So he would keep the rune close. And he would watch and wait, as he’d done for centuries.
one
A Council in the Halls of Nidavellir
50 winters later - Thori
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 firstholmgang.”
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 theVanirwill 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 neitherAesirnorVanircould 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 theVanirwould give it back if they just asked politely. With some difficulty, he swallowed down hisirritation 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 theVanrchieftain. 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 theVaniras 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 theDvergargrinned ferally, as if he couldn’t wait to see his guestsslaughter 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.”
