Halfdan woke up in the chamber provided him. He did not know where they had found a bed long enough for him, but it would hardly have mattered; he would have slept like a stone on the cold, bare ground at this point. After days and days of minimal rest, he finally felt at his physical peak again.

  His mental state was another matter. Sif’s absence, the child he had taken responsibility for, and Freydis’ betrayal, the woman he – did not dislike, it continued to sting. His fury at Loki was easier, simpler, less complicated, and he relished the idea of catching up to the deceiving bastard.

  But if he wanted the Dwarves to help him, he had to perform a task in return. Not much hospitality from these bastards, he thought. The king’s counsellor had explained it briefly. A guardian made of steel and forged by Sindri himself stood watch over the tombs of the Dwarven kings, preventing any thoughts of grave robbing. However, something had gone wrong; the guardian now attacked all who entered, regardless of their purpose. This prevented the king from paying respects to his forebears along with any future burial of their royal lineage.

  The best Dwarven warriors had perished against the guardian, tireless and invincible. But a troll slayer might stand a chance. Whether there was any truth to that, Halfdan could not know. But he had defeated all kinds of enemies, growing stronger every time. And perhaps fighting this foe would give him a taste of what to expect in Sindri’s forge.

  “I was told you’re awake.” Alviss, the king’s counsellor, entered his chamber.

  “You were told right.”

  The aged Dwarf beckoned for someone else to follow, and a servant stepped inside carrying a bundle of items. “These are for you. You might as well be properly equipped, and who better to do so than our people?”

  Halfdan had his doubts whether any of it would fit him, but he was not one to spurn gifts meant to keep him alive. He grabbed the mail coat and threw it on. To his surprise, the length was perfect, covering him down to his thighs and his arms fully. He grabbed Loki’s rope and used it as a belt and added a helmet, also provided by his hosts. It occurred to him that in Midgard, the metal and craftsmanship involved would make this armour worth a jarl’s ransom.

  “And this weapon, more reliable than anything made by J?tun hand, I promise you.” Alviss handed over a two-handed hammer.

  Halfdan preferred the tool he had already slain a troll with, but bringing a second weapon with him could not hurt. He placed it in the straps on his back and picked up the bronze hammer from J?tunheim. “I’m ready.”

  The Dwarf gave him a look as he elected to bring both weapons but made no remark. “Follow me,” he bade, taking the last item from the servant, a lantern.

  They walked through corridors in the palace – more than once, Halfdan had use of his new helmet as he failed to stoop low enough going through a doorway – moving deeper and lower. That made sense, he supposed; these tombs lay deep underground, far from the hustle of daily life that would disturb the sanctity of such a place, which also made it easier to guard against grave robbers.

  Not that the latter seemed an issue with the supposed guardian of the place, who apparently took their task too seriously. “What can you tell me about this enemy I face?” Halfdan asked.

  “You have killed a troll, yes?”

  “As I’ve mentioned, though you lot continue to doubt me.”

  “Ah, not me personally,” Alviss claimed. “I only meant to compare. Imagine one of those creatures, resembling you in shape. But instead of made from hard rock, our guardian is made from the strongest metal.”

  “Huh.” Halfdan could see the issue. Killing something without vulnerabilities was no easy task. But the troll had died to repeated blows, and the berserker figured the same tactics would apply to this guardian. Once again, he saw the wisdom in wielding hammers, even if his preference lay with the axe.

  They continued down a hallway; it had been a while since they last came across other living beings. As with everywhere else, the walls were covered in carvings, resembling warriors and battles. Halfdan guessed it was the story of their people, but he had no interest in halting to take a closer look. The sooner this task was done, the better.

  “I will take my leave here,” Alviss spoke as they approached a doorway. It did not appear different than others they had passed through, and yet it clearly marked a line. “Once you move past that threshold, you are in the guardian’s domain. It will attack you without hesitation, and it cannot feel mercy. Be warned.” The Dwarf held up the lantern for Halfdan to take, which he did.

  “Consider me warned.” The berserker did not look back or tarry. He stepped forward, knowing that this simple act was a challenge.

  Entering the burial chamber, Halfdan realised it was far greater than he had expected. The lantern could not hope to illuminate all of the space; the light was lost in the surrounding darkness. Ahead of him lay numerous sarcophagi, all made from stone and with carved statues on the lids, no doubt resembling the occupant.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Raising the lantern, Halfdan could easily see rows of ten in either direction. A hundred Dwarven kings within his sight, and many more still hidden by the dark.

  But he had not come to admire the craftsmanship or pay respect to the monarchs of a foreign people. He placed the light on the nearest coffin; he needed his hands free to fight, and thanks to his new powers, illumination would not be an issue. “Sól,” he muttered, holding his J?tun-forged hammer in both hands. In response, its bronze head became engulfed in fire, adding its light to that of the lantern.

  It did not make much difference dispelling the darkness that lay over the great chamber, but it allowed Halfdan to be battle-ready and move while bringing the light with him. Cautiously, placing his trust in [Keen of Sense], the berserker moved forward between the stone coffins, hoping this place would not become his tomb as well.

  *

  Waiting outside the gate while Loki approached the trolls, Sif kicked a pebble. She figured this was Sindri’s forge, or the entrance to it; presumably it lay somewhere in the city they had reached. This meant she had failed in her plan to slow their progress. It seemed inevitable now that as foretold by fate, Halfdan would have a final confrontation with Loki. If so, staying only allowed the deceiver to use Sif’s abilities for his nefarious purposes.

  Sif glanced at Freydis. The priestess kept a sharp watch on the girl as instructed by her master, and the young skáld gave a defiant stare in return. “What’s it like, betraying people?”

  “Don’t you dare,” Freydis snapped back. “This is one story you don’t know, little skáld.”

  “You promised to look after me. To make sure nothing happened to me.”

  “You are whole and hale, aren’t you? We don’t need to be enemies. Your skills could make you a valuable companion,” the priestess suggested. “In the new worlds to come, you could have a great seat.”

  Sif stuck out her tongue as if she had tasted something vile. “I’m not like you. Betrayal doesn’t come easy to me.”

  “I never betrayed any,” Freydis replied forcefully. “I’m loyal to the only one who ever showed any loyalty to me.”

  “How so? How do you become a priestess of Loki? Never heard of such a thing before.”

  “Despite all your skills as a skáld, there’s plenty you don’t know about the world. Ours, or the other eight, for that matter.” An overbearing smile crossed Freydis’ lips.

  “Alright, so tell me. We got time.” Sif looked at the gate from where Loki had yet to emerge.

  Freydis’ expression turned hesitant. “It’s not a story I share lightly.”

  “I thought you wanted me to join you and your master, but you can’t tell me what he’s ever done for you?”

  The priestess scoffed. “Fine. But if the tale troubles you, little girl, don’t come crying to me.”

  “I’m sure I’ll live.” Sif kept her face blank despite her satisfaction that she had succeeded in baiting the woman.

  Freydis sat down on a rock that could serve passably as a seat. “I was six summers old when the raiders came. They killed my father for resisting them. My mother, my siblings and I, they took as slaves.”

  Sif kept quiet, knowing better than to interrupt, and she sat down with crossed legs to play the dutiful listener.

  “We sailed across seas to Heieabyr, where they sold us on the markets. That was the last time I saw my family. I don’t recall any of their names or their faces. I think my mother had green eyes like mine… Or maybe that’s just my imagination.”

  The young skáld waited, but as the pause grew, she decided to nudge the story along. Not yet. “What happened then?”

  “I was bought by the jarl himself. He gave me to serve his wife, but really, my purpose was to replace her in his bed once I was old enough. A strategy he had executed before with other slave girls, and so the jarlinna hated me on sight. Which gave every other thrall and servant in the household the freedom to heap their own scorn on me as well.” Any trace of an overbearing smile or sneering expression had fled the woman’s face, but instead, her voice grew animated. “When I was fourteen, the jarl decided he had waited long enough.”

  Sif glanced at the gate. Against her will, the story was captivating her.

  “I told you I was a thief, but in truth, that night was the first time I stole anything. A knife. And so when he took me to his chamber, I buried that blade in his neck and stole his life as well, watching him bleed out on the floor. And then, I ran into the night.”

  “And?” Sif blinked a few times, hoping it did not look conspicuous.

  “They caught me with ease, of course. Dragged me back. It was near midsummer, so they decided to turn their bonfire into a pyre and burn me alive. A warning to all. There I stood, bound to the stake, and I cried out for any to help me. But all the gods were silent.” Freydis’ voice sounded monotonous, or resigned, but emotion returned as she continued. “Only one heard my plea. Someone likewise bound unjustly, unable to free himself, but willing to help me. My bonds slipped away, the fire did not harm me, and I was able to run, hiding in the shadows of the night. This time, they didn’t find me. But I found them.” Her eyes stared into the distance, lost in the memories.

  A good tale, and even better if told by someone with talent and perhaps adding some rhythm and metre, Sif considered. Most importantly, it had accomplished what the skáld had hoped for, what any story should aim for. It had captivated its audience, or in this case, the storyteller herself. Distracting her.

  As for Sif, she closed her eyes and checked her tree again. Arriving in Myrkheim, meeting trolls and seeing a Dwarven city had all helped to further strengthen her gift, providing her with several more Seeds of Power; all of which she had just spent. Jumping to her feet, Sif opened her mouth and used [Galdr Is Heard] at the fifth rank. A discordant noise erupted from her throat, an avalanche made of sound. Falling to her knees, Freydis pressed her hands to her ears while screaming in pain, though her voice proved inaudible against the powerful galdr of the young skáld.

  Without wasting a moment, not even sparing her victim a glance, Sif bolted down the broken road.