With raised weapons, they entered the hall of Hel. Once again, the structure confounded Halfdan. He had expected a courtyard with buildings past the palisade, like a fortified homestead. Instead, the gate led directly into a single building that seemed to take up all the space within the fortifications. They walked down a hallway that was many times the height of any man, even though the gate had not nearly seen that tall. They passed by room after room, which all seemed identical and empty. Strangest of all… “Where’s everyone?” Halfdan asked. “Given how many people have died, just historically speaking, I would have expected Hel to be busier.”
“It is odd,” Freydis granted. Her breathing still sounded laboured, but she did not appear worse than when they had first arrived to this world. “Perhaps they hide from the living, or they lie in wait for us.”
“Shades or draugar, we can handle them,” Sif proclaimed with confidence, and Halfdan shot her a quick smile.
“All the same, best we keep our guard up. There must be worse things than simple undead creatures,” he said in warning, keeping his hammer ready. He had ignited the fire around its head again, helping to illuminate the space besides the eerie light that seemed to arrive from invisible lamps. It did not make much of a difference, but he felt better having a tangible, real source of light even if it still looked pale and colourless compared to genuine fire.
“I doubt any of us intended to be lax in our vigilance,” Freydis remarked.
“Someone’s feeling good enough to show some nerve,” the berserker mumbled with mock indignation; he was glad to hear the barb in her words, reminiscent of earlier times and better health.
“What’s that?” Sif’s voice interrupted them.
Down the strange corridor, a shape appeared. At first, it seemed far away, but suddenly, it stood before them. A draugr, not a shadow, wearing clothes and wielding a great axe. Astonished, Halfdan exclaimed, “Ylva!”
*
Guilt at seeing her corpse filled Halfdan. He recalled her final moments, but also that he had not been given a choice, and he banished the emotion from his mind.
“Ah, so you recognise me. Not that you have given me much thought over the years.” The female berserker’s voice was full of reproach, though it sounded the same as when she had been alive.
“What, the dead have some manner to measure thoughts sent their way? Or did you expect prayers?” Halfdan scoffed. He was surprised she did not blame him for her end; if this was her only complaint, he could easily deflect it. “I saw to it that you were buried with full honours on a pyre. Be grateful you’re not a shadow in this place.”
“I should be grateful? I, who taught you everything you know? Gave you your powers? Where is your gratitude, boy?”
Halfdan laughed with incredulity. Where was her guilt for what she had done to him? “Do you believe this?” he asked, turning to his companions, only to find them gone.
*
Freydis stared at the figure in front of her. “I suppose it’s no surprise to find you here, given that’s where I sent you.”
The man in front of her, clad in expensive clothing with silver embroidery along with jewellery, gave a contemptuous smile. “So you did. No honourable end in battle for me, but an ignominious death at a wench’s hand!” He spat without liquid.
“How could you ever have died with honour when you never lived with honour?” she asked coldly.
*
“My child, my child.” The woman facing Sif held out her arms, and the girl gladly stepped into her embrace.
“Mum!”
“My poor child,” she spoke with a soothing voice, stroking Sif’s hair. “All that you have endured.”
The girl pulled back a little, looking around the hallway to find that she was alone with the dead woman. “Where’s the others?”
“I don’t know, my darling. I only know I’ve missed you. You look frightful, like you’ve been through all kinds of ordeals!”
Sif placed her head inside her mother’s embrace again. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
*
Ylva stared at her former apprentice with disdain. “Is this how you honour the gift I gave you? The knowledge I shared? You’re nothing but a tool for the gods, doing their dirty work only to be discarded when they’re done with you!”
Halfdan narrowed his eyes, feeling his temper flare. “I never asked for this! Odin forced his gift on me, set me on this path! Same as you did! Taking an orphan boy with none to speak up for him, none to defend him, turning him into you!”
“That’s right, boy, you were an orphan, with no future!” Ylva yelled. “If not for me, it would only have been a question whether the cold or starvation killed you first!”
“I never wanted this!” Halfdan shouted back. His fingers clenched tightly around the haft of his weapon. “You made me an outcast! I killed my only friend because of what you did to me!”
*
“I will not have my honour questioned by a slave girl who killed her rightful master in the most cowardly fashion,” the jarl sneered. “They should have let the dogs rip you apart when they hunted you down!”
Freydis smiled. “Maybe. But you’re the one who died like a dog, whimpering as the blood flowed from your wound and you tried to beg for your life, but no words could pass your lips.”
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With a contemptuous expression, he drew his sword. “Now it’s your turn.”
She did not bother responding other than swiftly striking out with her spear.
*
“Excuses.” Ylva laughed with derision. “You’re still that frightened little boy. Afraid to do anything, must be prodded and poked to take one step forward.”
“I’ve come this far,” Halfdan retorted with cold fury. “I’ve faced monsters and beasts far worse than anything you could imagine. I’ve travelled the worlds and survived the worst they could throw at me. I surpassed you long ago.”
“More words.” She hefted the axe in her hands. “Prove it.”
“Gladly!” With a quick step, Halfdan closed the distance to let his hammer speak on his behalf.
*
“What’s happening?” Sif looked around. “I heard the sound of fighting.”
“The business of adults,” her mother replied. “That’s all we do, it feels like sometimes. Fight and argue.”
“This is all a trick, isn’t it?” She looked up at the woman. “To make me turn back. Or give up.”
“I don’t know, child,” came the admission. “These matters are beyond me. You’ve come so far, far beyond what I ever imagined for you. I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, mum,” Sif sniffed and smiled.
“I won’t ask if you’re safe because I know the answer to that. But are you with good people?”
“I am, don’t worry. They’ll look after me. And I look after them.”
Her mother stroked her hair again. “That’s how it should be.”
*
Freydis deftly avoided the sword attacking her, stepping back to gain distance and make the most of her reach. Her adversary had the lesser weapon for a fight on these terms, but he possessed skill to make up for it. Every attack, he parried deftly, but the shorter reach of his sword kept him from being able to retaliate. With a face twisted by fury, Freydis struck again, keeping her aim low to strike the jarl in his leg and bring him to his knees.
*
Halfdan had a cruel smile as he sized up Ylva. Once, she had seemed so dominant, so imposing to a young boy growing up in her shadow. Now, facing her as an adult, he realised she was nothing compared to him. His powers vastly exceeded hers in every conceivable way. She would not stand a chance. She struck out with her axe, but [Swifter Than Them] easily allowed him to evade; whatever abilities she might possess in death could not compare to his.
A sharp pain tore Halfdan from his thoughts. A line of blood appeared along his calf. A wound caused by a quick slash. But Ylva’s weapon had not come near his leg, nor would an axe with that momentum leave such a minor injury.
She moved forward again, taking advantage of his confusion, and while it would be easy to simply end the fight by crushing her head, Halfdan had learned to trust his instincts. He retreated rather than fight back, buying time. A quick blink of the eyes saw him spend two Seeds, increasing first [Berserker's Rage] and then its dependent skill, [Enemy to Sorcery]. As he now looked on Ylva, something bothered him, like staring at the blurred reflection in water.
He recalled the fight in the underground lair in J?tunheim, where he had faced his own mirror image. “Stop!” he called out. Back then, the solution had been to simply cease fighting, but this conjuration continued advancing at him. “Stay back! Freydis, Sif!”
*
“How long will this last?” Sif asked, her mother still embracing her.
“Not much longer, my child,” her mother admitted. “This was always a stolen moment. And your companions call to you. I hear them shout your name.”
“I’m sure. They really can’t do much without me,” the skáld declared. She pulled back to look up at her mother one last time. “I miss you, mum.”
“I know, my darling.” She caressed her daughter’s face. “Being missed is how we stay alive, even in death.”
Sif ran a sleeve across her face and cleared her throat before she began to sing. A lamentation of loss, woven with deep ache for those departed, working its magic on both the living and the dead. With a mournful smile, her mother wiped a tear and slowly faded away.
*
Halfdan had two Seeds left, allowing him to upgrade [Enemy to Sorcery] further. He could see no other option to escape whatever illusion had been placed on him, though at the same time, he feared it would not be enough. If this was a trick conjured by Hel herself, her powers had to be far greater than his resistance.
His deliberations were disrupted as Ylva faded away before his eyes. He blinked, not to spend his Seeds, but simply in confusion. Moments later, his old teacher was gone. Instead, he looked at Freydis, swinging her spear, while Sif stood some distance away, finishing her galdr that had pierced the veil.
“What – what happened?” asked Freydis. Her exertions at an end, she tried to breathe deeply and ended up leaning against the wall. “Of course. It was all trickery.”
“Using our memory of the dead against us,” Halfdan mumbled. “Are you hurt?” he asked with concern.
“No, just tired. But you – your leg,” she breathed.
“It’ll be fine.” He looked towards Sif. “And you? Anyone hurt you?”
“Quite the opposite. I’m fine,” she declared.
“You didn’t get attacked?”
“Not the way you did, no.” The skáld frowned in thought. “I think we faced what we bring with us. You both fought someone, from the looks of it. I didn’t.”
“I saw Ylva, my old master. Who made me a berserker.”
“Not a happy reunion?” Freydis asked.
“Not under these circumstances. I might have a bit of anger about it all. Who knew?”
“What of you?” Sif asked, looking at the woman. “Who did you see?”
“Nobody worth mentioning.” Freydis straightened up, using the spear rather than the wall to support herself. “Let’s go on. If that’s the best they got, I’m not afraid of what lies ahead,” she claimed.
Halfdan believed he knew her well enough to understand she put on a brave face, perhaps for Sif’s sake or her own. But that was not an illusion he saw a need to dispel. “Well said. These ghosts, whether real or imagined, pose no danger to us.”
“You’d still be fighting them if I hadn’t used my song,” Sif mumbled.
“Very well, honour where honour is due,” Halfdan acknowledged. “Our little skáld has come far.” He gave a smile that befitted his light-hearted words, masking the growing apprehension he felt. He could not imagine what they might face, the powers of Hel, or how to fight them; yet looking at Freydis, he knew time was running out. “Alright. My leg is fine now. If we’re all in one piece, we should move on.” His companions nodded their agreement, and they continued.
