Apprehensive, ready to react, Halfdan stared at her before he finally replied. “I am Halfdan, a berserker of Midgard. Who are you?”

  “I am Gróa, the seeress.”

  From behind, Halfdan heard a voice exclaim, “You helped Thor!” He glanced over his shoulder, and his look conveyed his meaning well enough to make Sif retreat back into the tunnel.

  “I did, and much else while alive. For my work, I was given this place of honour to sleep eternally. Yet Odin had other plans…”

  “I know the feeling,” Halfdan mumbled.

  “Ever he fears the future, the unravelling of his countless, carefully woven threads. And so he raised me from death to consult me one last time,” Gróa told them, turning her face from Halfdan to Freydis. “In doing so, he caused the very thing he fears most. Even the gods, perhaps especially the gods, make mistakes.”

  “How so?” asked Freydis.

  Incredibly, the aged and wrinkled skin on the seeress’ forehead still allowed her to frown. “A question you are eager to see answered. But I will indulge you. After all, it may be another century before I have another conversation.” Laughter sounding like gravel issued from her throat. “Listen then, mortal creatures, before your time has run out. When the worlds were young, there was no strife between the Aesir, Vanir, J?tnar, or others. But ever fearful, ever suspicious, Odin came to my grave and demanded to know what might cause his downfall. Hear what I saw.”

  Despite their surroundings, the frail torchlight flickering to illuminate the sepulchre, Halfdan found himself enthralled by the tale told by the old corpse.

  Her voice changed. “He came, and doom followed in his wake. Nine runes he wrote. Nine spells he spoke. Nine bones he broke. And Ragnar?k came.”

  Halfdan felt pressure against his skin, as if a storm was about to break out; yet the room lay quiet without the slightest wind blowing or any dark clouds gathering above, impossible as either would be. And still, it seemed to him that lightning was about to strike.

  “Hear what I saw. The deceiver breaking his bindings to lead an army of J?tnar against Asgard. The high god slain by the wolf, thunder and worm exchanging death’s embrace, worlds destroyed in fire!” Her voice rose to fill the cavernous room. “And so, being foretold, it had to happen. The words of my prophecy became the seeds that would make it come true. Enmity between Aesir and J?tnar, and walls raised between the realms, preventing relations. Fearful of his own destruction, Odin created the circumstances that would bring it about. Hear what I saw.” Thin, white lips stretched into a sinister smile. “The day of his death approaches.”

  “Ominous,” Halfdan mumbled. “Be that as it may, we are looking to travel through the gate in this place. We just need to find a little rune in your dwelling, and then we’ll be gone, causing you no further trouble.” He looked, not so much at her but at her throne, as he imagined it hid the symbol somewhere. He wondered how awkward it would feel to ask a century-old corpse to stand aside that he might move her chair around.

  “There is much I see,” Gróa continued, as if she had not heard Halfdan. “Awaiting your arrival, it has left me with a question that I have yet to answer. What do I seek more? To be released from my fate, or to keep the nine worlds from meeting theirs?”

  She’s lost her mind, Halfdan thought to himself. Not surprising, given centuries of solitude along with being dead. He exchanged a quick look at Freydis, who began to move in a wide circle, positioning herself.

  “I have not seen beyond this point, as I dared not know.” Again, the disturbing smile graced her cracked features. “I suppose I shall leave it in your hands.” She rose from her throne, and as she raised her finger to point it at Halfdan, he flew across the chamber and slammed against the wall.

  *

  Battle erupted. A berserker and a priestess against an ancient crone. But the latter had magic on her side. As Freydis ran her spear through the sorceress’ rotting corpse, it accomplished little, though it did move Gróa’s attention from one enemy to the other. The fearsome power that pinned Halfdan against the wall disappeared, and he fell to the ground, whereas she now was hurled across the chamber. With a contemptuous look, Gróa pulled the spear from her stomach.

  Stabbing the witch would not do, but severing head from neck might help. Clenching his jaw and getting on his feet, Halfdan grabbed his dagger. Not as good as having his axe, but if need be, he would call upon his berserker rage and hack through skin and spine, no matter how ill-suited his weapon.

  He ran forward at all speed, wielding the short blade like a sword meant to decapitate the crone. She whispered words, and as his dagger struck her neck, it did nothing. The edge was entirely dull, unable to cut anything.

  Gróa smiled. She had her left hand stretched out against Freydis, her magic keeping the priestess trapped against the wall; her right one lashed out with her nails, sharp as claws, to tear through Halfdan’s leather tunic and draw blood across his chest.

  The pain and surprise made him step back. Ordinarily, he would have welcomed it, as he knew it only made his rage stronger; but as long as Freydis was pinned in place, he could not risk the fury. If he let it take over, then once the seeress was dead, so would the priestess be. He needed to disrupt her magic, give Freydis the chance to flee, and only then unleash his full strength.

  Throwing his useless dagger aside, he made a fist and hit the decrepit corpse in her face. Wailing on an old woman felt wrong, but she was already dead; presumably, she could not feel pain. Her hoarse laughter at Halfdan’s blows suggested as much, and despite all the power he packed into each punch, she did not flinch or stagger in the slightest.

  A terrifying screech came, but not from the witch. Instead, it came from behind Halfdan, and it forced him to his knees, pressing his hands against his ears. Looking back, he saw Sif. He did not understand what this was or why she was doing it; he wanted to yell at her to leave, but he could not speak while she screamed. As for Gróa, she staggered backwards until she fell to sit on her throne again, and her spell against Freydis ended.

  The crone threw her head back in laughter as Sif’s galdr ended. “Another witch? Excellent!”

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  She raised her hand to use her magic against the child, but this time, Halfdan caught her by the wrist. “Don’t you dare,” he sneered through gritted teeth. She snarled in response and raked him with the nails on her other hand.

  Anger boiled in Halfdan, but as he saw Freydis out of the corner of his eye, he restrained himself. Instead, he released Gróa’s wrist to grab the witch by the shoulders, lift her up from the throne, and hold her in the air. Nails sharper than knives scratched him where she could reach, which he ignored. From behind, Freydis thrust her torch against Gróa, and the mouldy fabric caught on fire.

  Even as the flames engulfed her, Halfdan kept his grip; [Laugh at Fire] lessened the injury, and he would gladly suffer burns to kill this witch. She screamed, not with magical strength as Sif had done, but as a being suddenly confronted with her mortality, despite being dead for so many centuries. But as the sound died down, her eyeless face turned to Halfdan; her cracked mouth became a smile, and she became still.

  He threw the body to the ground, where it lay, still smouldering. Glancing at the others, he breathed deeply, waiting for [Mend Your Wounds] to do its work. “Everyone alright?”

  *

  Everyone was alright. Freydis had pains from being slammed against the wall, and she would undoubtedly have bruises across her back. After checking on her, Halfdan turned to Sif. “What was that?” he asked sternly.

  “It’s… it’s like with the runes. I have skills I didn’t think a skáld would have. Magic,” she explained. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you! I was scared, she was hurting you, and I knew you couldn’t use your powers with Freydis trapped.” The words spilled from her like a flood. “So I spent my Seeds to unlock this skill and try it.”

  “Galdr,” Freydis spoke, stretching her neck before giving Sif a curious look. “You are favoured by Bragi. Few skálds are given such powers.”

  Halfdan growled, thinking of the Aesir. He accepted that Odin had chosen him, and he used the powers this provided, but he disliked the gods having their claws in Sif. “Ill to enter battle with a weapon you’ve never wielded before,” he warned the girl. “Except if the fight is desperate,” he added, turning to look at the smouldering corpse of the seeress.

  He found Grani with Sif’s dagger, which Halfdan had dropped earlier in the fight. The J?tun knelt by Gróa and was cutting into her.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” the berserker growled, walking over to stare down at the young fellow.

  “The fingers of such creatures make powerful amulets,” Grani explained. He had cut the little finger off; standing up, he pocketed the grisly trophy and presented the knife to Halfdan, hilt first. Taking the weapon, contempt ran across the berserker’s face briefly. Thankfully, this charade was soon over, and they would be done with this place and its people.

  “The rune,” Freydis said quietly. “Same place as the J?tun chamber?”

  Halfdan looked at the throne, knowing full well who was expected to push it aside. Summoning his strength, he placed his hands against its backrest and slowly moved it forward.

  It revealed no scratches on the floor, other than those caused by Halfdan pushing the stone chair. “If this has all been for nothing, the rest of J?tunheim can follow the old crone,” he muttered through a clenched jaw, glancing at the scorched remains of the corpse. His fingers played with the rope tied around his stomach, carried all the way from Loki’s cave.

  “It’s probably on the walls,” Sif suggested. She pointed at the carving of Hel, ruler of the dead. “I imagine there.”

  Freydis picked up what remained of her torch and brought it over to illuminate the relief, giving them all the chance to study it. Halfdan had never given much thought to Hel back in Midgard. She was not counted among the Aesir or worshipped as a goddess like them. Her name was whispered with fear or spoken as a curse, and none desired her attention or to dwell in her halls.

  Looking at the image, Halfdan wondered if it was exaggerated. A strange visage stared out at him, lifelike and intimidating. One half of her face seemed fair, the other grotesque, laid with black stone. The hideous part of her mouth was curled into a sneer. She sat on a throne with servants and thralls in attendance, along with a youthful, handsome man whose attractive appearance made a stark contrast to Hel.

  “That’s Baldr,” Sif mumbled, her hand running over his face.

  “There,” Freydis spoke, pointing to Hel’s mouth. “Isn’t that a rune?”

  It was. Nauer, to be precise, or need. What did that mean? Halfdan mentally shrugged. He did not care for these Dwarves or the riddles, and if his suspicions were right, he would be spared ever meeting them.

  “Looks like we found what we needed,” Sif said with a grin.

  Halfdan was the only one who understood the jest, and he did not feel like laughing. “Let’s get to the gate.”

  *

  They trudged through the dark tunnels, illuminated by the last of Freydis’ torch or the occasional glowing runes on the walls. Sif walked in front, leading the way; Halfdan followed right behind, ready to protect her whether danger came from ahead or behind. He kept one hand on the dagger stuck inside his belt and otherwise trusted [Keen of Sense] to alert him if needed be.

  They reached the chamber of Midgard without incident. The gate with its carvings on the ground awaited them. They all looked to Sif, who cleared her throat and bent down to begin moving the circles. She switched the runes around to fill the fruits that resembled the worlds hanging on Yggdrasil. First those they knew for sure. Man for Midgard, ice for Niflheim, sun for Muspelheim, ride for Vanaheim, birch for Alfheim, and finally need for Hel. She continued with those they guessed. As for Asgard and thurs for J?tunheim. Looking at the remaining runes, she turned the circles until fé filled the spot for Myrkheim. Wealth.

  “Is that it?” asked Freydis. She stared intently at the gate.

  “It should be. But I don’t know how to activate it. I’ve never used my rune powers before,” Sif admitted.

  “Try concentrating on the realm you wish to travel to while speaking its name,” suggested the J?tun in their company.

  The girl seemed startled, as if she had forgotten about him, but she did as proposed. She looked down at Myrkheim and whispered one word, “Fé.”

  The entire circle began to glow. Light spread across the branches to fill the tree and eventually illuminated the rune for wealth. It lasted only a brief while, and as it disappeared, Sif exhaled. “That was hard!” she admitted, yet with a smile. “But I really did it!”

  “Well done, little skáld.” Freydis smiled, patting her on the back.

  “You really have Aesir’s gift,” Grani mumbled.

  As for Halfdan, it was his turn to embrace the shadows. He found that [Blessing of the One-eyed] helped him move quietly and avoid attention. He drew his dagger and, employing stealth, moved behind Grani. The J?tun never saw it coming as Halfdan struck the blunt end of the hilt against his head with enough strength to crack a skull. With a sigh, Grani sank to the ground, knocked out cold.

  “Halfdan!” Sif shrieked.

  “What was that for?” Freydis demanded to know, looking shocked.

  Halfdan began removing the rope that had adorned his waist for days. “This is Loki.”