turn, his expression a perfect blend of disdain and amusement.
“And I’ve seen Asgardian warriors puking and shaking from a bit of rough seas. Restraint, however, is wisdom, not weakness.”
“Your wisdom looks remarkably like an old man’s caution to me.”
“Just pretend to be brave, but you’re nothing but a spoiled prince who lets others pay for his recklessness,” Njord countered smoothly. “Which is why one of us has protected his land and the other had his warriors killed in a fruitless raid.”
“You speak easily of caution from behind your magical wards and dragon guardians. The Vanir are known for fighting like cowards from distance and shadow.”
“Complains the godling who summons lightning from the clouds. Tell me again how you prefer close combat?”
This absolute bastard!
“You!” Thori snarled, not sure what exactly he wanted to retort. Njord had outmaneuvered him using his own words.