Sif stepped outside the hut as the first. She looked around and saw only the tall, intimidating goddess awaiting them. Freya did not speak, but simply bent her neck to gaze at the skáld. Swallowing, Sif looked away and back at the doorway whence she had come. She visibly relaxed as Halfdan emerged, and she quickly held out the sprig of green in her hand. “For you!”
“Well done.” He added it to his own and looked around. “Freydis?”
“She’s still inside.” Sif peered into the dark interior of the hut; from the outside, it looked empty. “What is this place?” As she asked the question, she looked up at Freya, and her expression became timid again. Mumbling to herself, she ambled away.
Freydis appeared, looking frazzled in comparison to her companions. She shot a sharp look at Freya. “So much for no hostilities.” She held her spear low and ready for a fight.
The goddess remained at a casual stance. “Who struck the first blow? You or her?”
Freydis opened her mouth but never replied; in the end, she settled for a scowl.
A faint smile crossed the Vani’s face. “You have your spells, Halfdan of Midgard, and I will even aid you further. I shall tell you what you must do next. In return, I ask only that I am given a word in private with your companion.” She looked from the berserker to Freydis, her countenance revealing nothing.
“What is the need?” Halfdan asked, trying to strike an intimidating pose against a woman taller than him. “We keep no secrets from each other.”
“If she elects to share my words with you, that is her choice.” Freya’s cold glance moved between them again.
“It’s fine. She can tell me whatever she wants. Assuming that an exchange of words is all she wants,” Freydis remarked with a curt tone of voice.
The goddess inclined her head. “Of course. You will all leave Vanaheim in peace and suffer no threat from me or mine. And I am true to my word – I will tell you what you need to know.”
“Spit it out, then,” Halfdan said brusquely.
“In Alfheim, you will find the remains of Kvasir. His are the bones you require, nine of them, as small as you wish. He himself is placed to rest within the bones of Ymir.”
The berserker narrowed his eyes. The explanation made little sense to him and seemed an empty bargain, but he glanced at Sif, who gave a little nod in return, promising to elaborate. “Alright. We take our leave. We’ll wait for you at the tunnel,” he told Freydis. He shot a look at the goddess with an implied threat, should her promise of safe passage prove false.
*
Freya watched the berserker and skáld walk away. Once out of earshot, she turned towards Freydis. “You borrow much from me,” she stated. “Even your name invokes me.”
“Not by my choice,” came the curt reply. “Say your piece that we may be done.”
“I will, though you’ll regret your haste once you’ve heard my words. I know, Freydis,” the goddess declared. “Your duplicity, pretending to be my servant. All the acts perpetrated under that guise, staining my name.”
Freydis raised her chin in defiance. “I did what I had to.”
“In service to your master, yes. He is dead, and you have a new lord. Now hear what the Vanir have prophesied concerning the wearer of Loki’s mantle.” Freya’s eyes turned blank. “When wolf howls and thunder strikes, the deceiver and Alfather shall meet a final time. The former shall bow and declare defeat, the latter shall stand in triumph.” Her voice ceased chanting, and her sight returned to the present world. A menacing smile adorned her beautiful features. “Your master is doomed to fail, Freydis.” She sneered the name. “Know that when the final battle is fought, he will lose. Let that knowledge haunt you and be your punishment for your insolence towards me. Now go!”
Overwhelmed, unable to stammer any reply, Freydis fled from the clearing.
The goddess watched her disappear between the trees. From the hut behind her, an eight-year-old Astrid emerged. “Do you think it worked?”
“We will know if the sun keeps rising.”
*
“Who did you meet?” asked Sif.
“A child. A young girl. Well, that’s how she appeared. Can’t trust appearances.” Halfdan shrugged, trying to appear unaffected by Freydis staying behind. He did not believe that the goddess intended harm – if so, he would never have agreed to it – but it bothered him. He knew he could not trust the Vanir’s benevolence; they had helped him for their own reasons, he surmised, taking a calculated risk.
“Funny. I met an old woman. She made me soup.”
“That’s good because it’s nothing but mushrooms for the next days.”
A whining sound came in response as they continued, soon reaching the entrance to the tunnel that led back to Myrkheim. “What do you think Freya wanted to say to Freydis?”
“I don’t rightly know.”
“I wish someone would tell me secrets. I might unlock more of my tree.”
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Halfdan threw Sif a glance. She had to be the most well-travelled skáld in all the nine realms by now.
They milled about for a little while longer before Freydis appeared, approaching them with hasty steps. “Everything in order?” Halfdan asked.
She nodded briefly. “Yes. She was angry that I disguised myself as her servant. That was a previous life, as I told her. No bearing on today.”
“I’m glad that’s all it was,” Halfdan remarked, exhaling. “Well, let’s leave Vanaheim behind.”
“This is yours before I forget.” Freydis reached out to place the magic sprig of green in his hand, increasing the number to three.
“Let’s save them for when we’re back in Myrkheim. Among friends.” While Halfdan did not believe the Vanir had played a trick on him, he still preferred to be surrounded by allies before testing that belief. He placed the little twigs carefully inside a pocket, and they began the descent back to the underground realm.
*
The journey back held no more events than its counterpart out. They ate their meagre provisions, slept when it felt necessary, and continued until finally, the tunnel expanded into the great cavern of Myrkheim. Nobody greeted them, but Halfdan knew that their mere footfall would alert the trolls to their return; true enough, after a while marching towards Sindri’s forge, they were joined by one of the stony creatures.
“Everything in order?” Halfdan asked.
“Yes, hum. The fleshlings have not caused trouble, hum, hum. Work continues on your other path. Soon, hum, it’s done.”
“Great.” Halfdan looked at his companions. “We’ll rest up back in the city, get new provisions, and then we may set out.”
“Once the path is ready.” Freydis shot him a look. “What is soon to a troll may be a lengthy affair to us.”
Halfdan did not mind; on the contrary, he welcomed the delay. They had refuge here. Few if any other places offered the same kind of sanctuary, where he could let down his guard and enjoy the company of the only two people he cared about. “We’ll just have to wait.”
*
Reaching Sindri’s forge, one matter still remained to be resolved before they could rest and enjoy a brief respite. In his hand, Halfdan held the three green sprigs, obtained from the Vanir.
“Are you certain you wish to trust them?” Freydis asked. “This could easily be an elaborate trap.”
“If they wanted me dead, I imagine they’d have easier methods. They knew of our arrival and could have ambushed us with ease.”
“I don’t think they want you dead either, as that would simply allow another to claim Loki’s mantle. But a poison to leave you incapacitated, an easy victim to capture and imprisonment… Nothing would please Odin more.”
“You’re right about that,” he conceded. “And I’d expect such a snare from him. But the Vanir are not the Aesir. They may have their own goals, but lies and deceit are not in their nature.” Halfdan could not explain it better other than he knew them, as if he had lived a hundred lifetimes in their company. All the same, he did not wish to be foolhardy. He placed the twigs in Sif’s hand. “What does your senses tell you?”
“Well, they’re definitely magical. Powerful, like an artefact. It doesn’t… feel malicious to me? But I’m not really sure I’d be able to pick up on that,” she admitted, looking uncomfortable.
“What about the Vanir? Would you agree with my assessment of their nature?”
“Uh, I can’t say. It doesn’t work that way for me.”
Sif gave him the herbs back, and he looked down at them in the palm of his hand. “Well, it’s not like we got any other way. We need the nine spells for our plan to work, and if the Vanir decided to trick us, I don’t see how we can outwit them.” Spurring himself to action, Halfdan threw the sprigs into his mouth and swallowed.
The others stared at him, anticipation in the air. “How do you feel?” asked Freydis.
“Not sure. Bitter taste. Not much else.” A splitting headache struck him like an axe cleaving his skull. He fell to his knees, suppressing a groan by clenching his jaw and afterwards his fists. The agony intensified, which he would not have imagined possible; no stranger to pain, Halfdan found it excruciating, and as he was not in battle, he could not seek refuge in [Berserker's Rage] or [Pain to Power]. He had no choice but to endure without knowing what was happening to him. Vaguely, he sensed somebody trying to take hold of him, and he felt his mouth foam. And still, the torment continued, making him convulse.
As abruptly as it began, his fit ended. As Halfdan came to, he found himself unable to move. He blinked the fog away and looked into the stony torso of a troll, explaining the iron grip that kept him contained. “I’m fine,” he mumbled through the spittle that covered the lower half of his face. Carefully, Rumble placed him on the ground to sit. “What happened?”
“You were poisoned,” Freydis said sharply.
“You had some kind of reaction,” Sif added.
“How long?” It had felt like an age.
“Long enough for us to find aid. We tried to hold you, but you thrashed around,” Halfdan’s priestess informed him. He looked at her with a flash of guilt, hoping he had not hurt either of them. “How do you feel? What did it do to you?”
“I feel fine. Other than the aftermath.” He wiped his face with his sleeve and got up, supporting himself against Rumble. “Not really different.”
“Your abilities? Your strength? Any malice would be aimed at those,” Freydis pointed out.
Halfdan closed his eyes to investigate his tree. Familiar with its shape, he immediately noticed the change. An entirely new branch, attached only to his foundational skill [Unbridled Fury], had sprouted. [Seier], he knew it to be intuitively. Magic. More than that, it had grown and shone as if nine Seeds of Power had been granted it.
This should not even be possible. [Unbridled Fury] was only at sixth rank; none of Halfdan’s other skills should be able to outpace that. He wondered if this meant that not all the powers of his new [Seier] were available yet, but would only be unlocked in pace with [Unbridled Fury]. Regardless, the Vanir had not deceived him. They had provided him with the spells he required to unleash Ragnar?k.
Halfdan opened his eyes and smiled. “It worked.”
The others exchanged looks. “How? What’s different?” Freydis asked.
Halfdan held out his hand, and with an exertion of will and power that strained him to the point of sweat, he pushed her back without touching her, using only his new ability. “I have magic.”
Sif laughed. “We can both do magic now!”
Surprised at her sudden movement, his priestess looked from his hand to his face. “You have magic. You’re a match for even the old one-eyed bastard.”
Halfdan stretched his neck. The outpouring of power had left him feeling weak, and he realised that he had much to learn about wielding this new skill. But it worked. “That’s the plan.”
