Page 7 of The Magic of Vanaheim

three

The Strings of Fate

Four winters after the Battle of Saeborg - ?åkon

Riding out on patrol in the early days of spring was the best time of the year. Håkon traveled with Gudrun and two other warriors, who were young enough not to question Håkon’s authority. Their goal was simple. They were to make sure that Jotunheim’s farmsteads were well tended to, and theJötnarunthreatened by raiders from their own world or the others beyond. And after having spent months trapped in his father’s great hall, choking on the suppressing atmosphere of court, Håkon finally felt like he could breathe again.

On a pale morning, Håkon had left the young warriors behind to ride higher into the mountains. The treeless slopes leading up to the snow-covered peaks were shrouded in mist.

“Bergelmir will be furious if he ever finds out about our little detour,” Gudrun said, her lighthearted grin at odds with her words.

“You should’ve stayed with the warriors.”

“I’ve seen the tracks of wolves. Maybe we can even find a bear in its den. Why don’t we bring Bergelmir a splendid pelt and tell him we went out hunting?”

Håkon chuckled. “They should call you Gudrun the Cunning.”

“Pah! You should listen to me more often. It’s time you learnt the art of deception outside of the battlefield.”

“I fear that’s a hopeless endeavor. You know I’m neither a skald nor a good chieftain.”

Gudrun shook her head unhappily. “Don’t let him convince you of that! Bergelmir doesn’t know you. And he doesn’t hold the strings to your fate.”

Håkon had no idea what to say to that. Gudrun had fought beside his father in their youth; the only shieldmaiden Bergelmir had tolerated in hislið, his band of warriors. She was one of the few people allowed to talk back to the king. And she knew how to handle him, could even make him laugh on occasion. But sometimes Gudrun’s words bordered on treason.

“Don’t let anyone hear you talking like that. ”The thought that Bergelmir might lose his patience with her someday scared Håkon. Bergelmir’s sudden swings of mood were notorious, and Håkon had the feeling that the more time Gudrun spent with him—Bergelmir’s unfavored bastard son—the more she fell out of his father’s favor.

“Don’t worry. Nobody takes the ramblings of an old woman seriously.”

Håkon hoped she was right. He couldn’t bear it if something happened to her just because Håkon couldn’t resist the temptation to visit this place from his past.

As they rode higher into the mountains, the haze was broken by the sunlight. Soon the meadows around them came into view, covered with small, purple flowers. The tiny blossoms glowed like jewels. Around midday, they reached a weathered plateau, allowing a breathtaking view of the fjord deep below. But Håkononly had eyes for the burnt remains of the hall that once towered over the place.

“Thrymheim,” Gudrun breathed. “It was a sight to behold back in the day. Its timbers had been washed white, and they shone like bones in the sun.”

“It’s a majestic sight, even in ruins,” Håkon mumbled.

The remains of the once proud hall lay cold and deserted in front of them. Once home of another chieftain with a claim on Jotunheim’s throne: the mighty Thrym. The songs about his valor were forgotten now, tales from a time before Bergelmir had him burnt along with his entire clan in his own homestead.

Håkon’s mother had been among them. A pretty thrall who must’ve caught Bergelmir’s eye during one of his visits to his rival’s dwelling. Håkon had no idea why he’d survived the inferno, but he knew that his mother hadn’t been important enough for Bergelmir to save her.

“They must’ve been so scared,” Håkon choked as he imagined the hall being engulfed in flames. So many people had been trapped inside, women and children, along with the warriors.

“I heard someone chanting verses among the flames that day.” Gudrun’s gaze grew distant, as if she was seeing a place far away. “But if they’d been still alive or already dead while singing them, I couldn’t say. I didn’t know to what lengths Bergelmir was willing to go to achieve his ambitions until then. Thrym was his ally once. A friend even. Maybe he would’ve been a better king.”

“What was he like?” Upon pain of death, it was forbidden to talk about Thrym, but it was only him and Gudrun, and Håkon couldn’t help but ask.

“He was fair-haired and tall. An oak of a man, and popular with the maidens as well as with the warriors.”

“What?”

Gudrun snickered. “Actually, he looked a lot like you.”

“Very funny.”

“It’s true. He made theÆsirthink twice about raiding in Jotunheim, and the skalds sung his praise in every hall and every farmstead.”

“He sounds like a hero of old.”