Chapter 2 The End #2
He cut down another Vanr, the onslaught of fighters faltering for a moment.
Breathing heavily, Thori took in his surroundings.
He’d fought his way to the stern of the ship, a position that made sure no one would get in his back.
Taking advantage of the momentary reprieve, Thori scrutinized the attackers.
They didn’t wear the deep green color and golden emblem of the world tree associated with Queen Vellamo, but looked more like a raiding party.
Slave traders, maybe. However, he’d never seen simple raiders being backed up by so many volur.
“Who’s your chieftain?” Thori demanded, thunder rumbling above him and Elm’s fire dancing over the edge of his shield.
“Greetings, Thori Odinsson.”
An unimpressive man stepped forward. The only thing that distinguished him from his fellow raiders was his expensive armor covered in protective runes.
“So you know who you’re dealing with. I see the Vanir are still singing about the Battle of Nóatún. But I’ve yet to hear a skald sing your song,” Thori taunted.
“I’m called Sveinn,” the man said with an ugly grin.
Sveinn? He’d never heard of him. Who did this nobody think he was?
“I’ll carve your heart out and feed it to the crows, Sveinn.”
“Bold words for a man outnumbered and surrounded,” a female voice intoned. “You fought well, but even a god of the AEsir can be defeated and broken.”
A priestess stepped next to Sveinn; her fair hair fell down to her waist, and her face was painted with an intricate pattern of runes.
She was so gorgeous that Thori would have felt inclined to flirt with her had they met under different circumstances.
A warrior prince of Asgard wasn’t supposed to be shy, after all.
But there was also something unsettling about her beauty, like a lake coated with the first layer of thin ice. Sparkling. Deceptive. And deadly.
“Yet, I’m not defeated,” Thori said, although he felt a flicker of unease. “You’re Svanhild, am I right?”
She laughed, a bright, tingling sound that sent a shiver down Thori’s spine.
“You recognize me. I’m flattered.” She placed a delicate hand on her collarbone, as if she actually felt complimented.
“Svanhild the Shrewd. I heard you were clever. Ambitious. But they say your seier is weak.”
With a hiss and a flick of her wrist, she unleashed a dark spell.
He barely managed to fend it off with his shield.
Without hesitation, Thori retaliated, roaring as he summoned more lightning from the sky.
He needed to buy Rune enough time to guide the ship back on the hron-rād, an arduous task made even harder without Finna’s help.
Pouring every ounce of his power into the renewed assault, Thori charged once more.
Sveinn’s raiders and several of Svanhild’s priestesses fell before his onslaught, and for a moment, he dared to believe he might—against all odds—win this fight.
Svanhild’s laughter rang out, cold and cruel, as if she took pleasure in the surrounding carnage, even if it were her warriors and priestesses lying in their blood.
She raised her hands, weaving another spell.
Red tendrils rose from the pools of blood covering the deck, snaking toward Thori.
He dodged and hacked at them, but they reformed with terrifying speed.
Something grazed his cheekbone, making him twist and yelp.
He just couldn’t react fast enough. Another tendril scraped across his shoulder and his thigh.
The attacks left fiery traces of pain. Lungs burning, Thori sucked in sharp, heavy breaths.
It felt as if Svanhild and her volur simply absorbed the power of his lightning and drained his strength at the same time. He had to act quickly.
Something coiled around his ankle and pulled him off balance. Crashing hard onto the deck, Thori clutched his ax as he gasped for breath. He desperately swung the ax, cutting deep into the leg of the first attacker that came at him.
Thori scrambled to regain his footing, but another tendril wrapped around his neck and dragged him to the ground again, pulling and choking.
Screaming his defiance, Thori struggled to escape the tentacles’ grip.
However, the more he resisted, the more tendrils wrapped around him, tightening around his torso and binding his arms. He couldn’t breathe, and with the thunderstorm’s power slipping from his weakened grasp, Thori felt his lightning sizzling out.
Heavy rain began to fall.
The last thing Thori saw before darkness claimed him was Svanhild’s triumphant smirk and the eerie glow of her eyes.
Cold and pain dragged Thori’s drifting mind back to the surface.
He groaned and blinked confusedly into the darkness that surrounded him.
An icy wind bit at his skin, and the salty air stung his wounds.
He tried to move, but found he couldn’t as he was bound to the mast of a longship gliding silently through dark water as if moved by a giant’s hand.
His wrists were shackled in iron above his head, and when Thori craned his neck to look up, he could make out the faint glow of runes etched into the manacles.
He strained against the bindings, his muscles burning, but the enchanted chains held fast. Every tug seemed to sap more of his strength, leaving him feverish and weak.
“Awake at last,” a voice rasped from behind him. Sveinn stepped into view, a lantern casting shadows across his face. “You’ll fetch a fine price in the slave markets, godling. And Svanhild’s seier will ensure you’ll behave.”
The slave markets? What was this fool talking about? He could demand a royal ransom from Asgard for Thori’s freedom, but trying to sell him as a thrall would be sheer madness.
“You’ll regret this,” Thori growled. “When I’m free, I’ll—”
“Save your threats, Odinsson,” Sveinn interrupted, his tone bored. “You’re not the first warrior to promise me vengeance, nor will you be the last.”
Svanhild appeared behind him as she had during the fight. But although she remained in the background, there was no doubt which of the two was the true master.
“When you’re free?” she mocked. “Oh, but you’ll never be free again.”
Stepping closer to him, she drew a curved blade. Her fingers curled into his hair, a cruel smile playing on her lips.
“You see, a thrall must know his place.”
With a harsh motion, she yanked his head back, exposing his throat.
Thori swallowed down a pained hiss as she tightened her grip.
Her blade flashed in the dim light of Sveinn’s lantern, and for a second, Thori was sure she would slit his throat there and then.
But instead, she brought it to his hair, slicing through the thick locks.
“No,” Thori choked, uselessly trying to break her grip.
Heart pounding, he was overwhelmed by rage and despair.
How could she? With each swipe of the blade, she stole his very identity.
With each strand, a piece of his status as a warrior-god was taken from him; each cut a cruel reminder of his humiliation.
When she finished, Thori’s once-proud mane was reduced to a short, ragged cut.
“There,” Svanhild said, stepping back to admire her work. “A thrall should look the part.”
Thori met her gaze defiantly, refusing to let her see the anguish he felt.
“You’re both dead. Whatever you do from now on, the wrath of the AEsir will come for you.”
Svanhild only snickered at his words. How could she remain so bloody confident in the face of his threats?
“Save your breath, Odinsson. You’ll need your strength.”
She patted his cheek like one would pat a horse, and Thori seethed with anger. He would survive this, and he would repay Svanhild and Sveinn with death. At least Frey and the rest of his lie were safe for now.