Mirror of the Gods, page 1
Written by S.E. Mattison
© 2022 All rights reserved.
Published by Wild Lark Books
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Young Adult | Fantasy
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Mirror of the Gods
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Mirror of the Gods
Vol. 1 of the Vanir Saga
S.E. Mattison
Wild Lark Books
To the man who made this all possible.
Look, Dad. I did it.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
About the Author
Prologue
1525 CE
As the sun rose over the horizon, it bathed the battlefield in an ethereal crimson glow. Two opposing forces stood facing each other, neither daring to move, neither daring to start the fighting and bloodshed before it was absolutely necessary. Each soldier’s breath was visible, coming out in small white puffs of mist in the frigid morning air.
The smell of apprehension permeated the atmosphere, thickening it and tainting the soft breeze that caressed every boy and man as they shook in their boots, reminding them that if they fell once the battle began, they would never look again upon the faces of their loved ones.
In the past few centuries, war had developed faster than anyone could have imagined. Wooden bows and swords moved aside for the new and exotic weapons that used black powder.
Gunpowder.
And with this sandy black substance, and the new machinery that used it, grew the lengths to which all men were willing to go to gain the upper hand against their enemies. Their old suits of armor no longer protected them. The small metal balls propelled by this explosive gunpowder too easily pierced it. Wood shattered, muscles tore, and war became even bloodier.
No one could tell where the first shot had come from. Perhaps someone had twitched in fear or agitation and accidentally pulled the trigger. There was a brief hesitation from both sides, and then, as if suddenly remembering where they were, the barrage of gunshots began. The crack of each shot echoed around the hillside, and the small plumes of smoke coated the battleground in a thin haze of gray. It didn’t take long for their guns to be cast aside and swords or knives to be drawn. Battle cries rose over the ritornello of war as the two sides collided in a crescendo of clashing bodies.
At the crest of one of the surrounding hills, with the dense forest at their backs, four hooded figures watched with distaste, with disapproval. When they had waged war for the first time, those many years ago, the test of a warrior’s strength was not the precision of his aim but the force of the swing of his sword.
“Disgraceful,” one muttered, finally shifting on his feet. His dark cloak fluttered as he pushed it aside and settled his hand on the broadsword strapped to his hip.
“They only wish to advance their warfare and technology to best their enemies. We have seen it countless times,” another said, sliding his tawny, almost gold eyes toward his brother.
“They only think they need such things. We know well enough just how effective the weapons of old can be.” The third, and shortest figure’s sharp grin reminded her brothers of the lion’s tooth necklace she liked to wear on special occasions.
“The tide of the battle is changing,” the last of the small group said in a low, smooth voice. The other three turned to look at their eldest sister. As she pushed back the hood of her cloak, the sun illuminated her.
Mordira was tall—incredibly tall—and exuded power even as she did nothing more than stand. Her mass of wheat-blond hair was braided intricately and pulled away from her face, showcasing her sharp, aristocratic cheekbones and a regal jaw. A thin white scar split one of her eyebrows, marring the otherwise seamless expanse of her pale skin. Her nose was slightly crooked from being broken, but it only added to the dangerous beauty of her being.
Her cornflower blue eyes, as sharp as the sword strapped to her back, never strayed from the battlefield.
“Is it time?” the shorter woman asked her sister, letting her own hood fall back as well. Her warm brown eyes, glittered with anticipation. Jeger’s own thick, black hair was tightly braided in box-like sections adorned with gold clasps.
She turned her searing smile toward Mordira, the quick flash of white teeth accentuating the bronze glow of her cheeks. Glittering gold war paint had been carefully applied to her rich, umber skin, a stark but exotic contrast that had made many men before eye her with interest and desire.
Mordira’s lips twitched as she glanced at her sister. “Yes, I believe it is, Jeger.”
Jeger’s grin became purely feral as she yanked the cloak off her shoulders and dropped it unceremoniously to the ground.
She turned to her brothers, raising a black brow. “Well?”
The figure who had spoken first rolled his eyes—the color of freshly tilled earth—and shrugged off his cloak. Ridder was the tallest of them all, with the athletic build of a warrior. His wavy, mahogany hair barely brushed the collar of his tunic.
“Come now, Jeger, when have I ever refused a battle?” A sly, easy grin danced across his devastatingly handsome face. His olive skin glowed effortlessly in the rising sun. Ridder was the type of man noble ladies—indeed, women of any class—would swoon over, and he enjoyed every moment of it.
The ear-splitting cry of a bird above them drew their attention. They lifted their eyes to see the large raptor soaring across the now blue early morning sky. Kreager, the second eldest, lifted his forearm.
The eagle’s sharp talons flashed in the sun as it dove and landed almost silently on the leather arm guard that Kreager was never without.
“You never refuse a battle, even when it is detrimental to your own health.” Kreager’s voice soft and deep. He stroked the backs of his fingers over the preening gold eagle.
“Enough banter. Ridder, your swords had better be as sharp and quick as your wit,” Mordira said flatly.
Her brother twirled his twin curved blades. “They are, sister.”
The siblings, different in appearance but all of one heart, readied themselves to join the battle. Mordira drew her sword from its scabbard and gave her brothers and sister one last look.
“Until Valhalla.”
With a flash of her blade, she was down the hill, disappearing into the chaos. For a moment, the remaining three watched as their leader plunged into a fight that was not her own, fighting with the grace and poise of a flowing stream. A quiet force inside her allowed her to swing her sword so effortlessly that she could cut down anyone in her path.
Mordira didn’t need to see them to know her siblings had made their way down the hill, joining in the fray. Shouts of confusion, shock, and terror rippled through the thinning forces and reached her. This was her element. Their element. War was in their blood, in their very being. But they were bound by honor, tradition, and duty to uphold all that was good and right with the world. Their job as the Vanir, guardians of the natural order and of humanity, was to protect the world from the human condition. They had learned quickly that the people of this realm, of this time and any other, would do what was in their own best interest regardless of who it hurt.
Humans needed protection from themselves.
Kreager appeared beside her, arching his arm so his curved sword sli
“I will keep your back protected, sister,” he said. His long black braid had become slightly disheveled, and a small splatter of blood lay across his sun-kissed skin. His silver medallion swung from its heavy chain with each jerk and move he made.
Mordira nodded to him and turned her attention back to the fighting. The side they were helping had finally realized they were not a threat. Jeger flashed across her line of sight, wielding her battle-axe with deadly precision and a speed that seemed impossible for someone so small. She truly embodied her title: the huntress. Her black braids whipped around as she dropped to the ground and rolled, avoiding a spear that streaked through the air toward her. With a snap of her teeth and a loud growl, she rose, taking the spear from where it had embedded itself into the ground. It took no effort for her to rear back and send the spear flying again, except this time it easily met its intended target, ending the man’s life in the blink of an eye.
Ridder danced across the blood-soaked battlefield, his brown eyes darkened to black and his usual playful smile replaced by a firm scowl. A man charged at him, clutching a knife. Ridder threw his head back, and his booming laugh echoed across the field. The man was so stunned at such a reaction that he paused. Stumbled. Ridder wasted no time, bringing both his arms swinging down in an X that cleaved the man’s head from his body.
The Vanir took no pleasure in taking lives. However, for the good of humanity, and their world, it was a necessary evil.
A sharp burning pain exploded across Mordira’s abdomen, and she faltered. Her knees hit the ground hard, one hand coming out to keep herself from collapsing further. The frozen grass felt soft compared to the pain that now pulsed through her body. She could hear the outraged cry of Kreager behind her and the dull thud of a body hitting the frozen earth.
Gentle hands clasped her shoulder, turning her so she sat on the ground, staring up into the face of her younger brother.
“Stay still. This will only take a moment.” Kreager’s brow was furrowed in concentration, his tawny eyes taking in her injury. He moved both hands over her gunshot wound. They were larger than Mordira’s but just as rough and worn. He closed his eyes, his mouth in a firm line. For a moment, nothing happened.
Onlookers watched in confusion as the two warriors sat there with closed eyes. Blood seeped between the man’s fingers, and the woman barely flinched, until the necklace he wore began to glow a bright, almost blinding, blue. The light radiated from behind the carvings and images of the medallion.
Suddenly the wound was bathed in light as well. Mordira shifted on the ground, her knuckles white as she gripped the massive sword she wielded. It couldn’t have been more than a few moments before Kreager removed his hands. He inspected her wound, now closed. A soft pink scar. He nodded. Pushing herself to her feet, Mordira surveyed the now still battlefield.
“They seem to have finished without us,” she quipped, glancing at Kreager with a bland look on her face. Her brother gave a low, easy chuckle and threw his arm around her shoulder. The winning forces were too wrapped up in attending to their own wounded, or simply sitting in shock, to acknowledge the two Vanir leaving the battleground.
“Do they not always behave in such a way?” he asked.
Mordira shook her head, eyeing their two younger siblings as they bickered about who had done better. She lifted her head to the sky, noting the sun’s position and the silhouette of Kreager’s eagle circling the battlefield.
“Let us return now!” Ridder called, shining his deviously handsome smile at his siblings. Jeger, beside him, hopped from foot to foot, a bundle of adrenaline and energy. Their horses stood waiting just beyond the edge of the tree line.
Mordira glanced at her brothers and sister before nodding solemnly. “To Vanaheim, then.”
Swinging up into the saddles of their mounts, the four Vanir vanished into the forest, starting their journey toward the snow-covered mountains of home, and leaving no trace of their existence behind.
Chapter One
1525 CE
Norway
Nicholas could not remember a time when he had been this furious, this worried, or this ashamed. His wife of only a year had disappeared in the dead of night, leaving with her so-called siblings, all in their own unique leather armor. Mordira was heading into battle. And she would not tell him why—simply that she would return in a few days’ time. Nicholas had gaped at her, astounded by her firm command that he stay behind, that he watch over their newborn daughter.
Never in their brief marriage had her aloof demeanor been turned on him. He was her lord husband was he not? Hadn’t he been taking care of their domain, ruling fairly and justly? Or did she really expect him to take on the role of maintaining the household, like a wife?
He was a noble’s son, and he’d been just years away from becoming a member of the king’s court when she found him, almost frozen and barely clinging to life.
Nicholas had been tasked with bringing correspondence to the monarch of Norway, King Frederick I of Denmark. He wasn’t familiar with the land, or the people, and on the road to Oslo, he had been attacked by bandits. Despite being a seasoned warrior and fighter, he was determined not to die on foreign soil before returning to his beloved England. So he fled. Three men pursued him through thick forests and over rocky ground. He could still feel the horrible sting of the air in his throat and lungs, could still hear his horse snorting in exhaustion, could still feel the clenching of his stomach as dread and fear froze his blood.
The bandits had chased him straight up the slope of a mountain. But then their faces paled with fear, and they turned tail, abandoning their prey. Nicholas simply thanked God.
He slid, exhausted from his horse. The mount bolted the second he let go of the reins. Nicholas sank to his knees in the snow, stranded on an endless mountainside. Rather than take his chances going back down, the quickest way out would be to climb over the mountain and go down where the bandits would not think to look for him.
He climbed for hours. His fingers were numb, his toes, his face. The moment his legs refused to move, he knew he had made a grave mistake. Nicholas was too tired to be afraid. He should have risked the bandits. He should have gone down instead of up.
Pushing his legs a few more steps, he acknowledged that he didn’t have much longer. The snow cushioned his fall. He lay there, eyelids drooping, skin numb, staring up at the gray sky, praying for God’s forgiveness for his past greed and pride, and for a painless death.
And then like the answer to his prayers, she appeared. Like a Norse queen, stepping out of the stories his father had told him as a young boy. Only her eyes were visible first, a firm, solid, fathomless blue. Then she tugged down the cloth covering that had hidden the lower half of her face. Had she come down from the heavens to usher him into the arms of his Lord and Savior? A few blond strands escaped the thick fur hood shielding her from the bitterly cold wind. But it wasn’t until she spoke that he realized she was there, and real.
“Are you hurt?”
Her voice was as firm as her eyes, and her mouth was set in a hard line. Maybe it was the way the cold had slowed his heart that kept him from fearing her. His own voice evaded him, his throat raw and aching, so he merely shook his head. She seemed content with the answer and stooped to lift his arm over her shoulder.
***
He woke in the largest bed he’d ever laid eyes on, draped in furs and thick wool blankets, and naked as the day he was born.
Struggling to push himself up into a sitting position, he looked around the room. The walls were made of abnormally large gray stones, all cobbled together. Thick wooden beams supported a vaulted ceiling, and each support bore intricately woven carvings that intertwined in a multitude of different ways. Across from the bed, a fire cracked and popped in a massive stone hearth, bathing the room in soft golden light.
