The moment they arrived in J?tunheim, Freydis scrambled to get on her feet. With difficulty, she pulled Sif up to stand as well, picked up her stolen spear, and pushed the girl to move. “Hurry!” There was no telling who might pursue them through the gate.

  Luckily, they had the advantage of familiarity with their surroundings and a skáld’s memory. Unerringly, Sif guided Freydis through the labyrinthine tunnels of the underground complex they had braved what felt like an age ago.

  They passed through the chamber for Niflheim, along with its empty throne inside a ring of draugar, permanently at rest. Up the staircase and into the burial mound that served as entrance to everything subterranean, which still held the corpse of Rungnir. If circumstances had permitted it, Freydis might have marvelled at everything that had happened since they first came here, and how much had changed; as it were, she had no thoughts other than making haste.

  At last, they stood on the outside. After weeks underground, in J?tunheim, Myrkheim, and Hel, Freydis stood on grass and felt the sun on her face. It was enough to make her fears dwindle into the background for a moment, but no longer; seeing Sif had also stopped, taking everything in, she grabbed the girl as before and blinked them as many paces forward as she could.

  Exhausted, her vision blurry, Freydis let go of Sif and bent over, gasping for breath.

  “What’s going on? Why did you do that? Is anyone here?” The skáld looked around frantically.

  “Hide our tracks,” the priestess replied between gulps of air. “Make it more difficult for them to tell which way we went.”

  “Right. Smart.”

  “Give me a moment, and I should be strong enough to do it again.” Every word made her dry throat itch. “Maybe,” she croaked.

  *

  They waited a moment, but no longer, before Freydis blinked them forward again, as far as she could. She knew this would not prevent a determined tracker from eventually finding their trail, and it did nothing to counter magical means of pursuit; but if it bought them just a little time, it was worth the effort. Despite feeling absolutely ragged, the priestess immediately made them begin their march. Thanks to the skáld’s memory, they could figure out the swiftest route to Loki’s cave, even if their earlier journey from that place to the gate in J?tunheim had been circuitous.

  Freydis sat as rapid a pace as she expected Sif could keep up with. Many of her profession became arrogant or cocky at this stage when their schemes had born fruit and their plunder was in their hands. But Freydis knew from previous outings of nefarious nature that the greatest danger lay in this part of the plan; not the infiltration nor the execution, but the escape. All of their enemy’s resources marshalled against them, the advantage of stealth and surprise gone.

  At length, Sif slowed down. “Wait!” she called out, falling behind. “I’m sorry,” she breathed. “I’m just so tired. It’s a long trip to the cave. We won’t make it in one stretch anyway.”

  As much as any delay troubled her, Freydis had to concede the distance would probably be too great. “To those trees.” She nodded towards a cluster that could provide cover while they rested.

  Sif did not argue, but pulled herself together to make the last effort.

  *

  Once hidden by foliage, they ate and drank the few supplies that Kark had given them. Water might be found along the way, but they could not afford the time to forage or hunt. They would starve soon, Freydis knew, but if they did not reach Halfdan before their enemies could intercept them, hunger would be the least of their concerns.

  Her sense of urgency sat like a thorn beneath her soles, but Freydis reined her impatience in to give Sif a chance to rest. She needed the girl in order to complete the task before them, and if anything unexpected happened, she also needed the skáld to be ready with her magic. So Freydis waited, counting each moment that passed and watching as Sif sat against a tree trunk.

  The girl met her gaze, though her own eyes wandered onwards to the weapon held by the priestess. “You stole Odin’s spear.” Laughter rippled out from Sif, and despite how emotionally frayed she felt, or maybe because of it, Freydis could not help but join in.

  “I stole Odin’s spear,” she repeated, her fit of laughter turning into a cough, and she gasped for breath. When she had finally recovered, she inspected her newly acquired weapon. “What does it do?”

  “Its name is [Gungnir]. It pierces everything it touches. No spell or steel can hold it back.”

  “Useful.” While it had a long haft, the spear was light enough that it could serve as a javelin. Although throwing one’s only weapon was rarely a good idea, thanks to [Piercing Hatred] Freydis was a deft hand with such arms, and if she was certain to skewer anything she aimed the spear at… Yes, stealing the spear had been a good choice. Her instincts had returned along with her gift, she was pleased to note.

  She looked at Sif again, who was inspecting her own pilfered goods. The vicious dagger taken from Hel’s hall. “It’s an artefact. [Death’s Needle], it’s called,” Sif explained, her voice odd. “Fitting. It killed a god.”

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  “You did the right thing.”

  “I know.”

  The tone of Sif’s reply suggested that the knowledge brought her little comfort. Freydis remembered the first time she had taken a man’s life, scarcely older than Sif was now. She had never wasted a moment’s breath regretting it, but her path in life had been far different from Sif’s, and for all her toughness, the young skáld still retained the last vestige of childhood; something that Freydis had been robbed of.

  “You did the right thing,” Freydis repeated, unsure what else to say. She knew words to charm and beguile, but providing comfort and alleviation of guilt was another matter.

  “Yeah.” Sif got up and placed the dagger in her belt. “We should get going.” Freydis bowed her head in agreement, and they set off.

  *

  Day became night, and still they continued. Freydis knew that Sif had to be exhausted because she herself was, but the skáld did not complain. She simply walked next to the priestess mutely, steering their path from the route she had constructed based on her memories. Freydis dearly wanted to know how much further, but she feared that by speaking the question, she would break their discipline like a spell and also discourage Sif with the reminder of how far they had yet to travel.

  So Freydis likewise kept quiet, as their surroundings grew dark, it became harder to find footing, her stomach growled with hunger, and her throat begged for water. And still they continued.

  When Sif stopped abruptly, fear shot through Freydis’ exhausted mind, and she swung [Gungnir] around at any overlooked threat. “What is it?” she asked hoarsely. “Have you lost the way?”

  “No, on the contrary.” The skáld frowned, peering into the dark. “It’s hard to see, but I think I’ve steered us right. I recognise this path. We came here before when we left Loki’s cave.”

  Freydis exhaled, planting her spear in the ground to lean against it. “We must be getting close.” Against her better judgement, she asked, “How much longer?”

  Sif’s immediate response was to grab Freydis’ arm. “Magic! Something’s happening!”

  “Clever child,” Odin muttered as he appeared in a maelstrom of raven feathers. Sif released her galdr, an ear-wrenching scream that accomplished nothing against the one-eyed god, who in turn flicked his hand and sent the skáld flying through the air. “But not clever enough.”

  Freydis acted on instinct, lowering her spear to an attack stance and charging. Before she got far, her weapon was torn from her hands and flew into Odin’s awaiting grasp. Dumbfounded, she stared at her empty grip, her tired mind trying to make sense of what happened.

  “Did you think you could turn my own weapon against me so easily?” the high god sneered. “I’ve wielded it a hundred times longer than you’ve been alive, you mewling infant!” He reached out one hand and clenched it to a fist.

  Suddenly, Freydis felt her throat close up. She clasped it with both hands, trying to remove the invisible stranglehold that kept her from breathing.

  “I can’t believe the two of you killed Heimdall. Big oaf that he was, he was still a god.” Odin planted his spear in the ground and leaned against it, reminiscent of Freydis only moments prior. She, meanwhile, was on her knees. “Strange that Mimir didn’t warn me of your capabilities. He told me explicitly that he anticipated you would die, should you enter Asgard ungifted. It seems he didn’t calculate that your gift would return…” The god tilted his head, watching the priestess suffocate. “It does make me wonder if he kept that quiet on purpose.”

  Freydis, meanwhile, had recovered her senses, though she kept clawing at her throat rather than alert her adversary. She called upon her patron, using her status as [Most Favoured]. A bear with legs like tree trunks came rushing from behind, straight at Odin’s back.

  The god turned on his heel and plunged [Gungnir] into the charging beast, and the magical weapon easily pierced fur and flesh. With terrifying strength, Odin raised his spear, the bear impaled upon it, and he tossed the creature aside. “Naturally, I had Tyr give me a full report on your gift, including your little fylgja. One of the few things he’s good for,” Odin remarked casually, glancing down at Freydis, who still could not breathe. As for the bear, spirit though it might be, it could still be injured, and it vanished as swiftly as it had appeared. Odin sighed. “Time to finish this. So much trouble just for one little traitor…”

  A pebble, born of the living rock, came shooting out of a sling. It hit the god in his remaining eye, smashing it to pieces. Odin released a scream that could stop a man’s heart, and he slapped his hand over his injured face while blood poured out. Before another stone could follow, the god disappeared, bursting into a cloud of ravens that quickly scattered.

  Able to breathe again, Freydis got on her feet while drawing her knife, lashing out at the birds, but they all flew up high and out of sight. The feeling of death clutching her heart still haunted her, but every gasp of air helped to calm her mind. She looked through the dark to see Sif approach her, sling in hand. “Well shot.”

  “It was a good stone.” Sif seemed remarkably calm for someone who had just sent the Alfather packing. “He can probably heal such a wound, but I’ll bet it takes him some time and effort.”

  “Agreed. You did well, little skáld.” Freydis patted her on the head, awkwardly, not sure how to show affection. “You did very well.”

  Allowing her sling to drop to the ground, Sif threw her arms around Freydis’ waist and hugged her tightly. Quickly, she let go and picked up her weapon, appearing composed. “We shouldn’t waste time.”

  “I think we are safe for now. The king only comes when he has no pawns left to send in his stead,” Freydis considered. “All the same, if you’re able to walk further, so am I.” Her heart suddenly beat faster at the thought of the impending reunion. “You’re right. We shouldn’t waste time. Lead on, brave skáld.”

  Sif nodded gravely, but first, she gave Hel’s dagger to Freydis. “I got my sling. You’re better with this kind of weapon anyway.” Cautiously, the priestess accepted the artefact and placed it in her belt, on the other side of Sindri’s hammer. While the latter could work as a weapon in a tight spot, it was still just a smith’s tool in Freydis’ hands, and something sharp like a dagger served her ability [Piercing Hatred] much better. Both of them ready, Sif began walking, keeping a stone in her sling and its leather strings tight in her grip; Freydis followed, one hand on the pommel of her new weapon.