ONE
Lady Sif
Lady Sif braced herself beneath the protective arc of her shield, grunting as the boulder’s impact drove her back a step. Across the battlefield, the mountain giant who’d thrown it roared his fury and lumbered forward. His magic scooped a great trench in the earth and fashioned the soil into a wave that would bury the shield-maiden beneath its crushing weight.
Sif snarled and slashed her sword through the dirt wall threatening to engulf her, severing the magic. The soil collapsed back on itself, and she leaped over it and charged. There were almost a hundred mountain giants fouling the plains east of Asgardia, and Sif knew – all the warriors knew – why they’d come now: Odin was in Vanaheim, trying once more to shore up the peace with the Vanir they had fought so hard to win. In the All-Father’s absence, it hadn’t been so much whether an attack would come as from who, and how many.
And why.
Sif didn’t concern herself with the why, at least not now. Her brother, Heimdall the Farseeing, had sent warning to Thor of the giants’ arrival in Asgard, adding that they might be the vanguard of a larger invasion. Sif had begged command of the defenders, and Thor had granted it so he could remain in Asgardia and plan a counterattack against further incursions.
Sif grinned as she closed the last of the distance between her and her quarry. Boulders rained down and dirt was kicked up all around her and her three hundred warriors. Whatever the mountain giants thought they would accomplish here today, there was nothing in their future but ignominious death. Tightening her fingers around her sword hilt she leaped, high and far, shield up and sword out. The giant had seen her coming, and despite being almost four times Sif’s size, he was quick. The club he swung with deadly precision was the trunk of a young tree, trimmed and polished until the bright Asgardian sun gleamed across its knotted surface. It hummed horizontally through the air, but Sif’s timing was impeccable. She hit the giant’s chest an instant before the club carved through the air where she’d been. She let go of her shield’s handle to grab onto his ragged chest armor and hacked down at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. The steel was sharper than Hela’s temper, and the blade bit deep into a neck wider than Sif’s torso. She kicked free as her enemy staggered, somersaulting backwards as he made a wild grab for her.
The warriors of Asgardia’s first shieldwall had quickly surrounded the mountain giants in threes, one always attacking from its blind side or from behind. Now, as Sif landed in a spray of dirt and torn grass, her friend Gyda leaped onto the giant’s back, the long daggers in each of her hands ripping through leather armor. The giant arched and screeched, scrabbling over his shoulders to try and reach her. When he couldn’t, he gestured, and there was an explosion of dirt from every side.
“Gyda!” Sif shouted. She was already running when the earth around her fountained upwards. On instinct, she closed her eyes and covered her face with her shield as dirt and sharp stones flew at her. The giant’s club slammed into her ribs and flung her twenty yards across the battlefield. Sif’s armor held and she rolled as she hit the ground.
Even from here, even over the clash and roar of battle, she heard Gyda shout her name in turn. Sif took a deep breath and felt a flare of hurt through her flank, but no bones were broken, and she was back up on her feet a heartbeat later. She raised her arm to show she was all right and heard her friend whoop even as she stabbed with her dagger again, distracting the giant once more. “We’ve got this one, my friend. On your right!”
Sif was blinking grit from her stinging eyes, but she didn’t hesitate when Gyda yelled her warning and dodged sideways. She wasn’t quite fast enough as the giant – this one female, slightly smaller in stature but no less formidable – hurled a boulder with a furious grunt.
The rock slammed into Sif’s lower leg, turning her tumble into a graceless sprawl. A shout of pain burst past her teeth. The rock bounced on, mercifully not pinning her, but she would almost have preferred that, for in the next breath the giant who’d thrown it wrapped her immense hand around Sif’s face and throat and lifted her bodily off the ground.
It was easy to single out Sif on the battlefield, for her to become the focal point of an enemy’s attention. Her hair was blacker than a raven’s wing amid a sea of golds, a banner of night that drew all eyes, all ire. When the first enemies fell to her blade, Sif could always guarantee that there would be more coming to avenge their dead kin. She welcomed it.
Now, the pressure from the giant’s huge palm cut off her breath and obscured her vision as she was wrenched up into the sky. Fortunately, she didn’t need to breathe or see in order to strike. Letting her shield hang by the strap around her forearm, Sif grabbed the giant’s wrist and then hacked into it, feeling the edge bite deep, sword hilt jolting in her palm.
The giant’s hand flexed, loosening just enough for her to suck in air, and then tightened once more. She cut again and again, kept cutting even when the giant’s other hand grabbed her ankle and tried to pull her in half. Sif’s hands, arms and armor were sticky with hot, viscous giant blood and her spine was beginning to stretch almost to snapping before the giant finally threw her down, howling in pain.
Sif bounced once as she struck the torn and ravaged earth, limbs and sword flailing. She rolled away as the giant fell to her knees and then toppled sideways, slamming into the ground where she’d just been. There were three spears protruding from her neck.
“My lady!” a warrior bellowed as Sif got her feet under her. “Behind!”
Sif dove forwards, over her shield and her shoulder, a forward tumble up into a hop and a leap over the giant’s body. She ripped a spear out of its neck and spun, sighting along its bloody length. The other giant she’d been fighting, with Gyda and the third warrior, was one of the last still alive on the field. Sif’s initial bloom of relief – it was almost over – was replaced with horror when the giant raised a huge, armored foot and prepared to stamp it down onto something – someone – lying helpless beneath him.
Sif let the spear fly, hard and fast and true. It pierced the giant’s thigh, ripping a great gash along the inside, and he wobbled, and she thought she’d done it, but then his balance steadied. He made eye contact with her, his lip curling in a cruel smile, and stomped.
Sif recognized the vambraces adorning the arms of the warrior as they were raised in a final, pitiful attempt at defense: it was Gyda. Gyda the shield-maiden, who had been Sif’s companion through a score of battles and ten times as many feasts and celebrations. Gyda: her friend.
“No!” Sif shrieked, tearing another spear out of the dead giant’s neck and hurling that as well. She raced after it, her feet barely touching the ripped-up earth, and then leaped high, sunlight flashing from the face of her shield and sword angled to hack beneath her enemy’s chin. She was fast, and she was deadly, and now she was angry. The wickedly sharp tip of her sword went into soft, unprotected flesh, all her weight and fury behind it. It punched through meat and cartilage, opening his windpipe and exiting through the back of his neck.
Sif braced her feet against the massive chest and wrenched the blade sideways, seeking – and finding – the main veins and arteries. The giant crumpled, first to his knees and then to his side, his enormous heart pumping a river of blood out of his neck to soak her sleeves and run down the inside of her breastplate in a hot flood.
The shield-maiden paid it no heed. She jumped free, landing lighter than a cat, and bounded towards Gyda. A shimmer was rising from her body, and Sif slowed, a lump in her throat and tears in her eyes, waiting for the Valkyrie to shepherd her in peace to Valhalla. There were a few Choosers of the Slain dotted across the battlefield tending to the dying, but though she waited, none arrived for Gyda.
Sif drifted closer, for perhaps her injuries weren’t so severe if the Valkyrior were not attending her. She heard her friend’s ragged inhalation and the shimmer of light rising from her increased, and then – nothing. The light winked out and Gyda fell still.
Sif’s lips parted in shock. What had just happened? Was she unconscious? Was she dead? She scanned the battlefield again, but no demi-goddess was approaching, so she ran the last few strides and flung herself on her knees at Gyda’s side, fingers going to her throat, looking desperately into her face for signs of life. There was nothing.
“Gyda? Gyda, look at me. Answer me!”
She dragged Gyda’s unresponsive form into her arms, into her lap, holding her tight. The warrior didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Her breastplate was crushed, testament to the state of her chest within it.
“No,” Sif whispered into her slack face. “No, that’s not right. That can’t be right. You… where are you, Gyda? Where did you go?”
“Lady Sif? Let us honor her now, my lady.”
Sif turned wild, horrified eyes to the voice. “Brunnhilde? How could you? How could you take her before her time? She wasn’t dead! She was still breathing; I saw her breathe in, and then you took her. She wasn’t ready.” Her voice cracked on a sob and a dangerous fury filled her. “How could you steal her away before her time?”
Brunnhilde, the leader of the Valkyrior and one of only a handful of warriors to beat Sif in combat – and then barely – squatted next to her and put a sympathetic hand on her bloody, dented armor, patting gently. “I’m sorry, Sif, but there’s nothing I can do for her. I know you were close, but she’s on her way to Valhalla with one of my sisters now. She was glorious in life and glorious in her death – and she’ll wait for you, I’m sure.”
Sif shook her hand away. “You’re not listening,” she insisted, her voice harsh. Brunnhilde’s eyes narrowed. They’d been friends for longer than either of them cared to remember, but here, at the end of a battle, they were in Brunnhilde’s domain. Sif owed her respect. She didn’t care.
“She wasn’t Chosen,” she insisted. “None of yours came to take her, but she’s gone. She was still breathing!” She could hear the desperation in her own voice, but she was grateful for it when the Valkyrie frowned and leant closer.
“Say that again. Tell me everything you saw.”
The memory was both seared into Sif’s mind and clouded by grief, but this was important. She took a breath to compose herself. “There was a… a shimmer over her body. I heard her breathe in, ragged and bubbling–” she stopped again to clear her throat of sobs”–and then nothing. As if she just never breathed back out. The shimmer vanished. You took her before her time. She might have… I might have been able to say goodbye.” She couldn’t keep the accusation from her tone.
“Put her down.” The Valkyrie snapped the words, a crack of command that Sif obeyed without thought. She shifted on her knees to give them space. Brunnhilde leant over Gyda and unstrapped her breastplate with difficulty, easing it off of her shattered body. She slid one hand gently under the damaged armor onto broken flesh and bone and put her other palm on Gyda’s brow. She closed her eyes, and Sif felt the tingle of magic brush across her skin.
Brunnhilde knelt there in silence for endless, torturous moments, and Sif sat in clench-fisted misery until the other woman opened her eyes and sat back. “Odin’s eye,” she swore. “She’s gone.”
“That’s what I said,” Sif pointed out through gritted teeth. Her gaze fell on her sword, abandoned in the mud beside her, and for one moment of utter madness she wanted nothing more than to swing at the Chooser, consequences be damned. Something of her thoughts must have shown on her face, because Brunnhilde watched her with calm intent until she took in a deep breath and packed her emotions back inside. She nodded, and the Valkyrie nodded back.
“You don’t understand,” she said softly. “The deathglow is here – she was dying, Sif, and nothing could have stopped it – but then she didn’t actually die.”
Sif stared at her, blank. “She didn’t die? Then what, where,is she?” The shield-maiden leant forward again, ebony braids tumbling across her shoulders, and stared into Gyda’s blood-spattered face. Her skin had taken on the waxy sheen of death; no breath stirred in her lungs; no recognition in her eyes. “How can… she looks…” she couldn’t finish the sentence, gripped by a sudden, awful conviction that Gyda might hear her.
“I know, my friend,” Brunnhilde said gently. “I don’t understand what’s happened here, but I promise you I’m going to find out.” The Valkyrie gestured vaguely, as if she couldn’t put what she knew into words. “Something was done to her, in the instant before she was fated to die. The… the soul leaves an echo of itself in a body after death. Gyda’s is wrong. The shape of the echo of her soul is distorted. And more than that: Gyda’s last breath is missing. The breath that the soul escapes upon as a person dies has a particular aura, a certain resonance. It’s very obvious to a Valkyrie and it helps lead us to those who need shepherding to Valhalla. Gyda’s breath is gone. Or, rather, she never breathed it out at all.”
Sif swayed on her knees, suddenly dizzy with all that Brunnhilde had said. “So, she was dying but she’s not dead. She breathed in but not out, and her soul didn’t escape on that breath, correct?” The Valkyrie nodded. “Is she dead, then? Her body’s dead, but her breath isn’t? Her soul isn’t? I don’t understand.”
Brunnhilde’s brow was furrowed, but she reached out to brush back Gyda’s bloodstained hair, her fingers gentle. The motion brought a lump to Sif’s throat again, and no amount of swallowing could force it away.
“Can you wait with her?” Brunnhilde asked. “I need to go to Valhalla, and I should check in with the other Valkyrior as well. Gyda may already be there, or on her way in the company of one of my sisters. It may be that in the chaos of the battle, you didn’t see what you think you saw. Just… stay with her. Please?”
Sif nodded, mute, pulling Gyda back into her arms. At any other time, she would find someone questioning her word infuriating, but now she clung desperately to the hope that she had been mistaken, that they were both mistaken. Gyda was in Valhalla already, and what she’d seen was something else. Please, Frigga, please let me be wrong. Please.
Grief was piling in behind the confusion and rage now, filling her up inside until it overflowed from her eyes. And under that storm, a bone-deep anxiety was building. Brunnhilde was worried. Not once in the long years since the All-Father had chosen her for this task had she failed in it. The souls of warriors who had become einherjar were honored and kept safe; it was impossible to imagine it could be any other way. Until now.
Brunnhilde had never been anything but bittersweet in the discharge of her duty, sorrowful that the warriors were dead, but joyful that she was able to escort them on to Valhalla. Seeing her now, brow creased and gnawing on her lip, filled Sif’s stomach with a cold, slick writhing.
Aragorn, Brunnhilde’s winged steed, picked his way delicately among the corpses of the battlefield and, after a last squeeze of Sif’s hand, the Valkyrie stood and swung into the saddle. “Just hang on,” she said, and didn’t wait for Sif to agree. She wheeled the animal and urged him into the sky, and seconds later they vanished into the aching blue expanse. Other Valkyrior were flickering in and out of the air, moving the glorious dead to their new home in Valhalla.
The raven-haired shield-maiden held Gyda close, her friend’s delicate features stained with dirt and blood and slack in death. Or not-death. Please, Odin and Frigga, please let her not be dead. Let her soul return to us and to her body. Or if not her body, at least Valhalla. Let my friend rest in Odin’s Hall until the Last Battle calls her forth. Let her be peaceful, and joyous, and not lost.
Let us all not be lost.
Sif knelt in the churned-up earth, her skin drying tight and sticky with the blood of enemies and of allies, and let her tears clean the filth from her cheeks.
TWO
Chooser of the Slain
Brunnhilde urged Aragorn ever faster as they made the journey to Valhalla, flashing past her sisters and the souls they shepherded so carefully, with love and honor for their courage, their sacrifice. Some moved reluctantly, as if dazed by the knowledge that they’d been ripped from their bodies and from life. Others, generally older, moved eagerly, excited to reach the Hall and the feast and the comrades and friends who’d fallen before them. The chance to reunite with the honored dead was a balm to many who would otherwise grieve for those they left behind in life. A few, and there were always a few, wept for the loss of their bodies and their lives under Asgard’s bright sky, and the Valkyrior held them gently and spoke in the low, soothing tones a parent would use for a bewildered child.
Not one of them begrudged each soul the time or comfort they needed. To be Valkyrie was to be blessed with the highest honor in all the Nine Realms, not just rejoicing in the courage and sacrifice that led the souls to them, but the privilege, deep and painful and wondrous, of being the last sight the dying would ever behold as they slipped from their suffering bodies on the whispered edge of an exhalation. It never failed to move Brunnhilde to the very depths of her own soul. Today, now, she flashed past the dead without a second glance.
Aragorn sensed her anxiety and beat his wings faster, galloping through the sky and into the Realm of the Dead, his great muscles bunching beneath gleaming satin skin as he pounded down towards the edge of the lake and the perfect grassy sward where Odin’s great Hall sat in splendor. The Valkyrie leaped from her mount’s back before he’d even come to a stop, flinging herself towards the doors with no regard for appearances. This was too important for even Brunnhilde’s dignity.
She pushed in through the tall doors, for once not pausing to admire the exquisite carvings inlaid into the surface, of battles fought and enemies slain and Asgard triumphant. Never before had she failed to heed the hails of her sisters or the souls gathered together. Brunnhilde always had time to raise a flagon with the glorious dead. Now, though, she could have been pushing in through the door of a farmhouse peopled by strangers for all the care and attention she paid her surroundings.
Brunnhilde knew, roughly, the shape and taste of Gyda’s soul, and could picture the features she’d last seen relaxed in death, infused with all the bursting emotions of a living woman. She stood on the threshold and scanned the faces around the edges of the vast hall. The newly dead rarely joined immediately into the feasting or gambling within, or the wrestling and weapons-play in the fields without. There was a period of adjustment, of grief and acceptance and, often, bitterness and regret, before the einherjar could come to terms with the knowledge that their mortal lives had ended – heroically, yes, but ended, nonetheless.
Now, everywhere she looked, Valkyrior were talking quietly with their charges or smiling softly, hands resting on arms and shoulders as they grounded them and gave them time. Others were waving over warriors who would act as guides and mentors through the first days of their afterlife.
The hall was busy with life and color; bright-painted shields hung on the walls with brighter weapons – swords, spears and axes – alongside them. Brunnhilde’s hand dropped to the hilt of her own sword, Dragonfang, and she took comfort from its weight on her hip. The sword reminded her that her loyalty and dedication had been what led the All-Father to select her to lead the Choosers of the Slain; that his faith in her had never wavered, and she had never disappointed him.
And I will not disappoint him now, either. I swear it on my own soul, and my own hope of standing by Thor’s side to endure and defeat Ragnarok.
Despite the promise that was also a prayer, none of the new denizens of Valhalla was Gyda, as far as she could tell. She questioned four Valkyrior who, their duty done, bowed to the warriors they were leaving here and made their way out. She gifted them with the shape of Gyda’s soul, but none of them recognized it. Brunnhilde nodded and let them go – there were scores more Valkyrior to check with before she would acknowledge the panic that simmered in her belly.
Einherjar were beginning to turn to her, concern and curiosity creasing their faces at her silent, unmoving presence, and Brunnhilde managed a smile and a nod for them before slipping back out through the doors into the sweet,
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