For once, the gate did not bring them somewhere plunged into darkness. At the same time, it was not obvious where any illumination came from. They stood on what seemed an endless, grey plain, devoid of colour and life. No cave or room or tower surrounded them; the gate was carved directly into the ground. Above them, the supposed sky did not contain sun, moon, or stars. The horizon was simply a different shade of grey compared to the land. All the same, they could see, as easily as in daylight.

  Halfdan noticed his own garb was muted in colour, and the same held true for his companions. “Strange land,” he mumbled, and his words disrupting the silence felt like blasphemy. An unease settled in his bones; he was not meant to be here. This realm was hostile to him.

  And yet here he would belong, he realised. He had known this already, but it struck him like a physical blow now that he had actually travelled hence. This was the end for him, the last notch on the rune-stave of his life. He would never see sun or tree again. An eternity spent in this wasteland… except if Ragnar?k came, which it was his intention to prevent.

  Halfdan pushed such thoughts away. He had more pressing concerns. “Where to?” He looked at the others. “Do the old songs give guidance to travellers seeking to traverse Hel?”

  “Not really,” Sif admitted and pointed in a direction. “But I see a building that way.”

  He strained his eyes. “Better sight than me. Alright, let’s go.” He glanced at Freydis, who renewed her grip on her spear and set into motion. The berserker and the skáld followed after.

  *

  It was a strange feeling to walk through Hel, though Halfdan had not expected otherwise. The landscape was entirely the same, giving nothing to interrupt the eye. Only the distance showed the horizon, though land and sky barely seemed to differ. The only reprieve came as a small point far off, ever so slowly increasing in size as they approached. The hall of Hel, ruler of the dead.

  Halfdan found it impossible to judge how long a journey it would be; at the same time, he could not tell how long they had marched. It finally occurred to him that he did not feel any thirst or hunger. He was too hardy that weariness would have set in yet, but he suspected that likewise, his legs would not grow tired on this journey. Odd, almost unpleasant to think about, but useful, perhaps. Especially with Freydis in weakened condition. Halfdan stole glances at her from time to time, but he could not tell if she looked sickly given the bleak light that fell on everything in this land.

  Sif seemed muted compared to her normal demeanour. She did not sing, hum, or share any stories as usual. But as long as it was solely caused by their present surroundings; once back in Midgard, Halfdan expected she would be herself and that her ordeal as a captive had not caused her any hurt.

  Freydis fell behind a few steps, and Halfdan did likewise, wondering if he had misjudged her situation. “What will you do once we reach the hall?” she asked with a quiet voice.

  He realised his concern had been for naught; she wanted a discussion without worrying Sif, walking ahead of them. “Beat Loki into submission and have him undo his curse.”

  “Assuming this battle can be won with Hel on his side… you cannot force him to do anything.”

  “He’ll obey or die.” Halfdan’s self-assuredness faltered a little as he continued, “Killing him will remove the curse, right?”

  “Possibly, but it might not. Some powers are stronger than death,” Freydis warned him. “And given what he has endured, you can’t threaten Loki with pain or imprisonment. He won’t care. But he’ll try to strike a bargain, I imagine.”

  “Such as? Let him go in return for lifting the curse?”

  “Probably worse, such as servitude. And if a berserker possesses any sense, you’ll refuse. I’ve served him for decades, Halfdan. You see what it cost me to escape his clutches.”

  Halfdan glanced at her. He did not wish to pry, but he wondered at what she had accomplished. Freeing Loki after so many years of imprisonment, where others presumably had failed – it spoke to her resolve.

  “You’re wondering what I had to do for him,” the former priestess remarked.

  “It’s not my place to ask.”

  “I crossed Midgard just to find a way to travel between the realms,” she explained. “Once in J?tunheim, it cost me long and arduous labour to prepare his release, gathering many a rare component for the ritual. And as the last thing, I had to shed the blood of someone beloved. To him, that is. His wife, who had stood by him all this time, suffering with him… I made the spell, and I cut her throat, and she died to see him free.”

  Halfdan had not even known Loki had a wife. He could not imagine killing someone he loved to see himself free, but perhaps priorities changed after a thousand years of captivity.

  “I see something.” Sif’s observation interrupted his thoughts and their conversation.

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  “That looks…” Halfdan peered as best he could, but he could not see anything other than the structure in the distance. It seemed blurry to him, like looking at leaves being gently shaken by the wind. Except not the slightest breeze moved in this place. “What is that?”

  “I can’t see either,” Freydis admitted. “But we shouldn’t expect anything good.” She had been leaning against her spear; now she straightened up and lowered her weapon.

  “Spirits,” Sif mumbled. “They’re spirits of the dead.”

  “How do you kill something that’s already dead and doesn’t have a body?” Halfdan inquired as he took his hammer from his back.

  “Pray those runes are strong enough,” Freydis told him. “The weapon belongs to you now. Use it.”

  Halfdan looked up from the hammer, only to see a terrifying sight. He had thought the approaching enemy far away, but either he was fooled by their ethereal nature or they could traverse any distance in this gods-forsaken land in a matter of moments. Before him stood a shade, resembling a human but incorporeal and transparent. It looked to be a man in his fifties, wearing only a linen undershirt, and he had pox marks all over his face, suggesting the cause of his demise.

  Halfdan struck out, but his weapon simply passed through without causing harm. The spectre did not retaliate, however, but instead went for Freydis, who likewise swung her spear to no effect. The ghost reached out and touched her, its hands passing into her body. Her eyes widened in response, and she fell to the ground, trembling and shaking.

  Belatedly, Halfdan remembered Freydis’ advice. He wielded a powerful artefact, but he knew little of its abilities. He recognised some of the runes carved into it, but which would necessarily be of use in this fight? Trusting in familiarity, he spoke a single word. “Sól.”

  Fire erupted to wreathe the head of the hammer. It provided no heat, and the colour was grey rather than golden, nor did it banish shadows in a land of perpetual light, however bleak that might be.

  But as Halfdan swung the hammer through the ghost, it shrieked in terrifying manner and turned against him. He repeated his attack, and whether it was the cold fire or the mimicry of the life-giving sun, it seemed an antidote to the undead spectre. Its ghostly form fell apart where the hammer touched, and after another swing, it simply dissolved into the air.

  Next to him, Sif released her galdr, a scream no less horrifying than what their attackers could produce. It had the same effect as Halfdan’s hammer, dispersing the spirit like smoke before the wind.

  As swiftly as it had occurred, the assault was gone. Either it had only been a few spectres, or the others had abandoned their attack. Halfdan blinked, seeing another Seed. No complaints if every fight was this easy, he thought, letting the fire on his hammer extinguish. His triumphant attitude receded as he looked down at Freydis, wheezing for breath. Hurriedly, he reached down to help her stand. “Are you wounded?”

  “Not physically,” she replied with belaboured breath. “But it felt… as if my heart froze to ice.”

  “It went straight for you rather than me,” Halfdan considered. “Given whom you have angered… would these spirits have received commands to hurt you before all others?”

  She glanced at his hammer and touched the enchanted rope he carried around his waist. “Or they possess enough cunning to avoid someone wearing such items of power. The hammer speaks for itself, and the rope is infused with the wrath of the Aesir and the blood of the innocents.”

  His gaze fell on Sif, who stood unaffected, as if being attacked by a ghost meant nothing to her. “Well done, little skáld,” he acknowledged. Halfdan did not understand the magic of her gift, but he could appreciate its power all the same.

  “I told you, I’m useful. And I wasn’t even afraid,” she replied with pride.

  He patted her head. “You’d make a good berserker.” He turned his attention back to Freydis. “Are you well enough to continue? It’s not too late to turn back.”

  She shook her head. “My condition is the same as before. We should continue.”

  Together, they faced the hall in the distance and resumed their journey.

  *

  Whether some illusion or simply the nature of the place, the remaining distance seemed swiftly covered. Before long, their destination loomed tall against the horizon before them. It struck Halfdan as a strange building. It seemed a fortress with palisades and ramparts, and what might be a mead hall could be seen beyond these outer walls. But where had the materials for all this come from, and which army would ever assault this place that defences were needed?

  Holding a hammer in his hands, Halfdan had to admit, they would need their defences at least once. Before the gate stood two guards, not spectres, but draugar. They lowered their spears and attacked. Freydis distracted one with her own weapon, allowing Halfdan to move in close and smash the head with a single, violent blow. As for the other, Sif’s galdr unravelled him with a drawn-out melody, and his body fell to the ground, no longer animated.

  “Odd how some are ghosts in the afterlife, but others are found here with their body intact.” Halfdan looked down at the draugr he had returned to its corpse state, its head now crushed. “More or less.”

  “Difference in burial,” Sif explained. “These were burned, and so both body and spirit are gone.”

  “I always knew I wanted a pyre when the time came,” Halfdan jested, but his mirth disappeared as he realised the time had indeed come. He knew this to be his fate, and he had gone willingly. But the others – it did not have to be theirs. “They’ll know we’re coming. And I don’t know what we’ll face. I have to do this,” he said without wanting to elaborate. Sif had been present at Urd’s Well; she already knew. “But you don’t have to.”

  “Halfdan,” Freydis breathed, staring at him, “I am not abandoning you, come what may.”

  Sif took his hand and squeezed it. “Same.”

  Halfdan felt awful; he was meant to look after the child, protect her, and now he dragged her into the hall of Hel itself. But she had earned the right to be here, to make her own decisions. And while he held out no hope for himself, perhaps together, these two people, the only two he cared about, could save each other. “Alright.” Steeling himself, Halfdan crossed the threshold.