Page 1 of The Magic of Vanaheim

one

Þing

Håkon

His half-brother was blindsided by Håkon’s first feint. Stopping the descent of his battle ax at the last second, Håkon watched a crimson drop of blood running down Brogar’s throat like a grotesque tear.

The crowd erupted in cheers.

Þingvalley was illuminated by hundreds of torches and campfires like a myriad of stars fallen from the skies, and the whole place of assembly was bustling with warriors and horses, skalds and noble folks, commoners and whores. Many clans and kings had gathered to worship the gods, talk treaties, promise marriages, celebrate, and, of course, test their strength in the Þing Tournament.

And now all of them had the pleasure to witness the crown prince of theJötnarlose a duel to his bastard brother.

Leaving the blade at Brogar’s throat a few heartbeats longer than necessary, Håkon savored the moment. He would never rule over Jotunheim, never sit on the Frostland Throne, but at least in battle and on the field of tournament he could show hisfather that he was more than a useless bastard. When Håkon finally stepped back, his brother threw his sword at Håkon’s feet and stormed off to his pavilion with an angry scowl etched on his face. Håkon grinned. Their father wasn’t going to be amused. But no matter how King Bergelmir would punish Håkon for making the crown prince look weak in front of their enemies, this was worth it.

Gudrun appeared next to him, clapping him on the shoulder and offering him a mead-filled horn.

“All hail, Håkon Bloodaxe!” she roared, and the crowd echoed her words, chanting his name.

The elation of victory made Håkon’s chest light, and he enjoyed the feeling while it lasted.

“You fought well,” Gudrun smirked. “Your useless brother is going to be livid, though, having lost against you once again.”

Håkon shrugged. “Brogar doesn’t need a reason to hate me.”

“He’s a fool,” Gudrun said. “I’ve seen my fair share of great warriors. Your father was a sight to behold back in the day, but you’re something else.”

Feeling a blush rise to his cheeks, Håkon hid his face behind his drinking horn. He watched the first warriors and nobles pouring onto the tournament field. Everybody would be eager to talk and drink with him tonight and even present him with small gifts.

“Well—” Håkon mumbled. Gudrun’s praise made his gut twist with a strange mixture of delight and disgust. “Great warriors bleed and die as everyone else.”

“Not you,” someone said behind him.

Whirling around, Håkon found a boy of maybe six or seven winters standing there as if he belonged on the tournament field. He had no idea where the child had come from, nor had he heard his steps. How strange. The boy’s fine, dark tunic and breecheswere smeared with mud, but he was clearly the son of a free man or even a noble.

It wasn’t becoming of a warrior to bother talking to a child, but having grown up as a bastard son, Håkon remembered all too well how it had felt to be ignored all the time. And something about the earnest way the boy regarded him, his green eyes almost glowing in the low light, gave him pause. Also, he had to respect that the boy managed to get to him before everyone else. A smile tugged at Håkon’s lips as he leaned down.

“You think I fought well, little one?”

“You won the tournament at the lastþing, and you’re going to win again. You’re the best warrior in the Nine Worlds.”

The boy spoke with a thick accent, rolling the ‘r’ in an adorable fashion. His reverence, however exaggerated, made Håkon chuckle.

“Too much honor, I fear, although your words are very flattering. Do you want to learn the trade of war when you grow up?”

The boy scrunched up his nose as if Håkon had said something confusing. “Uncle teaches me.”

No father, then, but at least family. Håkon found this weirdly reassuring.

“Very well,” he said, not knowing what else to tell the boy. Perhaps he should’ve promised him he would grow up to be a great warrior, but that would’ve simply been insincere. What did Håkon know about the boy’s fate, after all?

Looking over his shoulder as if he heard someone calling out for him, the boy started to fidget. He cleared his throat.

“Here.” The boy stepped closer, pushing a small trinket into Håkon’s hand. “Would you consider giving me your hand in marriage, Prince Håkon?”

“What?”

Håkon stared uncomprehendingly at the small ring shimmering in his palm. It appeared to be made of copper, barely big enough to fit around his little finger, with a dainty green stone in the center.