“I invoke Ingvar!” Her voice bellows through their tiny guest room.
She jumps at every creak of the inn’s shabby floors and walls, expecting the God of War to burst through the door. Time ticks by as Calder’s visible amusement grows.
She is about to admit defeat when, of all people, Briny’s voice interrupts the anticipation.
“...she is my granddaughter! You puffed up, meathead!”
Aura stumbles against the wall as two ethereal figures appear before the hearth. Although she has seen her Grandpapi before, both in his ghostly form and in the flesh, Briny’s identical appearance to her father—complete with a single braid, beard, and intense facial features—always gives her pause.
Fortunately, his open linen tunic and beaded bracelets mark him as someone other than the gruff Sigvid Thordsson.
The other deity is a tall man, possibly taller than the Iss Drengr, dressed only in dark pants with a bear cloak draped over his scarred chest. A long, wild mane creates a deranged expression on his weathered face.
Ingvar, God of War.
Unlike other gods who accept prayers for daily life, he remains impartial to human conflict and reveres hard-fought warriors, the only individuals granted status by him. His afterlife, the Garrison, is said to be a grand city where souls await their venture to their undecided afterlives.
Gothi claim that souls can spend decades, even centuries, waiting for the gods to decide their fate. His presence as the other patron godof Skalor stems from the country's long-held history of interwarring tribes across its five distinct islands.
And he is attempting to strangle her Grandpapi.
The bed creaks as Calder’s boots thud against the floorboards until he stands beside her, watching the gods wrestle.
“Did you happen to call them both?” He whispers, disbelief hangs in his tone.
She shakes her head, unable to tear away from the fiasco that will surely cause unwanted attention in the decrepit inn run by that nosey old bat of an innkeeper—the ignorant woman who thought Aura to be a daughter of Calder.
He whistles with his fingers so loudly that she claps her palms over her ears.
“Oi! Explain!” His voice rattles a cup on one of the end tables.
Ingvar leaps away from Briny as if he were diseased. Slowly, he pivots to Calder as his brow knits. “You dare speak to me in such a way!”
“Yes.” He crosses his arms.
“Do you know who I am, boy?”
He doesn’t even blink at Ingvar’s fury.
“I require a modicum of your respect.” Ingvar straightens, regarding Calder with a wicked grin. “No matter your…lineage.”
She notices the slight shift in Calder’s stance and the twitch of his hands at his side. The action is subtle, yet she sets it aside for later.
“Answer her questions,” Calder squeezes Aura’s shoulder, “and I might consider giving you that modicum amount.”
“You insolent-” Ingvar snarls, fisting his hands. Briny pulls on his mane, distracting him.
Aura steps forward, holding her chin up high. “I summoned Ingvar to answer questions on the Temple of Makt.”
Ingvar punches Briny in the gut, sending his ghostly form stumbling through a wall.
Gods, I hope that room is empty.
“What makes you think I would possess even an inkling of knowledge about Makt, halvgud?”
“Well,” she starts as Briny emerges through the wall to throw Ingvar’s bear cloak over his head before shoving him to the floor as he smiles at her.
“She is my granddaughter, and I will speak to her,” he growls in Ingvar’s ear, kicking the enormous god. “Hello, Aurie.” He steps forward with his arms outstretched. “What can I answer?”
