Chapter 1 A Council in the Halls of Nidavellir #3
“What’s going on here? Am I getting the pleasure of watching you two duel before the night ends?” Arngrim said, leaning across the table with an excited gleam in his eyes.
“Waiting for some bloodshed in your master’s noble hall?” Njord asked dryly.
“Always.” The dwarf grinned. “There’s nothing like a good disemboweling to liven up tedious diplomatic talks. Especially if you get the opportunity to see gods fight.”
“The night is still young,” Thori said haughtily, reaching for his drink. “And my patience grows thinner with each passing hour.”
“Bold words for an untried warrior,” Njord spat.
“Untried? Have you forgotten how my spear found its mark when I saved my fleet from your magical monster?”
He regretted the words instantly as a look of hurt crossed Njord’s face, there and gone in a second.
“The sea forgets nothing. I forget nothing,” Njord growled, his voice low enough that only Thori could hear. “And whatever comes out of these peace negotiations, be assured that I will have my revenge.”
“Isn’t the ale to your liking, Shipbreaker?” Lofarr asked from his seat, probably sensing that the negotiations in his hall were only one careless word away from turning bloody.
“I do not drink.”
If the king of the Dvergar was taken aback by the sea god’s blunt words, he didn’t show it. He grinned knowingly instead.
“What about other entertainment?” Lofarr boomed. “What a dismal affair this feast is. I thought the AEsir knew how to celebrate! I will not stand for this. Bring dancers, bring music!”
With a clap of the king’s hands, the hall was filled with the sound of drums and singing voices. Pretty dancers clad in flimsy silk caroused around the table, and the huge pillars of the hall, and Njord’s lip curled in an almost disgusted snarl.
Thori couldn’t take this disgraceful act anymore. Jumping up from his seat, he slipped away between the dancers. He wanted to slay something, summon his thunder, and roast a monster or a giant to smoldering ashes. At the very least, he wanted to escape Njord’s unsettling proximity.
He found one of the hall’s many balconies, overlooking the vast forges of Nidavellir, where molten rivers flowed like fiery blood through the mountain’s veins.
The heat rising from below did little to temper his anger and humiliation.
It also didn’t help that he knew his father’s disappointment would come later, in private, but no less cutting for his discretion.
“Look who’s hiding in the shadows.”
Thori whirled around to find Njord standing in the archway to the balcony, his arms crossed in front of his broad chest. In the reddish glow of the forges below them, Njord looked dangerous, like a warrior king of old sprung from the legends his mother had always sung to him.
Couldn’t this bastard leave him alone for even a minute?
“What do you want, Shipbreaker?”
“To study my enemy so that I may know how to bring about your demise,” Njord replied levelly. “Though I don’t see much to worry about except ruthlessness and pride. The bane of the AEsir.”
“I see nothing wrong with that,” Thori hissed. “Unlike you cowardly Vanr sorcerers, we Asgardians have honor. And we prefer to speak with the sword.”
“Because this worked out so well for you when you attacked Nóatún.”
Njord’s taunting made him bristle. It made it hard to breathe through the anger.
“I’m not sure if I’d call Nóatún a mistake. I killed your monstrous serpent, did I not?”
Njord’s eyes flashed, his calm composure finally cracking.
“Is it true then? Did your father send you to lure out a dragon?”
“Can you call it a dragon in the first place? It seemed more like a beast from the Frostland realm to me,” Thori replied with his most scornful smirk.
But despite his flaunted boastfulness, Thori’s stomach turned.
There was no love lost between the realms of Asgard and Vanaheim for sure, but his father’s justifications for the raid, his stories of the stolen treasures, had sounded off from the start.
Mother hadn’t been thrilled, but Thori had thought, had hoped, that he had been presented with the opportunity to prove himself.
Njord moved closer, and Thori found himself backed against the stone balustrade.
“Stop,” Thori warned, lightning dancing between his fingers.
But Njord didn’t stop, stepping so close their chests were almost touching. Thori hated that he had to look up at the other warrior. He seldom felt small, but next to Njord—
“Foolish little prince. I was there when the Norns announced your fate through the High Priestess. Part of a delegation to witness the birth of Odin’s heir.
I saw how your father’s eye gleamed when she spoke of glory won through conflict.
He’s been using you as a pawn to achieve his ambitions ever since, just as he uses everyone else to further his goals. ”
“You know nothing about me and my father!”
Only when his voice echoed from the stone walls did he realize that he’d spoken too loudly. Too unrestrained. Again.
“I know more than you might think,” Njord said. “I watched the runes cast at your birth, after all.”
“You’re lying. My parents would’ve never allowed that.”
“Oh, you really know nothing, little prince.” Njord’s smile was a sharp, dangerous thing.
“I know when a Vanr sea witch is feeding me lies.” Without thinking, Thori seized the front of Njord’s tunic, lightning crackling around his fist. “I should throw you from this balcony and be done with this mockery.”
“You could try. But we both know how that would end.”
Their faces were inches apart, Thori’s breath coming quick and shallow. He became suddenly, acutely aware of Njord’s strength, of the lean muscle beneath his grip.
“You think you’re so wise, old man. How does this end then?”
“With your broken body at the foot of these cliffs, if I hadn’t given Lofarr my word.”
“How convenient for you,” Thori snarled, though the murderous fire burning in Njord’s eyes sent a shiver down his spine.
Njord wasn’t struggling, wasn’t even tense, as if he didn’t feel threatened by Thori at all. It was disconcerting.
“You should stay away from the ocean from now on, Prince Thori. Because I’ll always be there. Waiting for you. And believe me, drowning isn’t a pleasant way to die.”
“You—”
Before Thori could form a suitable response to the blatant threats of the Vanr, Arngrim approached, his heavy footfalls echoing on the stone floor.
“The feast is still in full swing, my lords,” the warrior announced, his gaze flicking between them with undisguised curiosity. “King Lofarr reminds you that even bitter enemies may share mead without bloodshed.”
He grinned at them as if he wanted to say that he’d find it rather amusing if they slit each other’s throats, then departed with a knowing glance.
“We’re not finished,” Thori warned as they turned to follow Arngrim back to the hall.
But deep down, he was glad to get away from Njord and his angry, too-bright eyes. His heart hammered against his ribs, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a grain of truth in Njord’s talk about attending the casting of his birth runes.
Thori had always felt as if there was a shadow cast over his fate. Some dark premonition that wouldn’t match the stories of glory and grandeur his father liked to tell.
Dread settled heavily in his stomach, but whatever fate the Norns had spun for him, Thori was determined to battle it.