Thunder, Blood, and Goats: A Loki Norse Fantasy (Tales of the Nine Worlds) (The Nine Worlds Rising) by Lyra Wolf

Author:Lyra Wolf [Wolf, Lyra]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ravenwell Press
Published: 2021-11-08T16:00:00+00:00

7

By the Sword

I agreed.

I punched that nagging little voice back into my depths.

The fact this arrangement benefitted me as well as Elénaril was just a happy, added bonus. A coincidence. Yes. A joyful, joyful coincidence.

That was all.

Music plucked from strings mixed with the pulse of drums through the feast hall saturated with wood-smoke. Candles and torches flickered in the haze, coating the massive trestle tables crowded with gods in gold and shadow.

Their eyes darted to me as I feasted beside Odin at the head table packed with roasted boar, dark breads, and trays of grapes. Frost bit my skin with each glance and pointing finger they directed at me. It matched the frost icing down the battered oak towards me from Frigg, who sat at Odin’s right.

I lifted my tankard of mead and kicked back a slug, enjoying the zing of citrus and honey on my tongue.

My name slipped out of their mouths that glistened with pork and apples, hurled like a curse between jokes and music and bites of honey cake.

It had been like this since I arrived. I drank deeper, trying to ease the burn of not knowing what sin I’d committed.

I mean, I did pull a few harmless pranks on Sif, and perhaps left one too many unpleasant surprises in Njord’s boots, but they didn’t have the right to accuse me.

And besides, that would soon change once this business with Elénaril and the dragon was finished.

Odin skimmed his hand along the worn oak until bringing it to rest on top of my own. He gently squeezed my knuckles, reassuring me. His gold rings glinted in the dim light.

“Pay them no mind.” He leaned in closer to my ear. “They are still not used to one with such thick Jotun blood. Old suspicions die hard.”

He slid his hand away and drained the rest of his ale. He wiped off the lines of white foam surrounding his lips with his sleeve.

“I actually find being the center of attention quite exhilarating,” I said. “Even if that attention is them discussing whether to ram a stake through my temple or up my backside.”

I looked out over the feasting gods and smiled and waved at Bragi, who glared at me, his thin lips curled back revealing a set of white teeth. He was probably already composing some diddy to accompany his unsavory limerick I found scrawled on the communal toilet wall about me.

I found it quite hilarious, really, even with its tense shifts and inferior rhyming. Was “whore’s tucker” the best he could find to rhyme with that other bit?

He didn’t take my suggestion kindly.

I lifted the mead to my mouth again. Someone shoved into my back, making a wave of mead slop over the rim of my tankard. A deluge of sticky honey poured down my chin and tunic, soaking into my silks and furs. Laughter burst out from the tables, along with the bang of fists.

I turned behind me, rivers of mead pooling in my lap and raining to the floor.

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