The next morning—barely after sunrise—the four nordic gods stood in the middle of a vast field of earth and grass. Eight towering totems ringed the improvised coliseum, each carved as a different animal, enclosing the arena like sentinels. Around them rose seating for hundreds of spectators, protected behind oak barricades.

  At the northern end of the field stood an altar-like structure—the highest platform in the place. Upon it rested a throne, and behind the throne was a wall painted in orange, red, and black, covered in geometric patterns and stylized human faces.

  Before the altar, men dressed in animal pelts pounded drums with savage force. Behind them, the figure on the throne wore an enormous wooden raven mask that covered his entire face. Dark wings fanned out from his back, and his body was layered in black feathers and the fur of some wild beast. He sat perfectly still. Beside him stood several men and women in similar attire—among them, the goddess Dzelarhons.

  Dzelarhons stepped forward to the railing that protected the raised altar. At the opposite side, another man in the same style of garb took position.

  She began shouting imperiously in the Haida tongue. The man beside her translated her words for the gods of Asgard.

  “People of Haida Gwaii,” the translator declared, “you shall witness the judgment of these demons who trespassed into our lands and slew our brave warriors!”

  He continued, projecting her words. “Will they survive the trials of this Potlatch and become our slaves—or will our warriors flay them and mutilate them alive? Soon we shall know!”

  The crowd erupted into jeers. Stones flew toward the gods.

  “There you go, Thor,” Freyja muttered, forcing a smile toward the stands though irritation burned in her eyes. “They won’t even give us a path to win. If we survive, we’re slaves—if we don’t, we die.”

  “You scared, Freyja?” Thor drawled, sarcastic as hell.

  “No,” she snapped, eyes narrowing into something vicious. “I just can’t wait to kill every last one of these bastards.”

  “I have a proposal,” Tyr cut in.

  “Oh?” Freyja asked, intrigued despite herself. “What is it, meow?”

  “We fight without our totemas,” Tyr said. “And we show these idiots how powerful we can be.”

  The gods nodded, enduring the humiliation as the crowd kept mocking them.

  Then Dzelarhons and the translator turned toward the throne. They bowed deeply—and the entire audience fell silent and rose to their feet.

  “Great and almighty Y’aahl,” Dzelarhons said, prostrate before the raven-clad figure, “who brought the sun and light into this world—your people are grateful for the love you show your progeny. We pray these sacrifices are worthy of your magnanimity.”

  A heavy silence smothered the arena. Everyone remained bowed.

  Then the one on the throne lifted a hand.

  The drummers struck harder—faster—more violently. The crowd exploded into clapping and shouting again.

  Dzelarhons turned back toward the Asgardians and shouted once more.

  “Our lord Y’aahl has foretold the death of these demons at the hands of our warriors,” the translator relayed.

  Four men vaulted into the arena from behind the spectator wall.

  They were nearly identical—skeletal thin, wearing only red-and-black loincloths. Their faces were painted in red and black; their hair was tied into small knots that made them look almost bald.

  “What are these?” Tyr asked.

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  “Looks like valkyrie-level ?,” Freyr answered with a smile.

  “These people are really underestimating us,” Freyja hissed, fury flashing across her face.

  “Told ya,” Thor said, grinning. “They think they’re the biggest dogs ‘round here… but there’s always a bigger bear in the woods.”

  “Damn you!” Dzelarhons shouted at the Norse gods in the divine tongue, thrusting out a hand. “These are our Sgana Qedas—humans who can become beasts. You will die devoured. It is the will of our great lord Y’aahl!”

  The drums thundered again as the four men began to change—bones shifting, flesh swelling, forms twisting into wildness.

  A bear. An eagle. An owl. A wolf.

  Each beast was enormous—far larger than any natural creature. The bear alone looked twice the size of a normal one.

  “Begin!” Dzelarhons shouted in Haida.

  The bear and wolf lunged for the gods, while the eagle and owl swept behind them.

  “They attack with animals,” Tyr laughed. “They don’t know we’re the finest hunters in the universe.”

  Thor launched himself straight at the giant bear’s face and drove a lightning-loaded punch into it. The impact was so brutal it hurled the beast across the field into the oak barricade, sending spectators scrambling in panic.

  Freyr fired a spear of light into the owl’s eyes. Its gaze bled; it dropped like a stone, unconscious.

  Freyja sprang toward the bald eagle as it dove at her, and with a flying kick she smashed it into the stands, causing chaos as it crashed into the crowd.

  Finally, Tyr offered his arm to the wolf—almost inviting it.

  The wolf snapped down—

  —and its teeth shattered on contact.

  “You’re not even remotely Fenrir,” Tyr said coldly, “the one who tore off my other arm.”

  With his arm still inside the beast’s jaws, Tyr swung and threw it toward the altar where the raven-god sat on his throne.

  But before it could strike the throne, Dzelarhons caught it with her bare hand and stopped it dead.

  “As you can see, Haida people!” Thor shouted at full volume. “Your warriors ain’t got a chance against us! We don’t want scraps! We came to fight the strongest gods and show who we are—the toughest warriors in this whole fuckin' universe!”

  The crowd booed even harder. They didn’t understand his words, but they understood the insult—and the humiliation of seeing their champions crushed.

  Dzelarhons glared with fury as she let the Sgana Qedas—now reverting to human—drop lifelessly onto the grass.

  Then she noticed movement above.

  Y’aahl rose from his throne and stepped forward, standing just before her. The raven-masked god looked down toward Thor and the others.

  “Foreign men!” Y’aahl roared in the divine tongue. “I have not seen warriors as powerful as you in a long time. I am intrigued to see how far you can go in our Potlatch.”

  “So that’s their leader,” Tyr said, thrilled, fingers drifting toward Tyrfing’s hilt.

  Thor stopped him immediately.

  “We came a long way to fight the strongest man in this region—and I figure that’s you!” Thor shouted up at the raven-masked god. “Why don’t ya come down here and show us what you’re made of?”

  The crowd erupted again—booing, screaming in outrage. They didn’t need translation to know it was disrespect.

  “Kill them!” they chanted in Haida, voices merging into one.

  “Congratulations, Thor,” Freyja said dryly. “Now they hate us more”

  “Does that bother you?” Tyr asked.

  “Not at all” Freyja’s smile turned predatory. “Now I won’t feel even a speck of pity when we make this place a bloodbath.”

  Behind the raven mask, Y’aahl began to laugh.

  “You truly have the nerve to speak to me that way,” he said. “But do not despair. You have won today’s battle. Tomorrow, a new challenge will face you.”

  “Hope it ain’t another disappointment like this one,” Thor said with a grin.

  Ten days passed after that first clash.

  Each day, the gods of Asgard faced the arena’s trials—and crushed them without difficulty. Even under the anti-divinity suppressors, they were simply too strong.

  But on the tenth day, they were ordered to build a boat using logs.

  The vessel had to be defended against enemy warships in an artificial lake created within the combat field itself.

  The gods—terrible builders—produced a mediocre craft that barely floated. There, the four of them, wearing their totemas, were forced to defend the flimsy boat against four gigantic ships crewed by Sgana Qedas, who attacked with rope-tethered stones and volleys of arrows.

  “If your ship sinks,” Dzelarhons declared—personally commanding one of the enemy ships—“it will be considered a defeat.”

  The other three ships were led by three other gods:

  Kaiti, Dzelarhons’s husband, wrapped in an enormous bear robe;

  and T’axet and Tia, two grim deities wearing masks that resembled opossums.

  “We can’t lose,” Thor said at last, his voice suddenly serious. “Or she dies.”

  “I get that, Thor,” Tyr said, deflecting a cluster of arrows with Tyrfing. “But you know the girl, then?”

  “Is she one of the girls you rescued in Denmeow?” Freyja asked, dodging another stone with a sharp kick.

  “I think so,” Thor answered, eyes narrowed. “When I saw her, she was unconscious—bleedin’. I’m sure Athena’s people gotta be here by now.”

  Then everyone saw it.

  A woman was bound to a post in front of where Y’aahl sat upon his throne, watching the naval slaughter below. Soldiers guarded her—armed with those horrifying wooden armors and helmets carved into human faces.

  She was unconscious. Her clothing was torn: a brown coat made of bear and sheep hide, dark trousers beneath it, and furred boots.

  It was none other than Epona.

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  The next part will be released tomorrow.