Death did not steal a man’s powers, or a woman’s, for that matter. Ylva had her berserker strength, and she was not the only one arrayed against Halfdan. Loki could vanish and appear behind him, placing him in a choke hold. A J?tun, unrecognisable to Halfdan, turned into a bear and struck out with a paw that could rip a man’s head off. Many others came against him, using seier or galdr, including a witch.

  Yet Halfdan had all his powers as well. Their magic could not pierce his resistance, and their strength was lesser than his. He grabbed Loki from his back and threw the deceiver against the bear with enough force to send them both tumbling to the ground. His own magic blew the witch aside. As for Ylva, [Swifter Than Them] proved true; he grabbed her wrist, tore the dagger from her grip, and planted it in her chest.

  When he pulled the weapon back, nothing happened. He might as well have stabbed air. She had suffered no wound, and with a smirk, she punched Halfdan’s throat.

  As he no longer breathed, it troubled him less than expected, and he returned the blow, lifting her off the ground. Another J?tun came at him, gripping his wrist with icy fingers; where they touched, frost spread.

  But Halfdan required no heat, and cold did not hurt him; he dropped the dagger from the hand being trapped, caught it with the other, and stabbed the J?tun in the heart.

  As before, it made no difference. Sneering, Halfdan released the weapon and simply punched the J?tun to push him away. Immediately, another came against him, and he threw another punch to deal with him in the same way.

  “You can’t win,” Ylva taunted him, retrieving the dagger from the J?tun’s chest; the latter seemed unimpaired, as he immediately launched another attack.

  She was right. While Halfdan felt no weariness, and he could easily weather their blows and spells, he was not inflicting any actual harm on them either. He had no weapon to hurt them, and if his seier had such power, he was not aware of how to use it. Was that the secret? Had Odin overcome this trial through sorcery? He did seem to favour spells over brute strength.

  The endless attacks constantly interrupted Halfdan, nor give him much of an opportunity to figure out how his magic might help. He was fighting one against nine, and there was no end to their assaults. No matter how hard he hit, they simply got back up.

  “Pathetic berserker!” Ylva sneered. “No rage, no fight in you. You’ve strayed from my teachings - no wonder you’re feeble and weak!” She came against him, wielding the dagger, and it cut his skin open across his forearm as he parried it away, though no blood came. Unlike these spirits or draugar, it could hurt him; perhaps a sign that he was not as far beyond death’s threshold as them.

  In response to her taunts, Halfdan moved in, grabbed her collar, and threw her against one of the J?tnar. A stabbing pain came from behind, though not from a weapon, but a spell. He glanced over his shoulder and threw his head in a gesture to counter her magic, turning the witch’s magic against her to make her buckle over.

  Ylva’s words echoed in him. Was going berserk the solution? It would grant him the strength to tear them to pieces – if such a thing was possible. Evading a blow and retaliating, Halfdan had the wherewithal to see the trap that Ylva had placed before him, almost in naive fashion, though being under constant threat and distracted, he had nearly fallen for it.

  Loki tried the same trick again, strangling Halfdan, which still did not work against a man without breath, and he threw him away as before, trying to buy a moment to think.

  If Halfdan went berserk, the state would not end until he died, lost the strength to fight on, or remained the last man standing. But if he did not grow weary, could not kill these gods-damned spirits, or they him, the fight would never end. He would remain in the berserker state eternally, fighting a battle mindlessly that could not be won or lost.

  Another blow, striking his chin, and Halfdan staggered backwards before hitting back. This was a trick, like before. The forest that Odin had placed him in, endlessly fighting a bear – or had he been the bear fighting a man? Regardless, he had only won when he gave up the battle.

  “You can’t win,” Ylva reiterated. “For all your stolen power, you have none in this place that would avail you.”

  “You can’t win,” Loki repeated with a smile that invited a punch; Halfdan accepted the invitation before considering their words.

  It was true. In fact, Halfdan could only see one way out. The only way to win is to lose. The thought was abhorrent to the proud warrior, and he wanted to reject it. But there was nothing else he could do. And the moment he accepted it, his mind became clear. He ceased to struggle.

  They pounced on him. The J?tun in bear form jumped on top of him, holding him down, aided by spells from the witches that acted as chains on him. Loki grabbed his hair with force and a cruel smile, holding his head. Ylva approached, dagger in hand.

  It took all of Halfdan’s willpower to remain still rather than fight back with his full strength and abilities. He had never lost a battle in his life. As Ylva stabbed him in the chest, he hoped that he had not lost this battle either.

  *

  Freydis stared at the hilt of the dagger. After Halfdan had stabbed himself, with her unwilling help, the trolls had placed him on what could be considered a primitive stone table. Sitting on the ground, Freydis could just about peer over it to see his body; the weapon sticking out of his chest was easy to spot in comparison, and her eyes kept focusing on it.

  Days did not exist in Myrkheim; she did not know how long she had kept her vigil. Sif had brought her water and mushrooms, and although she felt no thirst or hunger, she had taken both if only to satisfy the skáld.

  She tried to take solace in the fact that Halfdan’s body was not decaying. She had closed his eyes, so it looked as if he was asleep – other than the knife protruding from his chest. If she stood up, she knew that she would see the blood from the wound that had soaked his tunic, now dried.

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  Should Freydis close her eyes to spare herself the sight, she relived the moment instead. Her hands, despite being clenched into fists, could feel the handle of the dagger, and the thin layer of resistance as it slid past his skin and flesh to pierce his heart. The sensation was enough to make her nauseated, and so she kept her eyes open, focusing on the sight in front of her instead.

  “You need to eat.” As she spoke, Sif sat down next to her, placing a Dwarven helmet full of mushrooms between them.

  “I just did.”

  “That was at least a day ago.”

  “Who can even tell.”

  “I can.” Sif pushed the improvised bowl towards Freydis, who, with lethargic movements, began eating.

  “I killed him, Sif.”

  “He’s not dead. Well, he is, but not truly. And he did it to himself.”

  “Only because I was present. He needed me to do it.”

  “You were just a tool, no different than the dagger.” Unlike Freydis, Sif avoided looking at the weapon.

  “What if he doesn’t return to us? Am I to live with the knowledge that I killed him?”

  “He’ll return.”

  “How could you possibly know that?” Freydis asked.

  “It’s fate.”

  The priestess let her hand fall to the side, relinquishing the food in its grip. “But everything we do is to stop fate from happening.”

  The skáld shook her head. “Not prevent it, but delay it.”

  “And what if we are fated to fail? What if we are deluding ourselves? What if our defeat has also been foretold?”

  “I think Odin learned his lesson not to seek out more prophecies.”

  “I don’t speak of him… he is not the only one to seek the future.”

  Sif turned her head to look at Freydis, closing her eyes as they swept past Halfdan’s body before reaching the priestess. “What do you mean?”

  “The Vanir… Freya. She told me that we would fail. When Halfdan faces Odin, he’ll surrender. He’ll lose.”

  “She might have been lying to you.”

  Freydis bit her lip. “That’s the hope I cling to. That’s why I never said anything. I didn’t want to discourage Halfdan. Now I realise that I should have done just that.”

  “Why?”

  The priestess exhaled, and a shrill sound of despair followed. “To stop him from this madness! If he had known this venture was doomed to fail, he’d never have attempted this insanity! But he acted so fast, and the thought of him dying paralysed me, I didn’t think of it in time.” She swallowed. “Did Freya give me the means to save Halfdan while knowing I wouldn’t use it, just to torment me further?”

  “He’ll be back. It’ll work.” Sif closed her eyes again and turned to look away, out at the ruined city.

  “You don’t know that. How can you be so calm?”

  “Because I understand,” the skáld declared. “Halfdan is telling a story, weaving it with magic. Something I know very well. He is making himself Odin’s equal, learning everything he must to defeat the wiliest of the gods.”

  None of that made sense to Freydis, but she did not have the strength to argue further. Words did not matter in any case. They could not undo her actions or bring Halfdan back to her. At best, they might serve as a distraction. “For a skáld, you don’t tell a lot of stories. Or sing much.”

  “What story would you like to hear?”

  Freydis could not muster the energy to even shrug. “Any.”

  “I always enjoyed the story of Thor’s visit to Utgarda-Loki. Halfdan met him, did he tell you? The J?tun, that is.”

  “I don’t want to hear about the gods.”

  “Well, this is a story where they get tricked.” Sif waited a beat; as Freydis did not renew her objections, she continued. “Once, Thor and Loki travelled through J?tunheim along with his servants…”

  “Loki was present? He never told me that he met the other… what did you call him?”

  “Utgarda-Loki. Well, he wouldn’t tell you this story, I guess.” Sif smiled to herself. “He got fooled as much as Thor did. Utgarda-Loki is a master of magic, you see. Probably the most powerful of all the J?tnar. That’s why Halfdan met him – went to see him. He’s the only J?tun with the power to activate the Dwarven gates even though he doesn’t have the power of runes.” The skáld scrunched her face together in contemplation. “I wonder how he did that. Halfdan never told me.”

  The attempt of a distraction had already failed, and Freydis had lost interest in the skáld’s musings. “When do we give up, Sif? It’s been days. Or whatever you’d call it in this forsaken land.”

  “Halfdan would never give up on us.”

  “He’s immortal with the powers of a berserker and magic. For all your skills, little skáld, you’re still a mortal. As am I.”

  “All the more important we stay brave,” Sif argued. “If we don’t have anything else, we need to have courage. And faith.”

  “When did you became the bravest of our company?” Freydis was uncertain if she meant the question in earnest or facetiously.

  Whether one or the other, Sif replied with equal equivocation. “I think I always was.”

  Freydis could not summon the strength to smile, nor did she have it in her to continue their exchange. Moments later, she was spared the need as a strange and unsettling sound reached them; the deep breath of a man who had not taken air for nine days.