Hammered

common—that is, why you want to kill Thor. We can move on to lighter topics from there. Agreed? «
    A general murmur of consent accompanied their nodding heads, but every visage scowled at the fire—imagining the Norse thunder god in it, no doubt.
    » Who would like to go first? « I asked.
    All five spoke at once, but four of them almost as quickly deferred when they saw Gunnar bristling, lest he begin to doubt that we thought him dominant.

Chapter 15

    The Werewolf’s Tale
    I am probably the youngest being here, with only slightly more than three centuries to my name, but it seems I have hated Thor for longer than that—though he wronged me personally only ten years ago. It is strange how raw emotions can expand time or contract it. It is stranger still how a god can cultivate a reputation for being a friend to man when he is so often an enemy—for I know that Thor has done you all a great wrong, else you would not be here. I also know that we are not the only men in the world to whom he has offered injustice. I have heard whispers and stories, rumors of casual cruelties and petty behavior. It is, perhaps, his nature to be capricious and shockingly vicious, since his body is a bottle for extremely bad weather and his will makes for a weak stopper. His sense of right and wrong is no doubt somewhat storm-tossed.
    Yet that is not an exculpatory condition. Werewolves contain ruthless predators within, and we must control our wolves if we wish to survive in the world. We must firmly adhere to pack law at all times and to mortal law where it does not conflict with pack law. Law is all that separates us from barbarism and the howling within; it is a necessary leash on our darker natures. The same should be true of gods. As we are subject to law and order, they should be also. We hear in tales that their justice is administered by a supreme god, if at all. But it is never commensurate to the crime, while the punishments they deal out to mortals are often excessive and eternal. I think it is time a god received his comeuppance.
    To appreciate fully what Thor did to me, I must take you back to Iceland in the year 1705.
    In that time I was a courier and peddler. I circuited the island in the summers, delivering messages and doing a little trade out of my pack, sharing news and providing some isolated farmers the sense that they were not alone in the world. Often they were just as glad to see me as I was to see them. I got free room and board for the gossip in my head, and they had the opportunity to reconnect with friends and relatives by entrusting me with a letter for a small bit of coin or provisions for my horse.
    The visit I made to Hnappavellir farm that summer changed my life. Most of the household was out in the field; the only person at the farmhouse was a girl named Rannveig Ragnarsdóttir, nineteen years old and disaffected with rural existence. She had hair like summer wheat and a soft blush to her cheeks when she smiled. When I arrived, she was wrestling with a ball of dough in the kitchen, flour on her dress and completely unprepared for company. My presence flustered her as she tried to remember manners she’d learned long ago but had never practiced until now. I thought her completely lovely, and once we were seated with drinks and talking across a table, she thought my humble existence was somehow romantic and adventurous. The way she looked at me began to change after a few minutes; she became flirtatious, and I admit that I encouraged her. I had not known a woman’s touch in weeks. Before long, she was suggesting a short excursion to look for lost sheep. She packed some dried strips of meat and some biscuits along with a blanket, then selected a mare from the stables and led me to what is now Skaftafell National Park. There was a special place there, she said, that I should see. It was a waterfall called Svartifoss that tumbled over black columns of volcanic basalt, which had slowly cooled and crystallized into hexagonal shapes. It was a place of dark, musical beauty, and after the sun went down she said she wanted to have me there. I let her.
    There were few escapes to be had in Rannveig’s life. Twenty people lived at Hnappavellir, most of them related, and there was nothing for a young girl to do in such a situation except be obedient. I was supposed to be a happy interlude, quickly enjoyed and long savored afterward, and I understood that and was grateful for it.
    She was ravenous in her