Halfdan peered down at the dark opening. He could not imagine what awaited, but given his experiences so far in J?tunheim, he did not have much hope. “We should get another torch,” he suggested, glancing around the burial mound.

  Freydis picked up the one they already had. “Let’s look for some wood.”

  “Should we go that way, though?” Sif asked. “Loki can’t have come this way.”

  Halfdan looked at the shattered remains of the throne, hiding the descent. “There may well be hidden paths he has taken. Or he’s taken another gate entirely. All the more reason we must go.” He kept quiet about his primary reason; if they found the gate and how to work it, he could send Sif home to Midgard, accompanied by Freydis.

  “Couldn’t we just wait up here?” the girl asked. “Maybe he’ll come this way.”

  “Not afraid of the dark, are you?” Halfdan asked with absent mind, searching around for anything to turn into a torch.

  “More afraid of what it hides.” The girl sniffed again. “I think you were right, Halfdan.”

  “Hm? About?”

  “I shouldn’t have come. I’m… I’m really scared, Halfdan,” she admitted.

  Turning to look at her, Halfdan saw fear written across her face. He realised she must have been suppressing her feelings all this time, feigning a courageous demeanour. “Child, it’s alright. There’s no shame in that.”

  “I try to be brave like you, but I’m afraid all the time,” Sif continued, and the words flowed like waterfall while tears filled her eyes. “I’m scared of wolves and bears and dead that walk again, headless corpses and giant snakes.”

  Kneeling in front of her, Halfdan brushed his hand over her cheek. “Don’t you know, child, you’re far braver than me?”

  She sniffed. “That’s silly, there’s nobody braver than you!”

  The berserker shook his head. “Not at all. When I fight, the rage takes over, leaving only instinct. I can’t feel fear, but that’s simply because of my gift. There’s no bravery involved. But you, girly,” he continued, poking her in the chest, “you face terrors that would make grown men wet themselves.”

  A half-choked sound between sniffing and laughter emerged from her.

  “You’re the bravest person I know.”

  She looked at him. “Is that true? You promise?”

  He gave a solemn nod. “I promise it’s true.”

  Freydis approached them, holding a torch in each hand. She gave one to Halfdan. “We won’t let anything happen to you,” she said, adding her own promise to Halfdan’s, and although her words were not aimed at him, he felt a rush of warmth fill him. “You go first?” she asked, this time directed at the berserker. “Sif in the middle, I’ll bring up the rear.”

  Halfdan nodded. “Yes. No time to waste.” In the order proposed by the priestess, they descended the depths of J?tunheim.

  *

  Narrow stairs, scarcely better than a ladder, led them down. Halfdan walked with bowed head, and his shoulders scraped the walls on both sides of him. He had his axe in one hand, torch in the other, but if battle erupted, he would not be able to swing the weapon. While he did not know fear, he became well acquainted with a deep-seated feeling of discomfort. When the corridor expanded after a hundred paces, he breathed a small sigh of relief.

  It lasted until he saw the reason for the wider tunnel. On either side were alcoves, each of them containing a corpse. At least Halfdan assumed so; the bodies were not decayed. Nor did he smell the stench of rot, only dust and dry air. One might have imagined some kind of magic kept them, that they slept rather than lay dead, but the paleness suggested the latter. Many of them also had wounds, and although any blood had clearly been cleaned, it still told the tale of warriors fallen in battle. All of them had weapons on their chest or next to them as well.

  Halfdan looked ahead; the light of the torch disappeared, giving him no idea of how far the tunnel stretched. “A graveyard below ground,” he said, speaking to himself.

  “What have you found?” asked Freydis, standing in the back and unable to see what caused Halfdan to halt.

  “The burial mounds were just the tip of the spear,” he explained, stepping forward. The corridor allowed him to turn around and look at the others. “This must be where they buried their dead in past times.”

  “I don’t know about this place,” the skáld in their company admitted. “Nothing comes to me.”

  “This place is forbidden for more than one reason,” Freydis muttered. “This is no place for the living.”

  “Are they going to come back to life?” asked Sif.

  With our luck, definitely, Halfdan thought. “I don’t think so, as long as we don’t disturb them or desecrate their resting place. Let’s proceed, quietly and respectfully.”

  The others nodded, the girl with especial eagerness, and Halfdan turned around to proceed deeper into the catacombs.

  *

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Halfdan soon lost count of his paces. He had hoped that the gate they sought would be close by, but evidently not. It took hundreds of steps before the path changed again. This time, it not only widened, but grew into a large, round chamber.

  Looking to either side, Halfdan saw no more alcoves, but instead, carved reliefs on the walls; moving forward, the light of the torch fell upon the centre, where a throne stood. It was occupied by a man, dead like the rest, though hardly touched by decay. In addition, a score of corpses lay around the seat, appearing as an honour guard asleep. Halfdan shivered, not so much from the eerie sensation of being surrounded by corpses, but rather from the pure cold that seemed to radiate from the dead.

  “Who’s that?” Sif whispered, though her voice still felt like a bell tolling through the space.

  “Irrelevant,” Freydis replied. “We should keep going.”

  Halfdan agreed. The similarity to the chamber above, resting place of Rungnir, was not lost on him. Given how the headless corpse had reacted to their presence, Halfdan had no desire to find out if the same welcome would greet them here. With careful steps, minding where he went and that he did not tread on anything, Halfdan began walking around the throne and its unknown occupant.

  Too late. Or perhaps it would always have happened this way. The dead J?tun on the throne opened his eyes, and they burned like blue fire. “Who enters the final resting place of Rimnir?”

  All of the living began backing away. “Our apologies,” Halfdan said half-heartedly. “We mean no disrespect.”

  The burning eyes fell on the berserker. “I am sure. And if up to me, I would simply ask that you leave. But all of us interred in this place swore an oath in life that must be fulfilled in death.” If the face of a dead man could convey remorse, Rimnir’s did. “That oath was to keep intruders out. You have intruded, and so we must obey.” As the J?tun stood up from his throne, his movement was echoed all around them. All around them, the dead rose, weapons at the ready.

  *

  Halfdan swung his axe, decapitating a draugr the moment it stood upright. Looking around, the situation was terrible; they were outnumbered and would be attacked from all angles. The berserker might survive the blows and cuts that inevitably would land, but his companions would not. And they could not retreat the way they came, where rows of draugar came rushing down the corridor.

  “Deeper in!” Freydis shouted, a hand on Sif’s shoulder. Throwing her torch away, the priestess seemed to shrink into the darkness, and despite leading a girl with her, she nimbly avoided any attacks, circumventing the throne.

  Halfdan understood; Freydis placed her hope on a possible passage going deeper into the complex, which might not contain endless rows of draugar. With no other choice, he followed, swinging his axe to carve a path, though he also took several cuts. [Scorn the Steel] proved its worth; the ancient blades had not kept their edge, and few could damage him. Perhaps this fight could be won after all if their tactical position improved.

  Arrows whistled past him, and Halfdan swore, cutting off an arm before pushing the draugr to the ground and moving past. More of the undead spilled into the space between him and the passageway that led deeper in; some focused on him, some went for Freydis. Her spear, though less adept at returning them to rest, kept them at bay, and Halfdan’s axe continued its work.

  There was no need for further communication; Freydis understood the situation and pushed Sif ahead of her, into the corridor, before defending it until Halfdan could reach them. She stepped back, letting him take position in front. He struck his axe, felling a foe each time; behind him, Freydis used her spear to defend his exposed sides.

  Fighting without his rage made the battle harder, but Halfdan did not need it. [Scorn the Steel] kept him safe from grievous injuries, and thanks to [Strength of Body], he did not tire yet of swinging his axe. He had no need of rage to keep himself going or [Pain to Power] to fuel his strikes.

  A wall of enemies was building itself around Halfdan, as the fallen draugar lay on top of each other. This further hindered attacks, and the berserker began to feel certain of victory; he even dared a smile as his axe severed another head from neck.

  Rimnir had so far watched dispassionately while his dead brethren rushed to embrace death again. But as the assault faltered, he finally stepped forward. A shard of ice formed in his hand until he could throw it at Halfdan. A draugr moved in front, and the shard impaled her head; in addition, the sheer momentum pushed the once-again dead corpse forward, throwing Halfdan to the ground.

  Seeing the gruesome sight of the icicle, Halfdan realised this fight would not be like any other. “Run!” he shouted, getting back on his feet. He did not look behind, trusting his companions would do as told.

  The other draugar retreated, making a path for Rimnir to advance. Raising his hands, shards formed in both, and he flung them forward again. Halfdan raised his axe, blocking one with the head, but the other struck his arm, tearing flesh open. Gritting his teeth, the berserker decapitated one draugr who tried his luck, coming too close.

  Entering rage was always an option, but not yet; this was a different kind of enemy who fought in ways Halfdan had never encountered before. And with all the other draugar, the tactics of the situation were complicated. So the berserker held on to the strongest arrow in his quiver for now.

  As Rimnir released his shards again, Halfdan thanked his three ranks in [Swifter Than Them] and evaded both attacks, moving close enough to swing his axe straight down between Rimnir’s shoulder and neck. The edge made good way, driven by [Deeper the Cut]. But as could be expected from an undead foe, Rimnir did not even blink.

  And before Halfdan had a chance to pull his weapon back, frost travelled from the bloodless wound to envelop the steel. With a terrible crack, the axe head shattered in every direction. Splinters struck the berserker in his face, though fortunately not, his eyes; [Mend your Wounds] had limits on what could be healed.

  Holding the haft, now reduced to simply a staff, Halfdan stared for a moment at Rimnir. He understood now why despite his ranged attack, the draugr had been willing to enter close combat. He was a frost J?tun with powers Halfdan had never imagined. There was only one thing to do, something the berserker had never done before.

  Halfdan scrambled backwards, turned around, and fled down the corridor.

  *

  Leaving the torch behind meant running into darkness. The only saving grace was that the catacombs had ended with Rimnir’s chamber, meaning no enemies ahead; or so Halfdan hoped. The loss of his axe made him distraught; it was his most precious belonging, his identity as a berserker, and his only real way of defending himself. And looking over his shoulder, in the dim light that illuminated the sepulchre he had abandoned, Halfdan could see the draugr advance towards him.

  With a host of emotions in his head, coupled with his hurried flight, it took Halfdan a moment to realise the illumination around him. As he ran forward, lights appeared on the wall to the one side; it seemed a response to his presence. Glancing up, he saw they were runes, glowing in the dark, though he did not have the presence of mind or luxury of time to read them. Clever for those without a torch, but at the same time, it revealed his position.

  Fortunately, it also showed a wall directly ahead that Halfdan would otherwise have run straight into. Instead, the path divided, left and right. The warrior had no idea which road to take, nor could he see anything. But he needed to escape the rune light on the wall, disappear; looking behind him, he saw Rimnir’s burning blue eyes briefly before darkness swallowed the draugr, hiding him for now.

  With nothing to guide him, no raven or omen, no trail or tracks, Halfdan went left, praying that the gods were still on his side.