The trolls laboured without need for sleep or sustenance. As children of the earth, none were better suited for digging through it. Dirt or rock, it did not matter; they moved through every and any layer of resistance with the same slow, but constant tempo. Still, it would take several days before the first path to the nearest realm was complete. Halfdan and his companions spent this time in a manner none of them had known for a long time – leisurely. They bathed in the nearby river that flowed past the ruined city. Sif explored the surroundings in the company of Rumble. Afforded some privacy, Halfdan and Freydis made the most of it inside the ancient chambers of the fallen fortress. They also made further explorations of what the Dwarves had left behind, all those years ago on their retreat; the only thing of value found was one of their lanterns that burned without fire, useful for those embarking on subterranean journeys.
Eventually, Mossbeard told them that the first path, opening up to Vanaheim, was complete, and they had no excuse for delaying. The trio gathered some meagre provisions for the journey – water and mushrooms – and Sif said her goodbyes to Rumble. Looking at the trolls, including their elder with his glowing moss covering what could cordially be considered a face, Halfdan was not sure what to think of them. They were a strange lot, compared to humans; then again, he was not necessarily human himself any more. And they had proven themselves true friends. Weird as it felt, Halfdan found that he harboured fondness for these creatures of stone and rock. As he thanked them for their aid, the trolls regarded him with their immutable, expressionless heads and made no reply. Clearing his throat, Halfdan nodded and set out on the next leg of their sojourn, his companions at his side.
On his first journey through Myrkheim, Halfdan had felt that he traversed a strange landscape, but he had eventually grown accustomed to it and could even appreciate its rugged nature and the soft light of the glowing moss. Now, they walked through a tunnel with nothing but rock around them, using the light of the Dwarven lantern to guide their steps. It was a monotonous path with nothing to break the eye, nor any indication of how far they had travelled or how far yet to go. Mossbeard had given no indication of the journey’s length, perhaps because he could not; the trolls moved at their own pace, slow yet steady, and for a creature who had never seen sun, it made no sense to speak of days or nights.
At some point, Sif fell asleep and was carried by Halfdan. Eventually, Freydis needed to rest as well, and they all slept in the tunnel; Halfdan returned to his usual alert slumber. When they woke, they broke their fast with mushrooms and continued.
*
For the most part, the ground beneath their feet seemed entirely level, though Halfdan suspected that it inclined upwards ever so slightly, making for an easy journey while still letting them approach the surface. But on their journey's second day, if such a word was appropriate, the path turned into a sharp descent, akin to walking up a mountain trail. Soon after, they emerged on the surface. They had reached Vanaheim.
As with all of their emergences from subterranean lands, the sensation of fresh air and sunlight was a boon to their spirits. They stood in the forest, though not so dense it kept the sun from reaching them. The abundance of green soothed Halfdan; he had not realised how much he had missed walking amidst trees. For all that he could appreciate the eerie wonder of Myrkheim, he could not imagine settling there. For a moment, his heart ached with longing for the woods of his home.
Such abstract emotions were dispelled by present concerns. The immediate question revolved around which direction to take – difficult to know when they were not sure what exactly they searched for – but before any of them could raise the issue, they all flinched at the unexpected sight before their eyes. Thirty paces away, a woman sat on a fallen log, and she was clearly not a commoner. Most strikingly, it was obvious even seated down that she was tall enough to rival or surpass even Halfdan. She wore magnificent armour, and a long spear rested in the cradle of the arm and up against her shoulder. She regarded the travellers with eyes that glittered blue like frost on a lake.
“Halfdan of Midgard. I bid you welcome to Vanaheim.” Her voice came strong, calm, assured.
He knew whom he faced even before Sif whispered anything. “Freya!”
She inclined her head slightly, keeping her eyes on them. Freydis immediately dropped into a fighting stance, her spear ready to strike; Halfdan dropped the lantern in his hands and grabbed the hammer from his back. “We can certainly fight,” the goddess told them, “if that is your wish. But I should like at least the pretence of a conversation first.” She maintained her casual demeanour, supporting her claim.
“Talk all you want,” Halfdan muttered, his eyes darting around to look for other combatants. He considered if he should call upon [Berserker's Rage] while his companions pulled back into the tunnel, or if better to keep his wits about him to defend their retreat. Enemies could only come at them a few at a time down in the tunnel. But if the goddess had come alone with the typical arrogance displayed by these deities, perhaps he could unforeseen strike a powerful blow against the Aesir, not to mention the power he would gain from winning such a contest of strength.
“This is not an ambush,” Freya declared with a touch of impatience. “I would not be waiting for you out in the open if so, and we would already be battling. I do not come alone but as the representative of Vanaheim, and all of my people stand with me.”
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
She did have a point, but that only meant she planned something more nefarious than a fight. Halfdan narrowed his eyes, still keeping his vigilance up. “So what’s your intention then?”
She got up, still keeping her spear casually in the nook of her arm. “To measure you, berserker, deceiver, immortal. You’ve come seeking the nine spells that will unbind J?rmungandr, the final step before Ragnar?k is unleashed. Is that not so?”
An odd feeling when my enemies know my plans better than me, Halfdan admitted. Still, he was glad to find out why exactly he needed these spells and bones that he had been told to seek. “I’m not keen to reveal my thoughts. Given how the gods have treated me in the past, I’m sure you can understand.”
Freya smiled, and if Halfdan had not already been under another woman’s spell, he might have become enchanted. “There’s no other reason you would come to Vanaheim. We are the masters of magic – besides Odin, that is, whom we foolishly taught our secrets. But when war ravages your home, the price for peace always seems cheaper than it truly is. But that is the past,” she continued, her voice growing louder. “Now we look to the future. I will take you to where you may learn the spells you need, Halfdan of Midgard.”
“Don’t trust her,” Freydis hissed.
“I’m not of the Aesir, Freydis,” came the calm reply. “I am of the Vanir, and we are honest in our dealings. Given your own past behaviour, I will not suffer any accusations of false behaviour.” A sharp look from the goddess contradicted her tranquil voice, and it sufficed to silence the priestess. “None in Vanaheim shall raise weapon against you unless you raise yours first. That is my binding promise.”
“That’s all well and good, but why would you help us?” Halfdan gave her a challenging stare.
“The Vanir have not necessarily decided to do so. We foresaw that you would come to us,” Freya explained. “You will notice I awaited you in this place, at this hour. And we know your plan – to use the threat of Ragnar?k to convince Odin to stay his hand. But if he does not relent… A threat only matters if you dare to see it through. We have chosen not to divine whether you will.”
“Why not?”
“What has been foretold, must come to pass. It may not be an answer we like, but the foretelling will also leave us unable to alter or resist it. As said, our purpose is to measure you, Halfdan of Midgard, and make our own decision whether to entrust you with our spells.”
The berserker sighed. It is never straightforward with these people. It seemed to him that divination and foretelling caused more harm than help to those employing it, and he still had doubts whether such powers could be relied upon in the first place. At least it seemed these Vanir would not base their decisions on prophecy either, though it begged the question why they ever used this magic in the first place. “I won’t pretend that makes sense. So how can you help me? Measure me, in what way? I’m guessing you want me to fight.” It always boils down to that. The curse of being a berserker, or simply the way of the nine worlds?
“No battle, warrior, unless you initiate it. I already told you this. But come. It is not far we must walk.” Freya turned around and began moving without explaining further. The trio exchanged looks, all of them apprehensive, but they left the decision in Halfdan’s hands. Using those for his hammer, he followed the goddess while Sif and Freydis followed him.
*
They did not walk far before they reached a small cabin, lying in a glade in the forest. It looked idyllic, surrounded by trees and tranquillity; the kind of home that Halfdan could imagine for himself, if a mortal life had still been his. Firewood lay stacked against the wall, and a barrel stood one step away to collect rainwater. The mundane building only increased his suspicions; he had no doubt the Vanir intended to test him as the price for their spells – assuming they had not lied about that – and he had countless experiences at this point with trickery, illusions, and the like. This reeked of that. “What is this?”
“A simple task for all of you,” Freya explained. “Nine spells, three times three. You did not reach your number of companions by accident.”
Halfdan raised an eyebrow, less inclined to trust that some great power had decided he would travel with Sif and Freydis, but clearly these people believed everything moved according to fate, so he did not bother arguing.
The goddess held out her spear to point at the hut. “You must all enter the cabin. Inside, each of you will find three of the spells you require to bring back. If you can claim them.”
“And what else will we find?” Freydis asked sharply. “Traps or enemies?”
“May the venom of J?rmungandr rot my flesh if I have lied to you,” the goddess replied with equal bite.
She spoke with sufficient strength that Halfdan believed her. He had no doubt that the Vanir had something up their sleeve, but Freya’s repeated promises of safe conduct had been spoken with power woven into the words, not to be disregarded. The immortal berserker could not explain how he knew the difference compared to ordinary words easily twisted into falsehood, only that such a difference existed, and those of his kind would not speak lightly in this manner.
“Let’s go,” he told the others, moving forward to open the door. They hesitated, unable to know what Halfdan knew, but their trust of him overcame any distrust. Cautiously, Sif walked after him, the skáld ever curious; as the last, with a wary glance directed at the goddess, Freydis followed as well, and they all crossed the threshold.
