A deep rumble resonated through the mountain, and Thori flinched as water started to stream like a waterfall from thestones above them. Chuckling, Njord pulled him under the warm spray.
“There are hot springs deep in Nóatún’s belly. I can call to them.”
“Marvelous trick,” Thori said, equal parts delighted by theseiðrand annoyed that Njord managed to surprise him.
It felt like standing under a waterfall, but the water was indeed warm like a hot spring. They lingered for a while, washing each other, and Thori felt the tension bleed from his shoulders. Whether his plan was going to work out in the end or he should fail, he was glad he could have this moment.
Finally clean and dressed in warm clothes, they settled in front of Njord’s fireplace like the night after the drowning. For Thori, it felt like years ago.
Njord stood to call for supper, not before pressing a swift kiss to the top of Thori’s head. What was happening to their enmity? The strange domesticity combined with Njord’s unexpected softness overwhelmed Thori’s defenses, making him want to curl up in Njord’s arms.
“I have to talk to Gylfa. I’ll be back soon.”
Norns, Thori could get used to this, but he shouldn’t let his guard down. Maybe Njord was just toying with him. To distract himself from his tumultuous feelings, Thori stood and stepped over to inspect the books and parchments lining one wall of the room, a private library organized with meticulous care. Treaties and trade agreements. Histories of theVanirand the Nine Worlds. Texts onseiðrand runecraft, some written in runes, others in the flowing alphabet popular in Midgard. Thori trailedhis fingers along the spines, unsure what he was even searching for.
Hrothgar had babbled about the Bog Mother, and Njord had known what he was talking about. An old goddess. One of those forgotten deities that came before the reign of theÆsir, before theVanirwalked among their green lands. The runes in the farmer’s house in Njarðby had spoken of awakening, too. And indeed corpses had risen from the bog. Had these men been offerings to the Bog Mother, serving her even in death? It was likely that Svanhild served the Bog Mother, for Thori had seen her idols in Svanhild’s tent, even though he hadn’t known what he’d been looking at back then. And if Svanhild had learned her trade in Asgard, then surely the Allfather knew about the Bog Mother too.
Thori was novalaby any means, but he was the son of the goddess of clairvoyance and the god of magic, and Frigga had taught him well, even if Odin hadn’t. The pieces were there, scattered like cast rune stones waiting to be interpreted. He just had to see the pattern.
An ancient tome caught his eye; its leather binding cracked with age. Books like this one were incredibly rare, worth a fortune to those who could afford and appreciate the art and wisdom poured into making them. He should probably stay away from the book if he didn’t want to offend Njord, but something about it called to Thori, his thunder prickling restlessly under his fingertips. He had seen this particular design before: a book his father had forbidden Freyja to read. Thori hadn’t thought much about it at the time, but now…
He opened the book and was amazed by the careful handwriting and delicate drawings on the first page. Even though they had faded with age, the colors were still beautiful.
About The Deities of Oldby Snorri Einarrsson.
Peculiar.
In the time before the ordering of the worlds, when the Nine Worlds as we know them hadn’t been formed yet, strange beings walked vast, empty lands, half beasts, half gods, to the unfortunate men living in their domain,Thori deciphered. His grasp of the old language was a bit rusty, but he could read the archaic runes well enough.
Leafing through the pages, he marveled at the hand-drawn pictures of dark deities from the dawn of time. Mountain-high giants, shapes of bears and wolves, and horned beings lurking in the shadows. A strange, foreboding feeling made his stomach churn. His father had told him how he’d battled giants at the start of everything, but had it really been the beginning as the Allfather claimed? Or had there been those who came before?
A particularly disconcerting picture made Thori stop. The drawing showed what must be a bog shrouded in mist, and from the bleak landscape a shadow rose to the sky, clearly female, with flowing hair and slits for eyes, glowing purple-red.
Mýrmóðirwas written underneath the picture. The Bog Mother.
Norns.
There dwelt in the marshlands a powerful goddess of old. The bog dwellers called her Mýrmóðir, and in her name they drowned their offerings in pools of standing water. Other tribes living among the sea called her the Bog Mother or Mother Earth, and she walked among her peoples, meddling in their affairs. It’s said her dwelling place was hidden in a sacred grove on an island far out on the wild eastern sea, and on this island, there was a sacred chariot shrouded by a cloth. Only a chosen priestess was allowed to touch the chariot, and only she was permitted to visit the goddess in her innermost sanctuary, accompanying her with great reverence. When the goddess stayed among her people, there were great celebrations, and no one went to war during this time, until the goddess grewweary of human society and the priestess brought her back to her grove. Afterwards, the chariot, the cloth, and the goddess herself were washed in a hidden lake, and the slaves who performed this labor were then swallowed up by the waters of the same lake so that they could not speak of what they had seen.
Thori kept reading, heart beating frantically.
It’s said that the hort of Mýrmóðir was splendid because the people of the coast drowned many offerings in her name. Swords and axes. Gold and jewelry. Animals and captured enemies were sunk in the bogs and lakes.
Warriors drowned in the bog wearing the bronze armor of old times like thedraugrthey’d encountered at Njarðby. This only proved what they’d already suspected: the creatures belonged to the Bog Mother. But the huge hidden treasure reminded Thori of something else.
There were some items in particular that made the hort of the Bog Mother legendary. Weapons of godly power, like the magical hammer Mjolnir and the sword Brimskeri forged from a fallen star. There was also the Plow of Renewal, and a legendary vala’s staff made from knotted birch and a clump of enchanted peat.
The Bog Mother was a goddess of great power, but when the new gods rose, the Æsir with fire and sword and the Vanir with seiðrand sea, the old deities scattered or were slain. Most transformed, their domains being overtaken by the younger gods. It’s said that the Bog Mother’s dwelling place—the sacred grove and the drowning lake—sank into the earth, deep below. And the goddess of the bog sleeps, guarding her treasures.
Thori trembled.
The hort!
He knew of these items. Odin had told him about them that fateful night when he’d instructed him about the raid at Nóatún.The Hort of Nerthus, he’d called them, a treasure stolen by theVanir.
Norns. That’s why his father had been so obsessed with this fortress. Not for strategic advantage. Not even for vengeance against theVanir. His father had sought the Bog Mother’s power, just like he’d sought power from every dark corner of the Nine Worlds, and it was all the same to him if Thori had been slain or if all hiseinherjardied with him.
Hot tears pricked his eyes. He blinked furiously.
