Page 86 of The Magic of Vanaheim
Nobody tried to stop them, and as they approached Utgard’s gates, Talvi opened the heavy wooden doors with a smooth gesture. Håkon watched the protective runes decorating the huge timber frame light up and extinguish one after one as theseiðrof Bergelmir’s priestesses failed.
As they entered the hall, Talvinen’s warriors in tow, the discord of the feast inside died down into a tense silence. All eyes turned toward them. At the far end of the room, seated on the magnificent Frostland Throne carved from the bones of a dragon, was Bergelmir. The king glared at them with open hatred, but for the very first time in his life, Håkon wasn’t afraid of him.
“Kill them,” Bergelmir shouted, not even bothering with feigned hospitality. “What are you standing there gawking at? Kill them all!”
But instead of attacking them, the warriors lingered indecisively, hands on the hilts of their weapons.
“Is this how you greet your future king?” From the back of the hall, Anya’s voice rang out, loud and clear. She stepped intothe light of the fires uncowed, dressed in splendid robes and carrying a beautiful golden bow. She was accompanied by a few priestesses and a small retinue of warriors, and she grinned at Talvi.
Returning her smile, Talvi’s eyes sparkled with a mischief Håkon knew all too well. Had Talvi somehow managed to contact Anya? Had the two of them been planning some kind of courtly uprising?
“Silence, girl!” Bergelmir rose from his seat, reaching for his ax.
Finally, his sworn warriors—the maybe dozen men sitting closest to him, wearing his golden rings and silver bracelets—gathered around their chieftain. Stepping in front of Talvi, Håkon’s hand closed around the hilt of his sword, ready to challenge his father to a duel.
“Håkon!” Bergelmir’s lips curled into a sneer. “You’ve always been a disappointment, boy. A bastard who thought he could rise above his station. And now you come here at the side of this—thisvala.” His gaze flicked to Talvi. “Do you think this cursed union will earn you the Frostland Throne?”
There was a strange quality to Bergelmir’s voice, something unsteady in his gaze Håkon hadn’t seen there before. Fear. The realization hit him like a punch to the liver. Bergelmir was afraid.
“I came here to tell you that my sister won’t marry a stinking coward like Jorulf,” Håkon said. He hadn’t yet spotted the man to whom his sister had been promised. Maybe Jorulf hadn’t arrived to claim his prize.
“Watch your tongue, boy,” Bergelmir snarled. “Do you think you have a say in this? You’re nothing but—”
Bergelmir was interrupted by a sharp cracking noise. It sounded like a snow slab breaking loose. Talvi’sseiðr. A whirl of frost surged past Håkon, freezing Bergelmir’s men where theystood, their mouths open in silent screams as their bodies were encased in jagged ice.
Shocked silence filled the hall.
Unable to avert his gaze, Håkon stared at the frozen warriors.Hel, Bergelmir should be afraid of Talvi’s wrath.
“No,” Håkon finally said. “You’ve got it all wrong,Father. You’re the one who no longer has anything to say regarding this matter.”
Bergelmir gaped at him, and Håkon was overcome by elation. He’d never dared to consider such a scenario, for he’d known that the very thought of defying his father was a dangerous path, and he could all too easily have dragged Anya and Gudrun into the abyss with him. But now he was free to do as he saw fit. Even better, Talvi’s protection allowed him to oppose his father without fearing for his own life over a few words of disagreement. The freedom it afforded him felt dizzying. It was as if he’d downed a horn of mead in one go.
“So that’s how it is?” Bergelmir said, disdain thick in his voice. “First you kill your brother, and then you have the nerve to come here to try to kill me and usurp the throne? You ungrateful little—” The temperature in the hall dropped tangibly and the hearth fire flickered as if even the flames were recoiling in fear. Talvi stepped to Håkon’s side.
“Offend my husband one more time, and you’ll join your warriors. I’ll gladly make sure that your entire court watches you choke to death inside the ice.” Talvi’s voice was as cold as a winter’s night, and a sliver of frost began to creep along the floor, spreading outward from Talvi’s feet. Bergelmir’s guests backed away, the remaining warriors shifting uncomfortably. No one dared to draw their weapon. Bergelmir’s sneer faltered as the frost inched closer. Scrutinizing Talvi, he seemed to choose his next words carefully. He addressed them to Håkon.
“Do you really want me dead?” Seeing Bergelmir standing before his throne, abandoned by his clan, had something unreal about it. He’d always seemed so imposing to Håkon. The most dangerous man in Jotunheim. Now, in the span of just a few minutes, he’d shrunk to an old chieftain haggling for his life, too frightened to ride into the Halls ofHel. “Haven’t I always been fair to you?” Bergelmir went on. “I took you into my hall after your mother’s death. I have raised you into a great warrior.”
“It’s your fault she’s dead!” Håkon yelled. At the thought of his mother, his vision clouded with unshed tears. “Don’t you dare pretend your betrayal of her was kindness!”
He could feel Talvi’s reassuring presence next to him, protective and grounding. Bergelmir only stared, shocked into silence, and Håkon suddenly knew what he had to do.
“You ascended the Frostland Throne by betrayal, and by betrayal your reign shall end.” Håkon’s voice was deceptively steady.
“Thrym wasn’t the rightful king!”
“And neither are you! Jotunheim has always been ruled by strength, and your strength has waned.”
Bergelmir’s frost-pale features froze in horror.
“But I’m not as disloyal as you are,” Håkon growled. “I won’t murder you in your own hall like a coward. I offer you a duel, a fair fight for the throne. You can even name a champion.”
The shrewd gleam Håkon knew all too well returned to his father’s eyes, but Håkon wouldn’t be a pawn in Bergelmir’s games any longer.
“However, if your warrior dies, you die with him.”
Utgard’s hall was dead silent, and Håkon waited.