Freydis stared at him bewildered before her expression turned irate. “This is not a matter for jesting.”

  “And I made none.” He met her gaze, seeing the storm of emotions brewing inside of her.

  “You’re being a fool. We have ways of travelling to Hel that don’t involve such a… ridiculous proposition.”

  “So did Odin, and yet he chose to die. If reaching Hel was enough to learn the secret of runes, wouldn’t Loki have done so? Yet he never learned them.”

  “He’s right.” Sif’s voice, though quiet, struck like an axe.

  “You as well.” Shrill laughter came from Freydis. “Halfdan, how can you contemplate this? And you,” she continued, looking at Sif, “do you care so little that you’d let him wager his life on a fool’s errand?”

  The young skáld took Halfdan’s hand. “I care enough that just the thought hurts me. But I understand all of this better than you, Freydis. He’s right. He must be a rival to Odin, or the Alfather will never consider him a credible threat.”

  Freydis shook her head, muttering under her breath. Halfdan, meanwhile, squeezed Sif’s hand before he began disrobing, placing his weapons and belt aside and his armour afterwards. “Freydis. I need your help.”

  “You shall not have it,” came the quick retort. She stared at him, shaking her head again. “I will not participate in this madness.”

  “You’re my priestess. You must sacrifice me to me.”

  “It’s decided, just like that? You will not even contemplate another course of action, my protestations? My counsel is cast aside in favour of pure madness!”

  Halfdan reached out to gently hold her wrists, and when she did not resist his touch, he let his hands slide down to grasp hers. “I can’t explain it. But knowledge comes to me, whispering the right path. Fate itself guides me, or the powers of the mantle I have assumed.”

  Her eyes glistened wet in the eerie light of the glowing moss that covered the nearby ruins. “How can you ask me to do this?”

  “Because you have my trust above all.” He reached out to draw Hel’s dagger from her belt. A weapon to slay even gods. He placed it in her grip and closed her hands around it.

  “I can’t.” She pressed her lips together, shaking her head repeatedly.

  “Say the words, my heart. I will do the rest.” Holding her hands that gripped the weapon, he raised it until the tip rested against his chest. “You are my priestess. Do this for me.”

  “I won’t.”

  His voice grew firm. “Freydis. I command you.”

  Her voice on the other hand trembled as she mumbled the words. “As high priestess of Loki, I dedicate this sacrifice to my master.” More sounds followed, barely audible.

  Halfdan felt it, a connection between them; much like when she drew on his power for her abilities. He tried to give her a reassuring smile, but she was looking away, and he could only drag one corner of his mouth upwards regardless. Steeling himself, he pushed her hands towards himself, and [Death’s Needle] willingly slipped between his ribs and impaled his heart.

  *

  Opening his eyes, Halfdan saw nothing; his other senses, however, clamoured in his mind. He lay on the ground, and he was cold; he felt the bare stone against his back, thereby also telling him that he was naked. A stench grabbed his nostrils, suggesting rotten meat. Hopefully not his own. And a creaking sound made him feel like he was inside a derelict house that could collapse at any moment.

  He called on his [Seier], and the darkness receded to show him his surroundings in grey light. He had his powers still. He pushed himself up to stand. His limbs felt stiff, but otherwise normal. No injuries or weakness; he imagined he still had his strength and stamina as well. Probably also his skill with weapons, but his hammer was nowhere to be seen. To be expected; you could not bring anything with you to Hel, it seemed, when you arrived the usual way.

  Yet the room was not empty. Behind him lay clothing in a neat pile. Halfdan grabbed it and put on a tunic, made from undyed wool, along with a belt. He found sandals as well. It did nothing to ward off the cold, but better than being naked. He did not find so much as a knife, though. Too much to hope for that his host would provide him with weaponry. He was half surprised that Hel would even bother give him a scrap of fabric.

  No point in delaying further. He found the door and pushed it open to enter the halls of Hel and the challenge that awaited him.

  *

  Halfdan followed a corridor that seemed to have no doors on either side, as if its purpose was simply to make a guest walk for a long time. Knowing Hel, this could entirely be possible. This place was not made for the living or according to their principles. It did strike Halfdan as odd that he had seen no dead people in these halls on his previous visit, other than Baldr. Where did they all go? Perhaps this place was not their final destination either, but simply a temporary location, like a shelter on the road.

  The corridor ended, finally showing Halfdan a door. He pushed it open, revealing light on the other side, and he let his [Seier] fade. He immediately recognised what lay on the other side. It was the throne room of Hel, where he had killed Loki and nearly died in that same fight. Strange to once more stand in the same place, though this time, he was even closer to death – if not beyond. No point in delaying, Halfdan strode forward.

  The signs of battle were gone. The furniture stood whole, as did Hel’s throne. As for its owner, she filled her seat with Baldr by her side, still in the role of advisor or jester, perhaps both.

  “I greet you, Hel, ruler of this realm.”

  “I remember you.” Her blue eyes, one bright, the other cold, became fixed on him. Her mouth, partly red, partly dead, crumpled together in a sneer. “You killed my father.”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “I did. And I took his place.”

  “You pursue the plan?” Baldr interjected, speaking quickly.

  “Yes. I’m nearly there.” Halfdan saw no reason to inform them that he never intended to unleash Ragnar?k, he only sought to have it as a threat – but perhaps Baldr knew and wagered that once the wind had filled the sails of fate, the ship could not change its course. Regardless, for now, they were allies; hopefully Hel remembered that. “I have the spells and the bones to begin Ragnar?k. I only need the runes.”

  “And so you come to me. Everyone comes to me in the end.” Hel smiled triumphantly, leaning back in her seat. “Even immortals.” She extended a pallid hand towards Baldr, running the tips of her nails against his cheek. “Including my pretty boy here, bound by fate.” The son of Odin kept quiet, but his face, turned away from Hel, spoke plenty.

  That was none of Halfdan’s business. He imagined that his time was limited; he could not expect a path back to life and Myrkheim remained open forever. And in this place, he had no sense of time passing; he might have spent days walking the corridor. “How do I get the runes? I need them.”

  Hel laughed, a shrill sound. “Oh yes, you do.”

  Baldr looked apologetic. “I was not here when my father journeyed hence and learned the lore of the runes. I don’t know the answer.”

  “Only I do.” The ruler of the dead smiled like a cat after eating a mouse.

  “Well?” When courtesy met impatience, the latter was stronger for a berserker. “Tell me.”

  “Ask me properly. You are a guest, and I am queen of this realm.” Hel’s voice turned from icy to angry, and she leaned forward while clutching the armrests of her seat. “Treat me as I deserve!”

  If Halfdan had held a weapon in hand, perhaps he would have been otherwise inclined. But he did not do this for himself; he had left two people behind, who were vulnerable without him. He needed to return to them, and coming back empty-handed would be foolish. So he bent down to one knee, a supplicant before a ruler. “Great Hel, ruler of all you survey, I ask that you grant me the knowledge of the runes.”

  Looking mollified, Hel leaned back again. “Better. Go through that door. If you survive – well, if you make it through, you’ll have what you wanted. At least, that’s what Odin did.” She pointed to her right at a door; if it had always been there, he could not tell.

  It occurred to Halfdan that she knew scarcely more than him about what awaited him. This was Odin’s mysteries, and none other had travelled so deeply into them as Halfdan. Hel was but the caretaker, her only role in this place, whether it came to the dead or to secrets. She could be of no further use to him. This was preferable to him, though; dealing with her constant changes was exhausting. Wordlessly, Halfdan got on his feet and crossed the hall to pass through the door.

  *

  Halfdan entered darkness that became complete as the door behind him shut. He used his [Seier], though it made little difference; he saw nothing around him. Not even walls. Glancing over his shoulder, the door was gone as well. He might as well have been outside on an endless plain illuminated only by grey, thanks to his magic.

  Was he supposed to walk? Reach a destination somewhere? Not knowing his next move annoyed Halfdan even more than waiting. Indecision, uncertainty, these were anathema to a berserker. “What is this?” he called out.

  “Halfdan. At last, you join us.”

  He swung around, following the voice. He would have sworn that a moment ago, he had been alone. Now, he saw a face from his past. “Ylva.”

  The female berserker gave a harsh smile. “Surprised to see me?”

  “Not really. You tried to stop me last time I was here. Don’t got much better to do, I see.”

  She gave a sneer. “Whatever you encountered, it wasn’t me. A feeble phantasm, I take it.”

  “I suppose.” Halfdan cared little for the metaphysical specifications. “So this is really you, Ylva, in the dead flesh? I would have thought Odin wanted you for his hall. You’re exactly the kind of warrior he relies on.”

  “Speaking from bitter experience?” Ylva’s smile faded, and she pulled her tunic down to reveal an ugly wound where her neck met her shoulder. That did suggest this draugr was the real berserker Halfdan had known. “Remember this?”

  Halfdan scoffed. “You blame me?”

  “Considering it was your axe!”

  “You went berserk, Ylva.”

  “To kill no less than twenty raiders! To protect the town, our home, you!”

  “It was your decision to fight them at their camp. You knew there would be children.”

  Ylva spat, assuming the dead possessed any saliva. “They should have fled.”

  Halfdan shook his head. “I’ll feel no remorse for my actions that day.”

  “You hypocrite.” The words came from another voice belonging to a man.

  Halfdan turned again, and this time, he would have grown pale if death had not already coloured him thus. “Halvor.”

  “You went berserk knowing I was with you!” came the accusation, as Halvor pointed at him. “Just like Ylva! But there was nobody to save me from you!”

  “I shouted for you to run! I warned you!”

  “Barely a moment before your eyes turned red and you slaughtered us all!” Halvor shouted. “First you rob my child of her father, and then you steal her for yourself!”

  “Sif knows! She understands, unlike you forgotten spirits!” Halfdan sneered. “I’ll not stand in judgement from those lesser!”

  “Thief.” Another voice joined in. Suddenly, Loki stood between the other. “My power, my priestess, my fate, my life – you stole everything from me!”

  “You were a madman! You would drown the worlds in flames just to get revenge!”

  “And you would do otherwise?” Loki’s nostrils flared. “You’ve come for that same purpose! Liar!”

  “Hypocrite!”

  “Murderer!”

  “Nieing!”

  Other voices joined the chorus, all of them shouting at him. His eyes darting around, Halfdan felt penned in. His hands clenched together, grasping for a weapon he did not have.

  But Ylva did. A dagger, with an appearance as wicked as her smile, filled her hand.