Halfdan waded through a river with a hammer over one shoulder, his boots carried over the other. If Freydis had lied to him and he now walked barefooted through water for no reason, he had to admit, it was an amusing jest. Except when it was played on him. But no trolls appeared. No rocks suddenly gained limbs and stood up. The landscape was empty save for the occasional lizard scarpering across the rocks or fish gliding past Halfdan’s legs.
He tried not to think more about the priestess of Loki that he had left behind. Their encounter and his inability to kill her, or leave her to die, had made his own feelings plain even for a berserker. He wondered if any magic was at work; who knew what gifts were given to a servant of deceit? It would make it easier if so. He could dismiss his desires and harden his heart.
But having encountered magic more than once, Halfdan knew something deeper, older, and yet simpler was at work. There was no sorcery in her eyes other than what all women possessed, against which any man, even berserkers, was powerless.
What would he do if he met her again and she stood between him and his quarry? Between him and Sif? Could he once again fight without killing? Trudging onwards, water splashing around him, Halfdan hoped he would never have to find out.
*
Just like Dwarfhome, the city of Sindri’s forge appeared suddenly when Halfdan was already close to it. Until the Dwarves disabused him of the notion, he had imagined his destination to be a smithy; perhaps grander than those he knew at home, but fundamentally the same. Now that he saw its walls rise, he thanked the king’s counsellor Alviss for the rune token that lay in his pocket; assuming it worked.
Halfdan followed the directions given him until he left the river and saw the gate on the ground. The terrain was unnaturally even, sticking out from a distance among the rugged landscape. After putting his boots back on, the berserker walked over to inspect it. Runes he could not read lay carved into the stone, connected with different lines. Not sure what else to do, Halfdan took out the stone, knelt down, and held it against the central rune. The pebble began to shine, the gate did as well, and in a flash of light, the berserker disappeared.
*
Surrounded by complete darkness, a familiar situation by now. Halfdan did not panic, but instead embraced the dark that hid him. He stretched [Keen of Sense] to its limit, but heard nothing. Either he was alone, or any troll present was sleeping. Knowing that he would have to risk light eventually, Halfdan took his hammer in both hands and whispered, “Sól.” The metal head erupted into flames, illuminating his surroundings.
He was in a small room. Below his feet, the gate as expected, dormant, and walls close around him. It seemed the Dwarves had built a tiny chamber for their route out; sensible, as it was easy to defend, should enemies come from one direction or the other.
Looking behind him, Halfdan felt a start go through him seeing the Dwarven corpse on the ground. Judging by its decay, it had been dead countless years, though, and it did not suggest any imminent threat lurked nearby. Halfdan crouched down to inspect it more closely, but he learned nothing of value.
It did not matter either. He had a twofold purpose. Rescue Sif and deal with Loki, one way or the other. Halfdan imagined that pursuing one would allow him to do the other as well. Assuming Loki had not harmed Sif already. The thought troubled the berserker, but Freydis had given no indication that it was too late to save the little skáld. Besides, she knew how to make herself useful. Comforted by this, Halfdan looked at the only path before him.
With a thought, he willed the flames to die down, returning the room to darkness. It was time to infiltrate an ancient Dwarven city fallen to ruin and overrun by trolls in search of a twelve-year-old child.
*
Thankfully for Halfdan’s sake, the corridors of this place had a mixture of illuminating runes and the strange glowing moss to help light his way, and he had no need to ignite his hammer. The soft luminescence gave an eerie outline to everything, making shadows look strange and ragged, but Halfdan did not complain. He trusted that it also helped to conceal him. He felt how [Blessing of the One-Eyed] pulled him to the dark, softening his footfall. It seemed odd that a warrior well over six feet could sneak about, especially in a structure built for people half his height, but thanks to his gift, Halfdan moved like a ghost.
At first, he had assumed himself to be in a palace, a counterpart to where he had stayed in Dwarfhome. But moving down corridors, he noticed the differences. This place had no halls for audiences, none that he could see, at least, or other such constructions to impress. It had workshops and locales for practical purposes with none of the elaborate carvings and ornaments. He could tell from the countless tools that lay scattered around workbenches, still in good shape after so many years of neglect.
The same could not be said for the structure itself. Cracks ran through much of the stonework, often easy to spot thanks to the glowing moss making its way across the surface like the strands of a spider’s web. Here and there, a wall or hallway had collapsed entirely, barring any way forward. And on occasion, as in the gate chamber where he had arrived, Halfdan came across a corpse, flesh and clothing rotted away until only bones remained. Not all the Dwarves had fled in time when the city fell; usually, broken skulls or similar revealed how they had died.
But as before, all signs of violence from ages past. As Halfdan advanced, he met nothing else alive, neither flesh nor stone. The mood, the very air he breathed, it reminded him of the royal tombs in Dwarfhome, perhaps his instincts warning him to expect the same danger. He walked through what felt like a sepulchre, and it could very well be his own grave. The norn had carved it upon his rune-stave – Sindri’s forge would be the last destination on his life’s journey worthy of mention before he was destined for Hel. With each step through this unintentional mausoleum to Dwarven pride and decay, Halfdan felt a rising suspicion that the norn had been right.
*
Loki stood in front of a collapsed corridor, which several trolls were clearing out. They moved at a slow pace, cautiously removing each piece of debris as if it were an infant. Rather than simply place it aside, they would leave the hallway entirely, carrying the rocks away. As a result, a steady stream of trolls came and went while a frustrated immortal watched, tapping his foot against the ground.
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“Master,” Freydis spoke, limping towards him. The trolls moved in a straight line with a single-minded purpose, forcing her to evade them, and she nearly lost her balance placing weight on her injured leg.
“You’ve returned.” Loki glanced at her staggered approach. In addition, she had blood smeared across her face, and it clumped her hair together. “With signs of battle. Is he dead?”
Her hesitation said it all, and before she could speak, his demeanour turned dark. “Forgive me, master,” she finally stammered.
“What. Happened?”
“He killed the trolls with ease. He wields a rune hammer with tremendous skill.”
“Less admiration for our enemy when you speak of him, thank you.” Loki rolled his eyes. “A rune weapon. Of course those little pests gave him the perfect troll-slaying implement. And what of you? Your skull remains intact, I notice, despite you fighting an enraged berserker.”
Freydis tentatively touched the back of her head. “He hit my leg, and I fell to the ground, striking a rock that knocked me out. When I came to, he was gone. He must have assumed I was already dead.”
“Assumptions are dangerous,” he sneered. “Where is he now? Have you spoken to the trolls?”
“I alerted them, yes. Once they find him, they will send a score. I shall accompany them, of course.”
“Good.” The deceiver turned away to look at the excavation in progress. “Hel below, this is testing even my famed patience.”
“Where does this lead, master?”
Loki shrugged. “No idea, but we have to search the entire complex. I looked through the forge, the actual forge, and it was empty. Nothing to do but go through each room.”
“Could the trolls have found it when they first took the city?”
“They have no interest in artefacts or trinkets. No, that little scoundrel hid it somewhere, and I’ll find it if I have to tear this city from stone to stone.”
“Yes, master. I’ll go and make sure the search for the berserker continues at full wind.”
“Hm? Yes, yes, fine. Go.”
*
Sif hid her hands behind her back for a moment and then held them out in front of her. “Left or right?”
“Hum. Left.”
Sif opened her left hand, showing it to be empty; she followed suit with her right hand, revealing a pebble inside. “Wrong! I win!”
“Hum, I meant my left.”
The skáld stared at the humanoid stone in front of her. “Rumble, are you teasing me?”
“Hum.”
Sif laughed. She had not forgotten the severity of her situation, but it felt good to laugh for a moment; to be, for one instance, the child that her new companion considered her to be. And she considered it valuable to strengthen her rapport with the troll; her survival could easily depend on it.
Her mirth disappeared, seeing Freydis coming down the street. At Sif’s request, Rumble no longer placed her inside the dark house but was content at staying outdoors. It was not the same as being outside in sunlight, but any illumination was better than none.
“Sif, you must be thirsty. Come, I’ll take you to get water.”
“Rumble takes care of me. I don’t need anything from you.”
Freydis eyed the troll. “Well, come along anyway. I need to wash myself, and I’ll appreciate the company.” She blinked, slowly and repeatedly.
Sif did not understand other than something was afoot, and as much as she distrusted Freydis, she was curious to know what was going on. In addition, any knowledge she might glean from the priestess could be useful. “Fine. Rumble, come along.”
“We don’t need your hound.”
“Hum. I go where the fleshling child goes.”
Freydis shook her head but made no further complaints. Together, they crossed a few streets until they reached the main square with its fountain. The priestess removed her boots and socks to stick her feet into the water, sighing at the relief.
Sif stared at her. “We drink from that water.”
“Hush, it’ll flow away. For all their faults, the Dwarves know how to build waterways.” Freydis bent forward, her long hair falling down in front of her, and she began to clean the blood out. “The water confuses their senses,” she mumbled. “Trolls don’t have ears. They hear through the ground. They can’t hear us talk here.”
Sif sat down at the edge of the fountain. “So? You’re on their side. Why are you keeping secrets from them?”
“Halfdan is alive.”
The skáld widened her eyes before her expression became haughty. “Of course he is. That’s hardly a secret.”
“It’s not a secret at all,” Freydis mumbled. “The trolls are aware and on the lookout. Whether his blessings are strong enough to keep him hidden, I can’t say. But he’ll try. He may already have made his way inside the city.”
Sif frowned, looking at her. “Why are you telling me that? Shouldn’t you alert your master?”
“He knows to expect Halfdan. But you need to know as well. If Halfdan finds you, convince him to flee. Besides the power that Loki possesses, even a berserker can’t win against all the trolls.”
“So you want me to help you because you’re scared of facing him.”
“I want you both to live,” the priestess spoke through clenched teeth. “Neither of you are making that easy.”
“Have you seen him, then?”
“Yes.” Freydis’ tone softened. “He’s stronger than ever, it’s true. And he will come for you, Sif. But if he tries to fight my master and every troll in Myrkheim, at the same time? No gift, blessing, or all the Aesir’s might will be enough. Please,” she spoke, and her voice turned pleading, “when he comes to save you, you must save him. Don’t make me watch you die.”
Given who Freydis served and their aim, Sif felt no inclination towards understanding. “Then close your eyes.” She jumped up from the ledge of the fountain. “Rumble, let’s go back.”
“Hum, hum.”
