Of all the gods’ preternatural beasts and barges, Toothgrinder and Toothgnasher were, without a doubt, the most insufferable. As they jolted forward through the rocky hills marking the border between Midgard and Jotunheim, the giant bucks snorted and heaved, their foul breath stenching the chariot. His insides roiling, Loki clung on for dear life, cursing the blundering beasts’ utter lack of finesse with every vile oath that came to mind.
With each pounding hoofbeat, a cloud of dust engulfed him, sending Loki into a coughing fit he was powerless to stop—his hands otherwise occupied. Beside him, Thor gripped the reins with steady hands, unbothered, without so much as a sneeze.
How Loki was ever meant to spot any mischief-makers under such conditions never ceased to amaze him—and yet, somehow, he always did.
?There!”
Thor wrenched the chariot in the direction Loki had pointed. The bucks skidded, scoring deep tracks through the sun-starved turf. Loki clambered out. Sizeable indentations in the dirt led toward a steep hill ahead. Thor was not going to be pleased.
"They’re over the border."
"Galloping, gutless ghouls!"
"Ogres, actually. And two of them, it appears."
Loki jumped back into the chariot. Thor gave Toothgrinder a firm pat on the haunch and murmured something in the Fornmál1 before snapping the reins with all his might. The bucks bellowed in outrage. With no regard for Loki’s already aching back, they lunged forward like enraged bulls, their momentum briefly carrying them off the ground.
Loki squeezed his eyes shut. The chariot was wretched enough without the beasts’ shrieks slicing through his sensitive ears. That was it—he would never embark on another mission with Thor.
But even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew he’d break that promise. The thrill of the chase with his oldest friend always won out in the end. Keeping Jotunheim scoundrels from wreaking havoc in Midgard was essential to maintaining their followers’ faith. Nothing quite compared to the sensation of a severed artery or the crack of a skull, knowing it brought peace and order to Yggdrasil’s realms.
Loki clung to that thought as the chariot hurtled uphill, dragging his insides up to his lungs. He cracked open his eyes, nothing but the grey-blue sky stretching before him—and wished he hadn’t. The bucks threatened to topple backward, straining against the incline. Loki braced himself as they lunged the final few feet, clearing the ridge by a nose. The chariot landed with a punishing thud, pitching Loki forward against the rim. Wonderful. Now his ribs were bruised as well.
"Careful, will you!"
Thor yanked the reins, bringing the bucks to a violent halt. From the top of the broad hill, a deep valley stretched below, with more hills rising beyond
"I don’t see them."
Loki’s ribs protested as he blew his wind-blown hair from his face and squinted across the valley.
"Be patient."
A dull twinge struck between his eyes as they shifted from their mossy hue to deep black, locking onto the distant landscape. It was one of the extraordinary gifts he’d inherited from his exiled mother—the ability to focus on distant objects, much like a raptor. In his youth, he’d often done so by accident, resulting in dizzying bouts of vertigo, before Odin discovered his gift and taught him to hone it into a skill he could wield at will.
His Sight was a unique gift, one that had been vital to the Asgardians during the War, and as such, was both coveted and envied. Aware of this, Loki had chosen to keep another gift to himself: his ability to hear across great distances, even through walls. That particular talent—Hark—would provoke far worse reactions if the gods ever discovered it. Besides, he quite enjoyed the advantage it gave him—though it had bruised his ego a few times in the past as well. While he enjoyed a good gossip as much as the next Asgardian (especially if that Asgardian was Sif), he never—well, seldom—abused that ability against his adopted family, who had shown him nothing but care and mercy. It would also not do to get caught.
Thor paced beside him.
"And?"
"Don’t rush me."
Thor kicked a stone, sending it hurtling in a wide arc down into the valley, breaking Loki’s concentration. How Thor managed these missions when Loki wasn’t around to join him was beyond him. Did he just rampage aimlessly until he stumbled upon the offenders he was after? It was becoming clear why Thor had not been made the Marskálk2 of the Asgardian army, but the Skjaldv?rd instead—the Asgardian territories’ first line of defence. Overpowering the occasional ill-intentioned Jotun causing trouble on the borders was second nature to him, but he was far too impatient and disorganized for good leadership. He hadn’t always been like that, though.
Before the Witch’s War, Thor had asked Loki to join him now and then, if he expected to face more than a handful of Jotuns at once, or simply for the company on longer journeys. After the War, it was Odin who had insisted Loki accompany him more often, claiming Thor no longer seemed as ‘measured in his judgement’ as he once had. Loki had protested and defended Thor’s competence, but after a few missions, he realised Odin had been, if anything, generous in his assessment.
"It wouldn’t hurt to take it a bit slower, you know? There’s nothing quite like bile splashing into my skull to cripple my Sight. And it might save the chariot from being reduced to firewood again..."
"I want to get this over with."
A rabbit emerged from its burrow on a distant hill, the slopes dotted with dark purple snowdrops. Loki studied his friend. It was clear something beside the mission troubled him.
"Vey is no imbecile. Even in the absence of your brothers, and her own, I am confident she, Sif, and Frigga will have any Jotuns whipped, spanked, and set to scrubbing the floors before they even think of invading Asgard."
Thor’s mouth quirked into a reluctant smile.
"It’s not that."
He cast a grim glance over the valley ahead.
"Or, yea, it is that. And... you know."
"I do."
Loki raked a hand through his tangled hair.
"I'm not particularly looking forward to sharing a table with that imperious, debauched, seven-foot-tall annihilator, either. But it’s undeniably better than facing him on the battlefield."
A shudder rippled through Thor’s massive frame. There it was—the source of his gloom: Njord. The Vanir god was barely past his youth, yet already Thor’s equal in every way. They were of similar stature, both capable of beheading a bull with their bare hands, and both had all sexes swooning at their feet. But beneath Njord’s pretty exterior lay a vicious side, one that had left deep scars on Thor during the War. And now, he was about to become an adopted member of their clan.
Thor clenched his jaw. Were his eyes reddening? Loki turned his gaze back to the valley.
"You know your father has high expectations for him. Once he’s settled at Vili’s castle, flooded with responsibilities—pun intended—we’ll scarcely even see him."
Loki chanced a glance back at Thor. His eyes were still disturbingly moist.
"And don’t forget: Soon none of them will ever be able to harm us again."
"Nor shall we them."
And there it was—the truth, bitter as a ghula’s grudge. Wonderful. Instead of consoling his friend, now Loki too was upset. Spurred by bitterness, he turned all his attention to searching for those Jotun Ogres. His Hark beat his Sight to it. East of a handsome river, at the far end of the valley, a flock of sheep bleated in panic as two burly figures approached their pen.
"It’s them."
"The Vanir?"
Loki suppressed an eye roll.
"No. The ogres. Pay attention."
Thor seized his axe, his eyes crackling with lightning. The redness was gone. Loki grabbed his arm.
"No hasty decisions. Remember: 'Plan, prepare, proceed.' Communication is key. Alright?"
Thor shrugged off Loki’s grip and stowed his axe before leaping into the chariot. Loki followed, a pit forming in his stomach, as Thor cracked the reins again. The bucks bellowed in outrage before barrelling down the hill, chariot in tow. As they plunged into the valley below, Loki could have sworn they were flying.
x x X X X X X x x
For the fourth time since they began climbing the mountain pass, Ullur’s mare was stuck, and he was starting to suspect either the mare or the ground itself was trapping her on purpose. Forbidden from using their powers, Ullur and the five soldiers attempting to free her were left alternating between cursing and bickering over the best approach to get her hoof out of the snow-filled fissure—yet each time, she sank right back in.
Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.
"Now you’re just chuckin’ snow back in—!"
"If the daft nag would bloody shift ‘is other hoof—Oi! That’s me leg—!"
While the men battled both the beast and the terrain, Baldur stood by, stroking the mare’s mane.
"Poor creature..."
Ullur loved his cousin Baldur dearly. Though Baldur and his younger brothers, Hoder and Hermod, were, in truth, his mother’s cousins, they had always felt more like his own, as they were closer to his age than to hers. Above all, Baldur was his closest companion. Yet, despite this, Baldur’s seemingly endless sympathy for anything with a pulse irritated Ullur to no end. They didn’t have time for this! If they didn’t reach the fort by nightfall, they would be forced to camp outdoors—and Ullur had no intention of spending the night wedged in some crevice, surrounded by snoring soldiers who reeked of honey-drenched corpses.
Gazing up at the slope above them, Hoder, sat just as idly on his horse, while everyone else toiled. Ullur couldn’t, for the life of him, understand why his grandfather had insisted his blind cousin come along. It wasn’t as if he could marvel at the scenery, let alone contribute in any useful way. They’d have been better off bringing Nanna; at least her playful nature would have lifted the mood.
The sun crept out from behind the mountaintop, its sharp rays striking the mare and her would-be rescuers. Agitated, she thrashed, kicking Ullur square in the shin.
"Oh, for the love of all things pickled!"
Ullur yanked on the reins. The mare lashed out, kicking a smallpox-scarred soldier backward into the snow before her hoof finally found steady ground. Baldur cast the fallen soldier a sympathetic smile.
"Well, at least her hoof is no longer stuck."
The mare promptly sank back in, trapping her other front leg.
"Brilliant. Now she’s only gone and got her sodding right leg stuck, hasn’t she?"
Ullur had had enough.
"Why can’t we simply use our powers!"
Up ahead, his grandfather spun around, the scar running over his nose creasing into a menacing scowl that disappeared beneath his stubble.
"Shhht! "
Dismounting, he staggered toward Ullur, his advance losing much of its menace as the snowdrifts tripped him up.
"Would you all stop shouting!"
A suffocating knot formed in Ullur’s throat. How dare his grandfather speak against him like that in front of his cousins—in front of the soldiers? He straightened, ready to argue, but before he could get a word in, his grandfather strode past him and wrenched a shield from the smallpox-scarred soldier’s grasp. The man let go without protest.
The old god drove the shield into the snow, wedging it beneath the mare’s trapped hoof. With something solid to stand on, she sprang free from the fissure.
He turned to the men.
"Do you wish to spend the remainder of this mission carrying your own entrails about your neck!"
With a dramatic sweep of his arm and a clink of his armour, he gestured toward the jagged peaks, their edges carved deep in shadow beneath the cold sun.
"These mountains are teeming with Jotun filth. Like vermin—for every one you glimpse, there are five dozen more lurking in the shadows, craving our horses, our weapons, and our very flesh."
The soldiers shifted uneasily, but Ullur had a point to prove.
"But surely, given the extent of our powers, we could fend them off! I really fail to see why we couldn’t have turned them against those wretched flying witches earlier..."
"And which powers, pray, do you propose to use against trolls, ogres, or Frost Giants? What of hags, varulfs, or skittercrones? Will you dazzle them with your snowflakes, as though they aren’t already drowning in the wretched things?"
Ullur ground his teeth. His grandfather knew full well he could do more than conjure snow.
"Or is it your intention to start a war with our only ally east of the Fimbulthul River—boy?"
Heat flooded Ullur’s face as he locked eyes with his grandfather in a silent battle of wills. Boy? Really? At sixteen winters, he was taller than any of his cousins, having even surpassed Tyr the summer before. Around him, the soldiers found sudden interest in the looming mountains.
Ullur was known to be stubborn, but even he was no match for his grandfather's unyielding, contemptuous stare. A smirk ghosted across the old man’s scarred lip.
"Now, get back on your horses."
Ullur grabbed his mare’s mane and swung himself into the saddle with a sharp jerk. The mare let out a low, uneasy whinny. Beside him, Hoder was still staring up at the mountain behind them.
"We are heading the other way, you know?" Ullur snapped.
Hoder turned to Ullur, his gaze landing past his ear, wearing an insufferably pitying expression. Ullur ignored the uncomfortable twist in his gut, deciding he was too irritated to be bothered with him. Instead, he gripped the falcon-carved handle of his beechwood saddle and focused on keeping his mare from causing any more mayhem.
The group continued up the pass in silence. At last, Baldur broke the quiet, his voice careful—hesitant.
"Aren’t—aren’t the Jotuns all rather large?"
Up front, Ullur’s grandfather snapped his head sideways, armour clinking.
"What?"
Baldur straightened.
"I mean—shouldn’t they be quite easy to spot, given their size?"
Tyr, riding beside Ullur’s grandfather, exchanged glances with the old man.
"Just because they’re large, it doesn’t mean they cannot conceal themselves," Tyr said. "More often than not, they hide in plain sight."
Ullur stiffened in anticipation. The Marskálk of their army was not someone given to idle chatter, but when he spoke, all ears turned to him. The eldest of grand-uncle Odin’s sons, he had been brought to Asgard as a toddler to live with his father. Ullur couldn’t picture him as a child—not just because it was long before Ullur was born, but because it was impossible to imagine the stern, animalistic warrior he had always known as something fragile. Ullur had never known who Tyr’s mother was, but given his features, it was a fair guess she hailed from somewhere in Jotunheim. Unlike Ullur’s grandfather, Odin had always maintained a more ambiguous stance when it came to his dealings with the Jotuns.
Tyr nodded toward a jagged rock jutting from the mountainside, its silhouette suspiciously resembling an ogre. A prickle of unease swept through Ullur.
"They come in all shapes and sizes, with magick that allows them to alter their appearance—or even merge with the very land itself."
The men followed Tyr’s gaze toward the sky.
"Some take to the skies, like the Witchings, or..."
"...Hraesvelg."
Ullur startled at Hoder’s awestruck voice. Tyr gave him a nod of approval.
"Aye, like Hraesvelg. The most magnificent vultorn to ever grace the skies."
Ullur glanced to his strong side, where a flock of ravens circled high above the cliffs, expecting a dragon-shaped eagle to appear at any moment.
Tyr’s quiet, deep-timbred voice carried through the cold air.
"Hraesvelg once ruled over all of Thrymheim. Of course, in those days, he was known as Kári Fárbautason, and had yet to adopt the mantle of the great vultorn he is today. He was merely a Jotun then—admittedly one with some impressive powers. He was hot-tempered and a descendant of Jotunheim’s deposed traitor-king, but he was also somewhat reclusive. Over time he retreated into his bird-skin more and more often, distancing himself ever further from his own kin."
Ullur wished he had that ability. He wouldn’t mind steering clear of his own folk every now and then—well, except Baldur. And Nanna.
Tyr continued.
"Until, one day, Kári found himself unable to revert to his true form."
Fuck, no. Ullur did not want to be stuck as some fowl.
"His subjects were terrified. Trapped in his vultorn form, he made no distinction between prey and his own people when forced to hunt for sustenance. On one occasion, he attacked his wife, Elding, mistaking her for a hag. He managed a rather substantial bite before their sons drove him off. When she succumbed to her wounds, he was banished, and his eldest son claimed the kingdom."
Ullur did remember that part from their history lessons. After declaring himself king, Thrym Kárason had quarreled with his brother Thiassi, who had the backing of the gods of Asgard. In exchange, Thiassi promised them an alliance against any threats from Nibelheim, including his own brother. This led to the division of Thrymheim along the mountain ridge: Thrym was confined to Nibelheim, where he ruled the portion of the mountain range he’d been named after, while Thiassi claimed the land facing Jotunheim.
The men turned their heads in unison as Tyr’s gaze shifted toward the distant peaks of Nibelheim.
"Hraesvelg spends most of his time in Nibelheim, and ventures into Thrymheim only every so often."
Beside Ullur, Hoder’s voice grew thick with dark reverence.
"Father claims Hraesvelg’s wingspan is greater than the length of Valhalla’s West Wing. That, when his fury takes hold, the force of his wingstrokes becomes so powerful they summon icy storms reaching as far as Midgard."
Tyr gave an approving nod.
"Aye. In Midgard, they call these winds the Dreadfrost Ox. They say it can pierce a hole through one’s cheeks."
Ullur swore the air turned colder. He stole a glance at the sky, where only the occasional grey cloud loomed in the shape of some monstrous thing.
"Let him try when Kvasir is ready," he muttered, "Then nothing—flying or otherwise—will stand a chance against us. We shall simply obliterate every inferior scoundrel who dares defy us..."
Baldur turned to him, concern etched across his face.
"We aren’t really meant to use him in such a manner, though, are we? Not unless in extreme circumstances. Surely, it would be in everyone’s best interest if we could simply foster amicable relations with the Jotuns, wouldn’t it?"
Ullur scoffed.
"Why? Why should we maintain peace with monsters? At best, they are beneath us; at worst, dangerous, revolting pests! They could all be eradicated for all I care."
Stricken, Baldur’s eyes darted between him and Tyr.
"Many of our subjects hail from Jotunheim, Ullur. Even some of our own kin bear Jotun blood. Surely you don’t mean that?"
"That’s different. And furthermore—why go to the trouble of excavating an entire island within the Veiled Deep—of all places—to forge the most formidable weapon ever conceived if we don’t intend to use it? I mean—"
His grandfather cut in.
"Cautious now. The mountains are listening."
A flicker of disappointment stabbed through Ullur. Whose side was his grandfather on, anyway? Wasn’t he the one always going on about how horrid the Jotuns were? Ullur was about to voice his thoughts when a trickle of snow cascaded down the slope to his left.
He peered at the spot. Nothing. Was he imagining things now? Gutless ghouls, he hated this place. But beside him, Hoder’s gaze sharpened too.
"Did you hear that?" Ullur whispered.
Hoder nodded. His grandfather broke through his thoughts.
"If we keep our wits about us, we may just arrive in time for supper."
Turning up the rugged mountain pass, he snorted, his breath misting in the frigid air.
"I wouldn’t turn down a generous serving of well-pickled ox after such a day. I fear, where I am headed afterwards, all I’ll ever get is fish."
1Fornmál: The ancient language spoken by Ymir and the original Jotnar, believed to have descended from him.
2Marskálk: The rank held by the second-in-command of the Asgardian Army, subordinate only to the High-Hersir.