House of Magnusson

PROLOGUE: 

Devastation. The cry of the fallen shatters the frosty stillness: The anthem to my failure. Their stench, gods. Ice streaked blood seeps into earth, from whence we came. Even Jörð would cry. Seiðr was useless, and my ashen-spear lays in hand like a limp plaything. Only Magnussons can see the future. Only Magnussons can change it.

I smell blood. A live human being. A rare sight in this bloodbath. Seiðr sorcerers have a sixth sense from birth. I jog over and crouch. Breaths are tight, jagged. Probably middle aged.

I crouch. Iverson. The disease that has plagued and tainted my family name for ten miserable years.

Raised by the gods, they say. Wields Odin’s Gungnir and manipulates Seiðr energy with his bare hands. The scar on his left cheek what happens when you rebel against the gods.

Loathe isn’t strong enough.

“You’re a disgrace to our house, young sorcerer…if I can even call you that. To wield Seiðr is a Magnusson’s greatest power. Yet your rudimentary. Seiðr -wielding sent your whole army to Valhalla.

I had bad feelings, bad dreams . Your mother wouldn’t listen. The dreams, the omens, the spirits I saw watched fled at your presence.

Forbannaðr: Thrice cursed.

Your cursed heritage wouldn’t allow you to wield Seiðr. I foresaw this, but my brother…he loved you too much. That’s why I always tell you, Bjorn:

“Ást er sótt”. Love is a sickness.

Being cursed doesn’t dull the edge of a knife. Iverson, I’ll kill you where you lay.

A child is born unto you,

His Seiðr strong and true,

To the Magnusson the power is new,

But the origins lie among you.

Iverson will bring glory

Or defeat,

He will save or make the unsaved to suffer.

They call him the hundred-eyed,

He has a seventh sense. Time is all encompassing.

It’s direction is never hidden from him.

Take ye what ye will, for his sight may bless you or,

Or damn your generations.

Spákonan hefir mælt.

The prophetess has spoken.

Harald Björn Magnusson, Age 16

Status: Still not king.

Seriously? I thought I was an only child. I guess a eight year gap isn’t horrific. If you haven’t realised, I’m just two.

Magnussons are blessed with the highest intellectual gifts from Loki. You’re mind is sharp as Odin’s sword. Grandma always made sure I knew.

I had been pampered as the heir to the throne. Silver plates, gives, and a lot of tutorship. As a future warrior and King of Norway, I have undergone a year of rigorous training in Norse history, geography, and military strategy. My weapon of choice for battle is my trusty stafr: A dense wooden club with metal spikes injected with the lethal poison of the Daphne berry. Not to be messed with. Norweigan terrain is rough, so swimming and marathon running have made up the large portion of my early mornings, and a good majority of that time is spent running from wolves or trying to bring one back with me to the palace. I am eight after all. I like fluffy things.

Iverson Kraki-Magnusson, Age 8

Status: I hate this place.It’s exhausting. Spirits haunt my dreams all night. I see my brother. Bjorn is getting mauled by a rabid green eyed bear, teeth bared. The prophetesses speak: A curse, a curse, a curse. Forbannaðr: Thrice cursed.

Eight years old and I can’t even get a full night of sleep. Most days I’m too weak to even leave my quarters. Luckily, my raven T’amir keeps me company. I think she’s an oracle, but I haven’t asked her for a prophecy. At night those eyes glow a deathly green, and summon all the spirits of the forest into my room for a few seconds of madness.

I’ve always been stunted in growth, barely four foot. Most days I’m too sick to eat, or I just sleep through meals”

“Iverson, eat.” My mother would say. But to no avail. I only ate what was from the forest, I only ate what T’amir would bring me from the forest. Food is sacred. I was sacred. I was a Forbannaðr: Thrice cursed.

Forbannaðr: Thrice cursed.

Seiðr -wielding prodigy. That, combined with an intense training schedule and sleep paralysis, was a recipe for a malnourished, pale, scrawny sorcerer. Bjorn always made fun of me. He was a brute. Broad shoulders and a back rippling with muscle, and begrudgingly I had to admit he was growing a fine mane of hair.

I envied him. But I was a stronger warrior than him, faster, more agile and acorobatic. He was a more ground-based fighter. His style was sheer power and big swings with that wretched stafr.

I loved Bjorn. But he kept me up at night. My brother was Forbannaðr, thriced cursed. Magnusson’s finest warrior was about to be the bane of their existence. The words of the prophecy ran through my mind: (I had innate prophetic knowledge without having heard the words spoken)

Take ye what ye will, for his sight may bless you or,

Or damn your generations.

BJORN, AGE 20.

It wasn’t meant to be this difficult to fight a twelve year old about five feet tall and half as wide. I slashed. He dodged. I countered. He parried. Flying kick. He bent backwards into a bridge effortlessly beneath my foot. With a wry smile on his face, he said “Do you really want to do this, brother? You haven’t bested me in sparring since he were children.”

The dwarf hadn’t broken a sweat. I wiped my locks from my face. I was beginning to get very agitated, and so was the crowd. The council of elders had decided that my brother’s presence was slowing down my training to become King. It called for aneinvígi: A one-on-one duel. And I was losing horribly. The room was lit perfectly in the center. All eyes were on the brothers. He danced effortlessly around the fighting ground. He didn’t eat, and it showed. He could jump, climb and weave between any space. I made one last grunting effort with my club, pushing all my 100kg of body mass into my swing. A grubby hand grabbed the club before me. No one was immune to the Daphne Berrie.

Iverson looked up, and then down at his hand. Even he was slightly confused. Any moment that showcased his great power was customarily bad for business. His hand slumped to his side. Spit and blood everywhere. Iverson began to convulse violently on the ground, his arms and legs flailing like a madman. His eyes rolled into his head and took on their customary emerald gaze. The spirits of the forest had overtaken him.

A raspy voice, thick with honey, spoke:

The prophecy. The prophecy. It hurts my soul. I can’t bear it. Stop it now. It needs to stop. I can’t function like this. I want to be normal. A thousand screams tore from my brother’s straining throat: An incandescent green inferno engulfs the room, reflecting in every direction. The same colour has captured Iverson’s eyes, which are seem to be set in cold, bottle green stone. Our physicians haven’t prepared for this type of emergency. And judging by the tears that fall down Iverson’s slowly paling face, I don’t think he was prepared either.

…