They marched in silence. While Halfdan had questions, he preferred to stay alert for now rather than be distracted by talk; Sif seemed subdued with the presence of a stranger in their company. As for Freydis, perhaps she was by nature the quiet type. The silence was only broken by a bird’s cry coming from above, leading them forward.
They finally spoke as dusk approached and it became relevant to find shelter for the night. “I see buildings,” Sif told them, pointing at silhouettes in the distance.
“I would argue we should avoid others until we can observe them first,” Freydis declared. “We never know who we’ll meet.”
“I think they’re abandoned,” Sif continued. “I don’t see any people or animals.”
Halfdan narrowed his eyes, trying to distinguish what lay ahead. “We are in need of provisions. Water, if nothing else. We may have to chance it.”
Freydis looked at them and shrugged. “So be it.”
*
Moving closer provided a few answers and more questions. As presumed, the homestead was abandoned, long ago. But the reasons were unclear. The structures had fallen into disrepair, and both the stables and barn had animal bones picked clean by scavengers. Another building had been burnt to the ground. The courtyard was empty except for a well; a bucket lay against its wall, reminding Halfdan briefly of his sojourn into Urd’s Well. The longhouse itself was intact, if also dilapidated. As the berserker peered inside, he saw smashed furniture strewn about the place. Broken benches, a table torn into half and thrown aside, pieces of pottery, and rotten fabric hanging like curtains to cover the sleeping alcoves. Evidence of a fight, but no bodies or weapons.
“Strange place,” he muttered, and the sound of his own voice felt odd to hear. Above him, the raven gave its coarse cry. He turned to the others. “Still, it has water and shelter.”
Freydis nodded, leaning her spear against the well to pick up the bucket.
*
Soon after, they had made themselves home inside the longhouse. Despite its abandoned state, it was dry and provided protection against rain and wind. The broken furniture served as fuel for the fireplace in the middle. Sif had found a cauldron, which now boiled water in the cooking fire; with a few of Freydis’ supplies, it would provide them with a meagre soup.
Sitting on one side, Halfdan looked at their newest companion across the flames. It was time for information. “How did you arrive here? To this realm?”
“Same as you, I presume. A gate through a lake.”
Sif nodded in confirmation. “We did.”
“And do you have the power to open one?” Halfdan thought of the goei at Odinsvi, who had done so.
“Alas, I do not. Another of my order had to do it for me.”
A disappointed expression ran across the berserker’s face. He had considered that the most valuable reason for letting the gyeja join them, and now it proved false. “So what skills do you possess, priestess of Freya?” It was considered uncouth to inquire into someone else’s gift in such a direct manner, but Halfdan had neither temper nor time for politeness.
“My story is different from other priestesses,” Freydis began by saying. Sif placed her head in her hands, looking at her expectantly; as for Halfdan, he crossed his arms, waiting in silence. “I grew up on the streets of Heieabyr. No goei awakened me. When my gift came, it was thievery and trickery. I was a pickpocket.” Her expression turned to a thin smile before she continued. “I take no pride in admitting this, nor will I feel shame. I did what was necessary to survive.”
Halfdan would not judge her either, but he did want the full story. “How did a thief end up in J?tunheim?”
“A priestess of Freya took pity on me. I won’t bore you with the details. Harsh winter, starving girlchild, trying to steal food from a temple…” Freydis shrugged. “Suffice to say, I ended up staying much longer than anticipated at that shrine. I eventually chose to devote myself to the goddess, and she gave me her blessing.”
“That’s like Halfdan. He’s a berserker, but Odin blessed him!”
The man in question looked at Sif with a growling sound in his throat.
“Perhaps let Halfdan decide when and who should hear about his gift,” Freydis suggested.
“So you know how to empty pockets and vanish into shadows,” Halfdan spoke, eager to steer the conversation back to the previous topic. “What else? What has the goddess bestowed onto you?”
Freydis looked at him directly; more than that, she stared at him with her green eyes while her fingers played with an auburn lock of hair resting against her shoulder. “How to gaze into the hearts of Men and know what they desire.” For a moment, he sat dumbfounded, until she laughed. “And what has Odin gifted you, Halfdan, warrior of the bear?”
“Nothing but trouble,” came the muttered response. This elicited further laughter, and Halfdan wondered if sorcery lay in the sound, enchanting as it seemed. “But since we are discussing the matter,” he brusquely said, “you should know how berserkers fight.”
Freydis rubbed her throat that still bore the marks of Halfdan’s hand. “I have an inkling.”
He felt a pang of guilt at the violence he had inflicted on her, even if she had invited it in the first place. “You need to know,” he continued in the same tone of voice. “Once I fight with the rage, I don’t stop until the fight is won. No matter who is around. If I give the signal…” He gave Sif a look of expectation.
“We hide and don’t come out until the fight is over!” she hurried to say with a proud smile.
“I can’t speak to your safety otherwise,” Halfdan finished.
The smile that played around Freydis’ lips could hold a variety of meanings, all of them difficult to discern. “I thank you for your concern. I’ll consider my safety my own responsibility, then.” She turned her head to look at the door behind her. “That in mind, I’ll take a quick walk around the grounds before going to sleep. Just in case all our talk has attracted attention.” She got up, grabbed her spear, and left.
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*
“Tell me, little skáld, what do you think of our new companion?”
“She seems… interesting.” Sif shrugged, though Halfdan had noticed a look of admiration once or twice from the girl towards the woman. “She has skills we don’t. I’ve never met any like her.”
“Nor I,” Halfdan mumbled. He did not fault Sif if she found Freydis alluring; compared to the peasant women back in Randaros, Freydis seemed more impressive on all counts. And for a child who lost her mother not long ago, the attention of someone older might be appealing.
“What do you think of her?”
Halfdan could barely remember his own parents; his experiences with Ylva, the berserker who had trained him, had not prepared him to deal with someone like Freydis. He looked at the door where she had disappeared. “I think she might come in useful.” But that’s no reason to trust her, he added in his thoughts, as the door opened and the priestess returned.
“All is calm. Given the state of the hinges on the door, we should have ample warning if anybody enters.” She leaned her spear against the wall and unclasped her cape to place it on the ground. “Assuming your inquisitiveness has been satisfied, I should like to sleep.”
Ignoring her words, Halfdan nodded to Sif. “Sleep.” The child lay down, wrapped in Halfdan’s old blanket that still served as her cloak.
As for the berserker, he remained seated in cross-legged position, axe resting on his thighs. The position would keep him from falling into a deep slumber; he would remain alert and able to respond to danger much faster than if lying on the ground. It would not afford him much rest, but light sleep was better than none, and his hardy constitution could keep him going for days if need be. With a final glance at Freydis’ shape, as the flames between them dwindled, Halfdan closed his eyes.
*
The slow creaking of the door opening reached Halfdan’s [Keen of Sense]. With a moment, he was on his feet, weapon in hand. He stared in the dark down the longhouse, past the destroyed furniture to see a hand clutching the door, pushing it open.
He pushed Sif and then Freydis with his foot, stirring them awake. As the girl began to speak, Halfdan shushed her. Without causing a sound, the priestess got on her feet and took hold of her spear.
The being at the entrance had entered the longhouse at last, and as he got a better look, Halfdan did not know what to make of their visitor. He seemed a man, or J?tun, dressed in expensive clothing embroidered with silver yet faded in colour, and his belt had a buckle of gold. But the fabric looked rotten and torn. And as the berserker looked at the intruder’s face, he saw that it had been crushed; it possessed no nose, and the eye sockets were empty.
“Draugr,” Halfdan whispered; he had heard of the dead that walked again, but never met any. Yet he had no doubt; nothing mortal could survive a blow to the head like this creature. Next to him, Freydis lowered her spear and manoeuvred herself in front of Sif.
“Who comes to my wedding? All are welcome in the halls of Thrym,” the undead being spoke, though with all his teeth gone, he mumbled the words. “You’ve brought my bride, Freya the Fair,” he continued, turning his empty eyes on Freydis. “But you are no bridesmaid, holding a weapon in my home.” He moved his face back towards Halfdan. “Hospitality I show, sacred to all, but you threaten me?”
Glancing at his companion, unsure of how to handle the situation, Halfdan lowered his axe until the head rested against the floor. “Forgive me, Thrym, master of this place,” he replied. “We would never break the bond of hospitality between guest and host.”
The draugr turned his head back and forth; his neck creaked like the door behind him. “No. No, I remember. My wedding. The feast. All prepared, all invited. Here he came, the Thunderer. Hammer in hand, hospitality broken, only death my bride! Death!” He drew the long dagger in his belt. And as he charged, a horde of the draugar followed.
*
As the enemies poured into the longhouse, Halfdan leapt forward and swung his axe. His first blow decapitated Thrym, and the draugr fell to the ground. But countless more followed, armed with all manner of weapons. Spears, swords, daggers, axes, and hammers came against the berserker as they clustered around him.
To one side, Freydis’ spear struck; behind her, stones came flying from a sling. But a sharp tip or round stone striking undead flesh accomplished little. The draugar only fell when their bodies were hacked apart; as they did not bleed, ordinary injuries mattered nothing to them.
Halfdan was not as fortunate. With so many enemies while wielding a twohanded axe, he could not defend against the numerous attacks. Although he struck down a draugr with each blow, he took a gash or nick every time, and there seemed no end to the throng clamouring for the blood of the living.
Remembering his new skills, Halfdan spent a Seed to unlock [Scorn the Steel] among Odin’s blessings. But it was too little, too late. Still he suffered new injuries, and he already had too many. He needed [Berserker's Rage] and [Pain to Power] to continue fighting. And since he had the only weapon that could effectively deal with their enemy, it was no choice at all.
“Sif! Woman! Hide!” he shouted, not bothering to look over his shoulder; if they wanted to live, they would heed his words. And finally he could give in. His eyes turned bloodshot, fury flowed through his body, and the spirit of the bear took over.
As his axe came swinging, he clove undead flesh with such strength, it moved through one enemy to the next, wheat before the scythe.
*
As soon as she heard the command, Sif grabbed her cloak and ran to one end of the longhouse, where she leapt behind the broken half of a great table. “Freydis! Here!”
The priestess joined the girl, ducking behind the table planks as well. “They are so many,” she mumbled. “Will he not need our help?”
Sif shook her head. “We’ll just get in the way.” She unfurled her cloak. “Really, stay out of sight. He’s frightening like this.”
Despite the warning, Freydis looked over the edge of their barricade to witness Halfdan in the centre, butchering foes. Despite the narrow structure of the building, one of them were still able to move past him; in a display of cunning, the undead J?tun did not cluster around the berserker like the rest, but went for the other living enemies.
Freydis speared him through the stomach; while it did not force him to resume endless slumber, it kept him at bay as he could not push forward. He dropped his weapon to grab the haft, trying to wrestle with her for control of the spear; holding on with one hand, Freydis drew her dagger with lightning speed and cut off his fingers. Unable to maintain his grip, his stumps slid up and down the wooden haft. Moving closer, Freydis slashed her short blade into his neck again and again, hacking away until the head finally fell off, followed by the rest of the body.
Looking ahead, she saw that the stream of draugar had turned to a trickle; Halfdan was running out of enemies. Quickly, she ducked behind the broken table once more.
*
As the last draugr fell, Halfdan whipped his head around, his eyes still bloodred. He stood surrounded by a maelstrom of corpses, all of them hacked to pieces. As nothing moved, his entire body relaxed, and his breathing came in ragged fashion. Weariness and weakness overcame him, and the haft of his axe slid through his grasp to land on the floor.
Behind him, Sif stuck her head up. “All done?”
Halfdan turned around and gave a simple nod.
Behind the girl, Freydis appeared. She stood up and stepped over the broken table to approach Halfdan. “My name is ‘Freydis’, not ‘woman’. In case you forgot,” she said coolly and surveyed the destroyed enemies. “Though I admit, this is impressive.”
“They went down easily.”
“I meant the fact that you are still standing. You must have two dozen injuries or more.”
Halfdan smiled faintly. “Berserker. It’s what we do.” He closed his eyes and sank to the ground. “So is this. I need a moment.”
“I dare say you’ve earned it.” Freydis looked at Sif. “Stand watch while your champion rests. I’ll make sure no other lurks nearby.” While Freydis made her way through the sea of corpses, Sif took position over Halfdan’s body, sling in hand.
