The Sword of Surtur

  FOR MARVEL PUBLISHING

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  Editor in Chief: C B Cebulski

  Special Thanks to Wil Moss

  © 2021 MARVEL

  First published by Aconyte Books in 2021

  ISBN 978 1 83908 037 1

  Ebook ISBN 978 1 83908 038 8

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Cover art by Grant Griffin

  Distributed in North America by Simon & Schuster Inc, New York, USA

  ACONYTE BOOKS

  An imprint of Asmodee Entertainment Ltd

  Mercury House, Shipstones Business Centre

  North Gate, Nottingham NG7 7FN, UK

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  One

  The light of a thousand torches made the golden walls of Odin’s hall shine like the sun, defying the onset of night across the realm of Asgard. Laughter and howls of jubilation echoed off the vaulted ceiling a hundred feet above the celebratory throng. The rich smell of roast boar, the flesh of the ever-regenerating Saehrimnir, wafted through the room as platters of the succulent meat were paraded out from the kitchens. Barrels, casks, and tuns were borne up from the cellars to provide a disparate variety of ales, mead, and beers for the revelers.

  Hundreds of Asgardians were gathered about the dozens of long tables arrayed across the hall. Not merely those who dwelled within the great city itself, but stalwarts from the farthest regions of the land were gathered for the celebration. The desert-kissed Skornheimers and the dour Gymirsgardians were mixed among hunters from the Gundersheim and mystics from Ringsfjord. A rugged warrior from the Kingdom of Harokin traded stories with a white-bearded sea captain from dragon-haunted Nastrond. To every corner of the realm had Odin’s decree been sent and from every corner of the realm had come those to pay tribute to Asgard’s mightiest hero.

  Tyr’s blue eyes were as hard as ice as he looked across the celebrants. Each laugh, every smile only made him feel more out of place. He had no stomach for this frivolity, much less the reason for it. Had his father Odin not summoned him here, he’d have stayed as far from the celebration as he could manage. But one didn’t ignore the All-Father, not even when you were the God of War.

  Upon a raised platform at the top of the hall stood Odin’s table. Tyr’s father retained the physique of his prime despite the snowy beard that fell almost to his waist. His remaining eye sparkled with the vigor of a much younger Asgardian, hale with mirth and merriment. The other, sacrificed to gain wisdom greater than any other Aesir, was covered by a patch of gold that gleamed like a fiery ember. As much as anything, Tyr thought it was his father’s surrender of his own eye, sacrificed so that he might better guide the people of Asgard and defend them from harm, that made him worthy of his rule. Though there were times – such as now – when Tyr bristled under Odin’s commands, he had too much respect for his father to defy his authority. Such capriciousness was the province of his half-brother, Loki.

  Perched on the ornately carved back of Odin’s chair were his messengers, the ravens Hugin and Munin. Their studious eyes surveyed the celebration, catching even the least detail to whisper to the All-Father after the revelers departed. At intervals, Odin would proffer one of the birds a morsel of flesh, disrupting its vigilance while it gobbled the meat, but never would both be distracted at the same time. Tyr often felt the discerning stare of the ravens fix on him and could imagine what story they’d tell his father later.

  Crouched under the table were two animals Tyr resented far more than the spying ravens. The wolves Freki and Geri gnawed on boar bones and lapped blood from silver bowls while they sat at their master’s feet. Massive in their proportions, ferocious and proud in their bearing, they were the most loyal of Odin’s protectors, ranging with him on his travels through the Nine Worlds. In the prophecy of Ragnarok, it was foretold that Freki and Geri would die defending Odin from the Great Wolf Fenris.

  Thoughts of Fenris caused Tyr to set the horn of mead he’d been drinking from into the gilded stand on the table crafted for just this purpose. He clutched his left hand. Or at least the metal cup where his hand had been. He looked again at the celebrants around him, their joy and laughter bitter to his ears. Once they’d feted the God of War for saving Asgard from the menace that threatened to devour them all. The Great Wolf, that monstrous whelp of Loki, had grown so mighty and fierce that no god could prevail against it. In its savagery, Fenris could have laid waste to the entire realm, had its ravenous hunger provoked it to do so. Every manner of chain had been employed to try and bind it, but even those forged from Uru, the enchanted metal of Asgard, failed to hold the beast. It became a game to the Great Wolf to let the gods try to chain it, a display of its growing power that it knew would make them fear it. Finally, Odin had the dwarves forge a magic cord, Gleipnir, which would be unbreakable. The cunning Fenris scented trickery when it saw the seeming fragility of the leash and only agreed to be tied with it if the gods vowed to release it if it failed to free itself. To ensure the gods would hold to their vow, the Great Wolf demanded one of them place their hand in its mouth.

  Perhaps he’d been inspired by the example of his father, Tyr didn’t know, but in that moment when the courage of the gods faltered, he stepped forward and accepted the Great Wolf’s challenge. Gleipnir held the beast fast and when it couldn’t break free, the jaws of Fenris snapped tight. In an instant Tyr’s hand was gone, swallowed by the deceived beast. But Asgard was saved from the monster’s menace. At least until the time of Ragnarok, when even the magic of Gleipnir could no longer restrain the Great Wolf.

  Tyr lifted his gaze back to the platform and Odin’s table. To the All-Father’s left sat his queen, the Vanir Frigga. While Odin joined in the revelry, laughing and boasting, Tyr’s mother maintained a pose of regal aloofness and composure. In her fashion she was much like the ravens, observing everything without joining the frivolity. Those around her might feast, but she displayed a more judicious appetite and a more cautious attitude to the mead that was flowing so freely at other tables. Her attention would always be drawn back to the bright-faced Balder, the favorite of her sons and the one who was ever the focus of her maternal concern. Tyr well understood his mother’s worry for Balder, for his death too had been foretold, and that was a heavy weight upon Frigga’s heart.

  Seated to Odin’s right was the hero in whose honor this feast was being held. Tyr frowned as he stared up at Asgard’s celebrated champion, his younger half-brother, Thor. The God of Thunder had taken after his mother more than his father, for there was little about his features that he had in common with Tyr. Tyr’s hair was black while Thor
’s was a golden blond. Tyr’s face was hard and severe in contrast to the boisterous exuberance of Thor. Only in their eyes was their kinship unquestionable, for both had the same piercing blue color.

  The mighty hammer Mjolnir rested on the table beside Thor’s platter, and beside the weapon was a trophy that marked the cause of the celebration. A great slab of hoary ice that refused to melt even in the warmth of Odin’s hall. As he looked up at the fantastic object, Tyr heard his father’s voice boom out across the feast, ringing down on the revelry.

  “Asgardians! Aesir and Vanir and friends from afar!” Odin stood and toasted the throng. He turned and laid his hand upon Thor’s shoulder. “Look on this, my son of whom I am so very proud. By himself he has penetrated the frozen vastness of Niffleheim to beard the King of the Ice Giants in his own palace!” He gestured to the white slab sitting on the table. “Behold a tuft from the very beard of Ymir!”

  Raucous cheers rolled through the hall, rumbling like Thor’s thunderbolts. Warriors stood and clashed weapons against their shields. Many stamped their feet until the walls began to shake from the vibrations. Over and again was one name shouted: “Thor! Thor! Thor!”

  Odin drew Thor to his feet. “Today we celebrate the defeat of Ymir. Tomorrow perhaps you will bring Surtur’s sword to rest beside the ice giant’s beard!” Thor clapped his father on the back as the two gods resumed their seats.

  Tyr picked up his drinking horn and rendered a saluteto his younger brother, but nothing more. The boisterousness of the throng was excessive enough without his participation. Certainly, Thor had accomplished a mighty feat, but to what purpose and with what intention? Had he risked himself to protect Asgard or had it been merely to indulge in the adulation he was now receiving? Thor’s exploits were indeed heroic, but they often struck Tyr as reckless and ill-conceived. Tyr understood that the triumph of today could breed the defeat of tomorrow, but he wondered if his brother took the same caution into consideration when he embarked on these ventures against the giants.

  “You look ill at ease.” The voice that spoke the words was barely a whisper, yet Tyr could hear them distinctly even through the tumult in the hall. He knew they were laced with magic to be so clear in his ears. Moreover, he recognized the speaker even before he turned his head.

  “Loki,” Tyr addressed the man who now sat beside him. He couldn’t see what had happened to the the flame-haired valkyrie who’d been there before, but now there was the lean figure of his dark-haired brother arrayed in green tunic and a golden cloak. Perhaps she’d merely been one of Loki’s disguises, for the mischievous god was ever fond of shifting his shape. Tyr often wondered if that magic contaminated his offspring and caused him to father monsters like Fenris and the world serpent Jormungand. “You’re bold to be sitting in your father’s hall after the trouble you started with the stone trolls.”

  Loki’s sharp features drew back in an impish smile and his green eyes glittered with amusement. Tyr was always struck by the almost reptilian aspect of those eyes. Maybe it wasn’t so strange he’d fathered Jormungand. “There’s always trouble with the stone trolls. All I did was to give their malice some direction and put them where Brunnhilde and the Warriors Three might intervene. The trolls will be quiet for a while now, and no harm has been done. Odin will see that soon enough.” He sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “Until then, I fear I’m here only under sufferance.” He pointed to Odin’s table and the icy tuft from Ymir’s beard. “Our brother’s mighty deeds are such that even my current disfavor isn’t enough to keep me away. Can you imagine the bravery it must have taken to do such a thing?”

  Mead rushed down Tyr’s throat as he took a long pull from the horn. He wiped the residue from his lips with his left arm. “It was a brave deed,” he told Loki. He might not like Thor’s recklessness, but he’d not have a sly tongue disparaging his courage. Any conversation with Loki was riddled with insinuations as barbed as a thorn bush. Some Asgardians found his tricky manners amusing, but Tyr wasn’t one of them.

  “To be certain,” Loki hurried to say, his tone conciliatory. “I admire what our brother has done. No coward ventures into Niffleheim.” This remark had more than a suggestion of pride wound within it, for Loki had often journeyed into the land of the ice giants in different guises. “Truly, it is no mean thing to challenge Ymir.”

  That reptilian gleam was in Loki’s eyes when he paused and stared at Tyr for a moment. “Yet I say again that you don’t appear in a celebratory mood. I have to ask myself why this might be so.” He tapped his fingers against his chest. “I admit there are times when I’ve been at strife with our brother, but I can still be happy for him when he has a great victory. All Asgard can rest easier now that the King of the Ice Giants has fallen and must regather his strength.”

  “It is a great victory,” Tyr said, but despite his caution he knew Loki had picked up on the bitterness in his tone.

  “Asgard will remember this day.” Loki nodded. “Yes, Asgard doesn’t forget its heroes.”

  “Nor its villains,” Tyr snapped. The verbal barb from Loki had pierced him like a spear, striking at the core of his dark mood. Jealousy. Petty and unseemly as the emotion was, Tyr was filled with it just the same. It had taken Loki’s nettling words to make him realize it, but he was envious of Thor’s acclaim. He felt eclipsed by this adulation of his brother.

  “I was merely trying to be understanding,” Loki protested as he rose from the table and strolled off into the crowd. The smirk on his face put a different meaning to his words. Tyr was certain that Loki appreciated the effect of his goading. The problem was, even knowing how his subconscious resentment had been stirred up by him didn’t lessen its hold.

  Tyr raised his eyes back to Odin’s table. A line of Asgardians was filing past, taking a closer look at the slab of ice and offering their gratitude to Thor for his victory over Ymir. The longer he watched the procession, the more his resentment grew. Finally, his temper moved him to march up onto the platform, pushing his way through the other Asgardians. He looked down at the tuft from Ymir’s beard, feeling its eerie chill drive back the warmth of the hall. Even this small piece of the giant exuded a baleful power. It made the magnitude of Thor’s victory undeniable and Tyr’s jealousy only worse.

  “A fine trophy, is it not, brother?” Thor bragged, his face jubilant.

  Tyr met his brother’s toast with a scowl. “It strikes me as hubris to go all the way to Niffleheim simply to play barber.”

  The caustic retort stunned those on the platform. From there, a tide of silence swept through the hall. Laughter dropped away as tension filled the air. Every ear was sharp to listen to this exchange between Odin’s sons.

  Thor tried to brush off Tyr’s remark as a jest, but he could see the sting in his eyes. “A hammer serves better than shears when the beard is made of ice,” he boasted, slapping Mjolnir with his hand.

  The effort at joviality was wasted on Tyr in his current mood. “A weapon is never a toy,” he scolded. For an instant there was a pained look on Thor’s face, then the God of Thunder’s visage turned dark with anger.

  “Because we are brothers, I’ll forgive your speech,” Thor warned.

  “Because we are brothers, I’ll speak to you as you deserve,” Tyr countered, matching Thor’s glowering gaze with his own.

  “Enough of this!” Odin roared, his fury such that the wolves scurried out from under the table and the ravens took wing. He looked over both of his sons, but it was on Tyr that his angry eye settled. “You will apologize for your rudeness,” he declared.

  Defiance welled up inside Tyr’s heart. He didn’t balk before his father’s ire. “Someone needs to remind my brother of his responsibilities.” He glanced over the crowd and raised his voice. “His obligations to Asgard. Reckless adventuring puts those he is sworn to protect at risk.” He pointed at Mjolnir. “What if Ymir had prevailed and your hammer was taken?”

  �
�Only the worthy may wield Mjolnir,” Thor retorted, pride in his voice.

  “Such is my point,” Tyr persisted. “If you had fallen to the ice giants, a powerful weapon in Asgard’s arsenal would have been lost. The realm’s defenses would be weakened.”

  “Niffleheim has long plotted to invade Asgard,” Odin reminded Tyr. “It will take Ymir a long time to recover from this defeat.”

  Tyr shook his head. “Niffleheim’s plans are only delayed. Had we fought the ice giants in battle, united against their threat, we should have made them abandon their designs. Shown them the folly of striving against us.” He turned to Thor. “Instead Ymir has been dealt another hurt to brood upon and plot his revenge.”

  “You dare question the merits of what your brother has accomplished?” Odin’s voice dropped to an angry growl.

  Tyr brought the metal cup that covered the stump of his missing hand crashing down on the slab of ice. The Uru cup sent fragments of Ymir’s beard flying in every direction. “An accomplishment without sacrifice leads to arrogance.” He held up his left arm so that everyone in the hall could see it. “The Great Wolf is yet chained in Varinheim, and its shadow no longer hangs over Asgard.”

  “But it hangs over you,” Thor snapped. “You hold fast to the glories of yesterday and cannot stir yourself to new ones. That is why you resent my feats, because you’ve lost the valor to claim new victories of your own!”

  Tyr clenched his fist, ready to plunge across the table and make his brother eat those words. Thor, for his part, was ready to meet his challenge, but Odin’s arm came down between them and pushed the younger away from the elder.

  “Must you meet Tyr’s unjust words with your own?” Odin told Thor. “His sacrifice let us subdue Fenris…”

  “And what has he done for Asgard lately?” Thor snapped. Almost instantly a look of contrition came upon his face. Tyr knew his brother would have taken back the angry words if he could. But it was too late. Repentant or not, the thrust had been made and it had pierced him to the heart.