"Camp Medical Officer Skara is in that building. Report to him." Kor pointed to a small wooden house nearby.
Haldryn nodded and went.
A knock.
"Enter."
Inside, a refined, lean middle-aged man sat reviewing documents. Papers of every sort covered the desk in mild disorder. A camp medical officer's duties extended well beyond battlefield medicine.
"Officer Skara, I am the new medic, Haldryn Garrison." He presented his papers.
Skara glanced through them, then rose, rummaged in a wooden chest, and handed over a thin volume titled Third Camp Regulations, a key, and a dagger.
"The key is to your room—number's on it. The eastern barracks house the medical staff.
"The dagger is for self-defense. The Skraelings raid the camp regularly. Patrols handle most of them, but accidents happen. If they ever reach the interior we have to be ready."
Mid-sentence Skara paused, eyes settling on Verigan's Fist. His brow furrowed. "A warhammer?"
"A gift from a friend. For defense."
"That is no ordinary weapon. I can feel the magical resonance—flame, if I'm not mistaken. Your friend is generous."
He added, "Combat is not a medic's duty. Fine hammer or not, stay behind the warriors whenever possible. Clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Go." Skara returned to his seat without looking up.
Haldryn found the medical barracks—a three-story wooden building. Vanaheim's forests produced abundant timber, so most structures here were built of wood.
He located the second-floor room matching the key and stepped inside. The space was small: a single bed took half the floor, a table and chair most of the rest. A window opened onto one wall.
Leaning on the sill he looked out across endless green forest and rolling mountain ranges. Birds he had never seen wheeled overhead—some enormous, some brilliantly colored.
Unlike the strange celestial body that was Asgard, Vanaheim was a conventional planet, vast and diverse. The Vanir were only the strongest of many races, the dominant "gods" of the realm.
Alongside them lived numerous other peoples, including intelligent ones: ordinary Vanir, Skraelings, Trolls, Krunans, and more.
This was Vanaheim.
"Hey—new arrival?" The door stood open. A blond youth leaned in the opposite doorway.
He looked young, perhaps only a few decades old, possibly still underage by Aesir standards.
"Yes."
The youth walked over. "I'm Sigurd, also a medic. What's your name?"
"Haldryn. I heard this is a mixed camp. Why haven't I seen any Vanir?"
Sigurd laughed. "You think they look different? The Vanir and the Aesir share the same ancestors.
"No difference at all?"
"None except culture." He shrugged. "We're both god-races with common blood. Pick any man in the camp at random and you won't know whether he's Aesir or Vanir until you speak with him."
Haldryn nodded.
"God-race" was a broad term for powerful peoples, yet it also carried more specific criteria—criteria that remained contested.
According to the dominant Aesir-Vanir definition, a true god-race possessed high intelligence, a measure of benevolence, a body strong enough to survive in the vacuum of space, and no glaring physical weakness.
By that standard the frost giants and the dark elves were excluded. Naturally they rejected the definition and advanced their own.
The real reason the Aesir had stripped them of the title had less to do with morality—judgments of character were always subjective—than with obvious physical defects.
Frost giants could not endure heat; dark elves could not endure light. The latter fear was so severe that ordinary dark elves were forced to wear specialized masks and armor simply to keep the light at bay. Exposure to open daylight was a trial only their strongest dared attempt.
Because of those flaws their claim to godhood had long since withered.
The Aesir and Vanir, by contrast, possessed no such crippling vulnerabilities. They adapted to nearly any environment.
"How long have you been on Vanaheim?" Haldryn asked.
"Almost a year. I heard the herbs here were plentiful and the danger low, so I came."
"And the reality?"
"The herbs are everything they promised—look out the window and you can see it. Plants everywhere. Safety, though… or comfort… is another matter."
Haldryn raised an eyebrow. "Are the Skraelings that strong?"
"No. They're weak. Strength and intelligence no better than a fifteen-year-old Asgardian. I can handle them easily.
"But there are so many of them. You can never kill them all. And they're disgusting—I've never seen humanoids so foul."
His face twisted at some memory.
"All I can say is this: from soul to flesh, the Skraelings are pure filth and corruption."
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