Halfdan marched along the old Dwarven road, hammer over his shoulder. According to his new friends, Sindri’s forge was not some little workshop, but an entire city overrun by trolls. Their last gift, the rune stone in his inner pocket, would provide a way in besides storming the main gate, but that was his only advantage. Halfdan had no idea where to find Sif or Loki, and searching the whole city while avoiding detection would prove a challenge. Lastly, once he had found his quarry, he still needed to escape the fortress unharmed together with his young companion. Given what lay ahead, for once the berserker doubted whether his powers would suffice.

  He glanced around the eerie landscape of cliffs and moss, trying to distract his thoughts and stay alert instead. Beneath his feet, the Dwarven road had become cracked and broken up, more and more resembling the wild terrain from which it had once been cut. In the distance, he heard the sound of a river flowing by; always good to know where freshwater could be found. Although he had at first wondered if any animal could live in this realm, he saw the occasional lizard, no bigger than his thumb, scrambling past. Now and then, a butterfly also flittered past, and the sight of its delicate, blue wings lifted his mood, for some reason. Perhaps the reminder that even in strange worlds, frail beauty still existed.

  A strange, crackling sound caught Halfdan’s attention thanks to [Keen of Sense], coming from both ahead and behind. He grabbed his hammer as he realised what it meant. Two more denizens of the subterranean realm appeared, and they were neither small nor frail, on the contrary. Surrounding him, the trolls stood tall as the metal guardian he had fought, with limbs and bodies of pure stone. As one, they attacked.

  Halfdan met one blow with his rune hammer, and its markings glowed with light as it pulverised a stony fist. Yet he was too slow stepping aside, and the strength of mountains struck him in the back to send him flying.

  His mail protected him, preventing the attack from crushing his spine. All the same, pain coursed through him, and Halfdan knew he could not withstand such punishment for long. He had two options. He could trust in [Swifter Than Them], dodging around the trolls and slowly wearing them down, blow by blow. Or he could rely on [A Beserker’s Rage].

  Stepping back to gain some time to think, Halfdan considered the second possibility. He had never invested more power into the skill besides the initial requirement; it had usually sufficed, and he preferred to increase his other abilities for those time when brute force would not prevail.

  But he was about to, possibly, storm an entire city filled with monsters made of stone. Blinking, Halfdan invested his last Seed, upgrading [Berserker's Rage]. Embracing [Pain to Power], Halfdan let the fury take over.

  With bloodshot eyes, the berserker watched two giant shapes approach him. He did not hesitate. The rune hammer in his hands struck with such might, the first troll lost a massive chunk and fell back. The other came close enough to smash its fist directly down. Halfdan’s helmet bore the brunt of the blow, and the berserker retaliated immediately. The entire offending limb was crushed, and pebbles fell to the ground. The troll raised its other arm, only to meet the same fate as Halfdan’s hammer met it full swing.

  With a loud crack, more stone separated itself from the troll’s main shape to form new limbs. But it was too slow, too late. In the grips of his fury, Halfdan struck again and again, crushing stone, until the troll fell apart.

  The other had gotten back into the fight, but it was likewise in vain. Against the furious might of a berserker, it could not avail. Although it landed blows, Halfdan bore them without so much as a grimace, and any injury or pain inflicted only made him fight harder. With wild brutality, he swung the rune hammer again and again, and it shone with light as it carried out the task for which it had been forged in ancient times.

  When both trolls lay dead, Halfdan let out all the breath in his lungs. His mind returned to him, along with all the sensations of pain. A thundering headache, deep bruises all over his body, but no broken bones, it seemed. The Dwarven mail had offered more protection than he had hoped for, given how the guardian in the royal tombs had cut through it; it had left Halfdan suspicious of its strength, but it had proven that it could stand up to a troll beating. Perhaps because, like his hammer, it seemed primarily made to fight that kind of enemy. Halfdan’s luck.

  [Mend Your Wounds] was already at work, and Halfdan felt thirsty; a lot of stone powder had gotten into his mouth, apparently. Perhaps he should seek out the river he had noticed earlier. He would need water regardless; the Dwarves had not given him any, only food, perhaps because they knew it was freely available.

  “Halfdan.”

  The voice rather than the word left the berserker stunned. He thanked the gods that he was still in fighting shape as he turned around and saw, appearing from the soft shadows that coated Myrkheim, his former companion. “Freydis.”

  *

  For a drawn-out moment, they stared at each other. Halfdan’s eyes finally turned to the spear in her hand, clearly of Dwarven make. “I can guess why you’ve come, though I wonder at your hesitation.” He glanced at the remains of the trolls. She had not only thrown away the element of surprise, she had waited to face him alone rather than with two powerful allies at her side. “You were not so shy when first we met.”

  “We are both different now.”

  “You may be. Certainly, your colours have changed like leaves in autumn.” He forced himself to meet her gaze, despite knowing the power that her green eyes seemed to wield over him. If he had possessed any Seeds to spare, he would have placed them all in [Enemy to Sorcery].

  “Leaves wither and fall, but the tree remains the same.” She gave him a mirthless smile. “If this is to be the last time we meet, Halfdan Bear-heart, I wanted to face you, not as Loki’s servant, but as simply Freydis.”

  “So much for your oath to cause me no harm.”

  “True, I will be the cursed the moment this spear draws your blood. But I can’t reject my master’s command. My fate would be even worse than what awaits any oath-breaker. I am damned to Hel either way, but if I must face the ruler of the dead, I would rather do so without her father’s wrath over my head.”

  Hel and Loki, another entanglement of the gods. A web lay across the nine realms, spun by the Aesir and their enemies, and yet it was ordinary folk caught in the strands. Halfdan gave her a final look. She had fought alongside him often enough that she knew what it meant if he went berserk. He would not stop until she was dead. And given the discrepancy between their gifts, she stood no chance. The chosen warrior of Odin against Loki’s servant; it could only end one way. Although he did not understand why, Freydis had come to die at his hand. And he had to oblige her if he wanted to save Sif. Summoning his courage, Halfdan hefted the hammer in his hands.

  *

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  Although her gift did not focus on martial prowess, Freydis knew how to wield a spear. She positioned herself to make use of its reach, ensuring that if Halfdan came close enough to strike, he would receive a blow beforehand. She did not aim for his body protected by the chain shirt, but sought to hit his legs, and she moved the spear with speed and precision.

  None of that mattered if Halfdan went berserk. Any wound received, he would ignore; she could run him through entirely, and still, it would not prevent him from closing the distance and land a blow with supernatural strength to crush stone. Thanks to how far he had increased [Mend Your Wounds], he knew that he would survive, and she would not. Her only chance would be to retreat into the shadows, bountiful in Myrkheim, and escape his wrath. But seeing her assume a fighting stance, he knew that was not her choice. She was ready to fight a lost battle.

  And yet the berserker hesitated. He kept his rage in reserve. Perhaps if he injured her sufficiently, she would understand and flee. Why he wanted that to happen rather than a decisive victory over his enemy, Halfdan chose to ignore.

  He stepped forward, swinging his hammer in an arc to sweep her spear aside. It did not work; his momentum carried his weapon further than hers, and she had already pulled it back to defend again before he could step forward. He tried another tactic, striking directly at the spear to knock it from her hands; the strength of his blow should make it impossible for her to hold on. But she evaded and stabbed, striking his arm within easy reach, though the tip glanced off his mail sleeve.

  A third time, Halfdan moved forward to attack. She retaliated as he closed in, striking low to tear up his lower leg. Anticipating this, the berserker crouched, allowed his armour to deflect the blow, and flung the knife from his belt against her in a fluid motion. It struck her hands as intended, disrupting her grip. Before she could recover, Halfdan was able to seize the haft below the tip and tear it from her grasp. Rising up to his full height, he grabbed his hammer and readied a deadly blow.

  She did not flee or move to evade. Halfdan saw in his mind how his weapon would crush her face, forever closing her green eyes. He redirected his swing, striking her leg instead. The snap of bone breaking could be heard, and she fell to the ground with a scream, injured yet alive.

  At least until the back of her head struck the ground, hitting a rock. Staring down, Halfdan saw the blood slowly pool beneath her.

  *

  Sif looked up as Loki entered her improvised prison cell. As he stepped around her troll jailer, a bright light appeared from the lantern in his hand, making her close her eyes and look away. “Bring her,” he commanded and turned around to leave again.

  Still squinting, Sif looked back to see the troll change its shape, arms ripping themselves free from its form to reach out for her. She pressed back against the wall, but there was nowhere to flee.

  With surprising caution, the troll picked her up and placed her on one arm. It used its other hand to cover her head as it ducked to walk through the doorway; holding her in this way, it followed after Loki.

  The deceiver glanced over his shoulder at his escort. “Why are you holding her like that? She’s not some infant to be carried around.”

  “Fleshlings are fragile, hum. I was told to watch over her.”

  “Yes, watch her so she doesn’t run away.” Loki rolled his eyes. “She is your prisoner, not your pet.”

  “Hum.” Whether the troll felt reproached or not, it continued cradling Sif in its arms.

  For the first time, she got a proper look at the city, being carried around while having the light from Loki’s lantern. She saw tall spires and countless small houses like the one she had just left. The glowing moss was growing on most surfaces. Here and there, a building had cracks running through its stonework; after a while, she even saw structures that had collapsed. Taking it all in, the skáld glanced at the lantern again, wishing she had her own light.

  “It’s not bad, is it?” Loki smiled, holding it up high. “The Dwarves left loads in their hurry to flee. And the trolls don’t care at all. Finders, keepers.”

  They continued in silence and entered what had to be the main structure of the city, located in the middle. It was not a palace or mead hall or anything like that, from what Sif could tell. It seemed to be workshops and forges, places of labour. Loki led them through corridors until they reached a heavy stone door with writing above that Sif could not read.

  “If you would,” he asked. The troll stepped forward and used one limb to press the door open. Stepping inside as the first, Loki held out the lantern and examined the floor. The reason immediately became apparent. “As I thought.” Numerous runes had been carved into the ground in a familiar pattern. This was a gate, though not of the same sort that allowed travel beyond realms. “Put her down.”

  The troll obliged, and driven by curiosity, Sif stepped forward of her own volition. While she felt convinced this was a gate, she could not read any of the runes.

  “Activate it,” Loki told her. “Use your powers.”

  “I can’t.” Sif shrugged. “I don’t know this.”

  He pulled out a dagger with his free hand. “Activate the gate, or I’ll cut your throat.” He held out the blade, its tip nearly cutting Sif. Both of them were oblivious to the troll behind them suddenly stretching out its limbs.

  “I can’t!” the skáld reiterated. “I don’t know these symbols!”

  “Yeah, me neither,” Loki admitted, returning the knife to his belt. One step behind, the troll relaxed. “I have a strong suspicion this leads to that little rascal’s workshop. Would be a clever way to keep intruders out. Hey, what’s this?” Speaking to himself, he walked across the dormant gate to the other end of the small room, holding the lantern high.

  The light fell upon a Dwarven corpse. Its bony fingers clutched something against its chest; with gleaming eyes, Loki reached out and tore it away. Squinting, Sif saw it to be a stone, smooth except for symbols scratched into it. Taking a step back to stand in the middle of the circle, Loki dropped the stone to the ground.

  Nothing happened. “Too good to be true,” he sighed, picking up the rune token. Turning it over, an engraving of Yggdrasil became visible. “Hullo, I recognise you.” He smiled. “Not what I need right now, but you could come in useful later. And maybe you got a twin lying around here somewhere that’ll activate this little fellow.” He tapped his foot against the floor with its closed gate before glancing at the dead Dwarf again. “Wrong stone, mate. Thought it would save you, did you?” Loki chuckled to himself as he turned around, confronted with Sif and the troll. His mirth disappeared. “Take her back.”

  The rock creature picked up its small charge as before and walked away. Sif sat still, organising all the information that Loki had let slip. He sought something, presumably in Sindri’s personal workshop, which was hidden away, maybe behind a gate. Sif’s knowledge, extensive as it was, and her skill [Runes Are Read] could not activate this particular doorway, created with hidden Dwarven lore, but apparently, specific rune stones existed that could. Loki had found such a one, but not for this gate; it had carried the sign of Yggdrasil, same as the greater gate that connected the realms. Which suggested it had the power to allow travel from one world to another, which hitherto had been Sif’s main value to him. Which meant that once Loki found whatever he needed in this derelict place, he was free to leave Myrkheim, and he would have no need of a skáld’s runic powers. Her usefulness to him and thus her longevity – both had just drastically decreased.

  Yet a skáld did not fight with weapons, but words. All the rune signs of the gate were now stored in her mind. A skáld did not arm herself with steel, but knowledge. And she knew the anvil upon which she could forge. “Do you have a name?” she asked the troll carrying her.

  “Hum. The children of the living rock have no need of that.”

  “Can I give you one?”

  “If you wish, hum.”

  “I’ll call you Rumble.”

  “Hum.”