“The gates of Niflheim,” Red Mustache solemnly intoned.
“Thank you for stating the obvious,” said Black Beard.
Once through the gates, Dane next saw the source of the clinking chains, and his heart near stopped. On a ledge alongside the water there stood a monstrous being as tall as the mast of their ship, and with its two massive forearms it was working an ancient chain-and-pulley mechanism that raised the gates with a grinding groan. Slow and lumbering and covered in dark, bristly fur, the thing stood upright on its hind legs. At first glance it appeared to be a giant wolf, but as they drew closer, Dane saw that in fact it was a nightmarish combination of canine and man, its leg joints like those of a wolf and its four-fingered paws more like human hands, although much hairier. Its head had the longish snout of a hound, with yellowed incisors and drool dripping from its half-opened jaws. Turning its head and staring with dull-witted eyes as the ship passed by, the beast gusted steam from its nostrils and unleashed an earsplitting howl that froze Dane to the marrow.
“Garm, gatekeeper of Niflheim,” said Black Beard, beating his sail-mate to the explanation. “But I’m sure you already knew that.”
The ship continued onward through the eerie fog. Dane looked back and saw the beast work the mechanism in reverse to lower the great gate. As the long black spikes descended into the water, Dane had the sick, doomed feeling that there would be no escape from this place.
He and the others were now trapped in Hel’s domain forever.
Chapter 19
A Stolen Stallion
A stray thought hit Astrid as she streaked through the night sky on her way to Asgard. It had been only a year since she had walked with Dane in the woods outside their little village and he had given her the Thor’s Hammer locket to pledge his love. On that day her life had seemed set. Her destiny, she’d assumed, was to marry Dane and raise a family and forever live in this peaceful village on the bay.
But it was not to be. If only Skuld could write a different future in the book and sweep all of this away. However, the Norns had explained to her that their power did not reach into the unbeating heart of a draugr. The undead were like filth polluting the river of life, changing the destinies of whomever they touched. This, Skuld had explained, was why she had sent Dane to kill Thidrek in the first place. Her carefully wrought work of conjuring fate was in danger of being rewritten by someone else, which was an author’s worst nightmare.
“So it’s not that a horde of draugrs may wreak destruction and suffering upon humankind that distresses you,” Astrid had said to Skuld. “You’re upset because your book faces revisions.”
“Exactly,” Skuld had said. “And it’s up to you to stop such desecration of my creation.”
“And this is your plan to save the world?” Astrid had said. “I’m to steal Odin’s prized steed?”
Skuld gave a dismissive wave of her hand like she was shooing away a fly, and said, “It’s not like we’re asking you to do the impossible.”
So now here she was, a newly christened corpse maiden on her way to the realm of the gods to try and pull off what was likely the most audacious theft of all time. Never mind that the Council of Sisters had already put a death warrant on her head, and if she were caught—the likeliest happenstance—she would be exiled forever to Niflheim’s Lake of Fire. Even if she somehow eluded the whole corps of Valkyries bent on capturing her, she still had the hopeless task of slipping past the Einherjar, who guarded the animal she was to steal. Invisibility would not help her, since that trick worked only on humans who were not dead. Then, if she somehow miraculously escaped with the prize, there was her second and even more foolhardy task—which involved the magical object that now rested inside the canvas satchel slung over her shoulder, the prize Skuld herself had given her.
Astrid broke through the clouds and saw the grove of gold-leafed trees below. Vali started down, accustomed to landing where he always did. But Astrid knew that in the grove she was sure to be seen by her sisters, so she pulled up on the reins, halting Vali’s descent, and flew on. She saw Valhalla in the distance, its roof shingled with countless warrior shields that shimmered in the moonlight. The massive mead hall was lit up like a blazing yule tree. Inside, the nightly feasting and drinking would be in full swing. If there was a right time to carry out her desperate plan, Astrid knew this was it.
Horse and rider glided down, alighting on a grassy plain laden with mist. Astrid knew this to be the Fields of Ida, the place where Odin’s Einherjar engaged in furious battles every day to keep their warrior skills sharp.
Once or twice Astrid had watched the frenetic battles. Blood would flow and heads and limbs would be lost. When the dinner horn sounded, the warriors would immediately cease combat, find their body parts, and reattach them. Sometimes a combatant would mistakenly reattach a limb that wasn’t his, and it would take a while to sort out the severed pieces, but it was all done in good humor. Pardon me, Svein, but I think you have my left foot affixed to your right leg. Then they would stride off like brothers for a night of boisterous song, food, and drink. After the nightly festivities, the inebriated heroes would sleep peacefully on their benches strewn with fresh hay. In the morning they would awake, don their coats of mail, strap on their weapons, and march out to the field to go at it again. Fight, eat, and drink. Fight, eat, and drink. Over and over. The heroic dead never seemed to tire of it—and being Vikings who reveled in gore and ale, they had nothing better to do.
She climbed down from Vali’s back. “I will miss you, Vali,” she said, stroking and hugging his neck. “Time for you to go and for me to go on alone.”
He looked at her quizzically, as if he couldn’t fathom why his maiden was giving him his leave. Tears welled in her eyes and she kissed the side of his face. “I know, I’ll miss you too. . . . You’re brave and headstrong and at times cranky . . . but I’ll always love you, boy. Now go!” He still refused to move and she had to slap him hard on the rump. With a loud snort he took off in the direction of the Valkyrie stables, which were a long way across the plain and through the woods. She watched his pearly white form disappearing into the misty darkness and felt a pang in her heart, realizing that this was likely the last time she would ever see the willful, courageous beast.
She steeled herself for the task at hand. Through the mist she could see the faint glow of Valhalla far away, high up between two mountain peaks. Odin’s precious treasure was housed not up there, but directly below it on the edge of the plain. Using Valhalla’s glow to guide her, she set off at a fast clip, running with everything she had. On and on she ran, and it seemed as if she were in a dream, running toward the distant glow but never getting closer to it. The mist thinned; the first light of morning began to show in the east. Astrid started to panic, for soon the first warriors would straggle out for their daily combat. She quickened her pace, knowing she didn’t have much time.
All at once there it was, looming in front of her, the length of two longships away, a tall structure made of massive oak logs on the edge of the plain. Astrid spied an Einherjar standing guard outside its main door, and she immediately hit the ground flat, landing on the satchel. The pointy thing inside poked her and she rolled off it into something wet. Lifting her hand, she saw it was coated in blood—and realized she now lay in a pool of drying gore from the prior day’s combat. But lying in blood was better than being discovered, so there she remained, motionless, praying she hadn’t been seen.
After a moment, she looked again. The guard had vanished. Had the Norns worked some magic to lure him away? No time to puzzle it out. She got to her feet—and just as she began to run, a heavy blow from behind knocked her face-first into the dewy grass. She rolled over to face her enemy and saw the flash of a broadsword whip down. She jerked away just as the tip of the blade buried in the ground an inch from her skull.
“Dirty trick, Thorstein!” said the guard. “Dressing as a maiden to fool me!”
Astrid found her voice. “I—I am a maiden.
”
“Quit with the games, Thorstein. I’d know your voice anywhere.”
Astrid made a move and the blade whipped down again, a finger’s width from her ear. She froze, deciding not to take any more chances. “Kind and handsome warrior, you are mistaken. I am Valkyrja, Chooser of the Slain.”
The guard squinted at her through his helmet eyeholes. He removed the helmet to get an unobstructed look at her. He was an ugly brute with beady eyes, a scarred face, and an unruly beard. The typical dim-witted Einherjar who made playful, drunken grabs at her from their ale benches up in Odin’s hall. Convinced that the figure before him was female—and quite a beauty at that—he now grinned, showing his black teeth. Astrid had always wondered why the chosen dead who were miraculously healed of all the amputations and war wounds received on earth never got dental repair as well. It was like rotten, black teeth were some badge of honor or something.
“So you are a maiden!” He offered his hand; she grasped it and was pulled to her feet. “Thorstein and I have a game we play when on guard duty, you see. We each try to sneak up and behead the other. It’s good fun.”
“Who’s winning?” she asked, trying to make conversation.
“Me, of course,” he boasted. “I lead nineteen to twelve.” The morning sky was brightening. Astrid saw in the distance a few warriors had appeared and were heading down the long path leading from Valhalla to the Fields of Ida. Soon some of her sisters would arrive to watch the combat, and then she’d surely be spotted and captured. “Have you come to watch me in battle, fair maiden?” the guard asked, moving closer to her. “Afterward we shall sup together in Odin’s hall.”
“Um, yes, yes, that’s it,” said Astrid, letting his arm wind around her waist. “Your brave deeds! Absolutely, that’s what I’ve come to see. In fact, if you don’t mind, I’ll give you a kiss for luck.” His face lit up, and he stabbed his sword tip first into the ground to hold it there. With both his meaty arms, he drew her into a bearlike embrace. As she kissed his foul mouth, her right hand slipped away and grabbed onto the handle of the sword. She quickly pulled away from his grasp and swung the heavy blade. For a moment he stood there, wearing a stupid, stunned look.
Then his head fell to the ground. It landed faceup, and his blinking eyes found Astrid. “By the gods, that’s some kiss,” he uttered. The guard’s body bent over, blindly groping for his head so he could reattach it, but Astrid snatched it up before he could and, by a hank of his greasy hair, whirled it high into the air. The head landed with a thud in the high grass a good distance away, spewing curses. Still groping around with his hands, the guard’s body found his helmet and, mistaking it for its head, placed it on the bleeding stub of its neck. “No, you idiot!” the head bellowed from where it lay in the grass. “I’m over here!” Astrid took off running toward the stables, hoping it would take a while for the guard to put himself together.
Pushing open the main door with some effort and slipping through, Astrid was met by the many familiar stable odors. She had been in stables before, but none like this, for here was housed the most magnificent, magical horse in all creation. A sudden stab of fear seized her. To even be here desecrated the sanctity of the gods. She found herself asking Odin for strength, then realized the irony in this since she was here to steal what Odin prized the most, his heavenly steed, Sleipnir. There was no god she could beseech for help, which made her feel even more alone and desperate.
She hurried down the wide center aisle of the stable. Hung on the walls on either side were war shields and gleaming weapons of every kind, Odin’s personal armory. As the god of war, he liked to keep his fighting skills sharp whenever he found the time. Astrid knew that Odin’s most fabled weapon, Gungnir, a spear that never missed its mark, was not kept here; other gods were so covetous of it, the weapon was never far from Odin’s grasp.
Rounding a corner, she gaped in awe. She had seen the beast before, but always from a distance. Now, so close up, the sheer size of the animal was shocking to behold. She’d thought Vali was big, but Sleipnir was two, three heads higher, and wider across the chest than an ox. His most impressive attribute, though, was his muscular legs—all eight of them—which gave him the speed and power no horse could match.
The gray steed lifted his sleepy head and peered at her imperiously from his stall as if to say, Who dares awake me so early? Astrid had no time to speak softly, stroke his mane, or give him a carrot—not that she had one to offer. She had dealt with willful horses before—Vali, for instance—and knew sweet talk wouldn’t cut it.
Finding his tack next to his stall, she wasted no time affixing his saddle and bridle. The saddle was incredibly heavy, and it was a strain to throw it across his high, wide back, but on the third try she made it and began buckling the straps. As she bent down, she was terrified he would crush her against the side of the stall—which he quite easily could—but she showed no fear, and this, she realized later, was why Sleipnir let her live.
“You! Maiden!” She looked up. The guard—head now on his shoulders—came quickly toward her up the aisle, brandishing his sword. “That is Odin’s sacred steed.”
“I’m just taking him for a little ride,” Astrid said. Grabbing Sleipnir’s mane, she threw herself up and into the saddle. The horse whinnied, his nostrils flared, Astrid kicked his flanks, and Sleipnir shot from his stall. The guard leaped aside as the beast careened toward the stable doors.
Sleipnir burst from the stable with such force, the doors were ripped free and sent cartwheeling into a group of Einherjar who were limbering up for the day’s battle. Astrid saw the shocked, bewildered looks of other arriving warriors, who pointed and yelled and grabbed for their weapons. A spear whistled past her head. Sleipnir gave an angry whinny, his instinct to protect his rider kicking in. Like a mad beast, the horse charged into the warriors, knocking some aside, crushing others beneath his hooves. Astrid fought for control, desperately wishing to escape, for a battle now against the many hundreds of Einherjar could not be won.
At last, as if sensing her wishes, Sleipnir turned away and galloped across the plain. Astrid pressed her knees into his sides, and his hooves left the ground and they soared at terrific speed skyward, his eight legs churning the air. Astrid looked down and saw a group of her sisters who had come to the field to watch the day’s battle. And gazing up at her in utter stupefaction was none other than Aurora.
Chapter 20
The Lake of Fire
The Ship of the Dead was far past the Niflheim gate, voyaging up a sluggish river that had the consistency of black molasses and the putrid smell of rotten eggs. The fog had thinned enough for the dim outline of another ship to be seen ahead on the starboard side. As they moved closer, the immense size of the craft became apparent. Dane had never seen a ship so vast; it appeared to be the length of ten Viking longships. But this was no warship. Its wide beam showed it to be a merchant craft, a knorr, designed to ferry cargo.
“A fresh shipment for the goddess Hel,” murmured Thidrek.
The knorr was docked at the river’s edge, and as they floated past, Dane saw that along the gunwales were carved grotesque figures of grinning, laughing demons. And then he saw exactly what cargo the ship had brought. A long procession of grim souls—men, women, and even some children—was trudging wordlessly down the gangplank onto the rocky shore and continuing along the river’s edge in the same direction the Ship of the Dead was heading. The faces of these souls were as gray and lifeless as a leaden winter sky, and even their clothes were devoid of color.
“There are so many,” Dane said, marveling at the shuffling tide.
“Wars, disease, starvation—the gods harvest us all,” Lut said.
“And the fortunate few see Valhalla,” Jarl said bitterly. “That was to be my fate, but then Dane had to go hand over the Blade of Oblivion to Thidrek—and here we are.”
Being in Hel’s realm was bad enough, thought Dane, but being stuck here with Jarl and his ceaseless blaming was even worse. “How ma
ny times should I apologize for what’s happened, Jarl?”
“How many times?”
“Give me a round figure so I’ll know when you’ll be satisfied.”
“Well, let’s see . . . we’ll be in Niflheim forever,” Jarl said, “so how about you apologize every day for the rest of eternity. Just for a start.”
“Sure that’ll be enough?” Dane asked.
“While we’re here you can also do my laundry.”
“Look!” cried Drott, pointing to one of the souls walking along the shore. “Isn’t that Horvik the Virtuous? From our village?”
“You’re right,” said Fulnir in surprise. He cupped hands to his mouth and called out, “Horvik the Virtuous! What are you doing here?”
Horvik peered back, equally astonished to see his village brethren in Hel’s domain. “What am I doing here? What are you doing here? And why do you get to ride on a ship when I have to walk? My feet are killing me.”
“I guess that answers the question about the dead feeling pain,” Drott said to his shipmates.
Fulnir gave Horvik the short version of their plight: that they weren’t really dead, at least not yet, and then Horvik explained why he was there. “I cheated Anders Thorgillsson at dice and he killed me with an axe.” Horvik pointed to the deep wound in his skull where the weapon had been buried.
“You cheated at dice?” Fulnir asked. “For that you’re sent to Niflheim?”
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