A French legionnaire fought beside a Templar, whose white robes flared as he moved, back and forth within the dance of the battle. The red cross on his chest shone in the bleak light. A Spartan screamed, charging his opponents; his red cloak billowed behind him as he clashed with a kilt-bound Scot, their cries drowning each other out in a cacophony of spiritless battle.
The color of red screamed out. In the cross and the kilt, in the cloak, in the flag tied to a Roman's spear. But all it did was underline the absence of blood.
"Hugin, what's going on here?" I hissed, annoyed that the bird hadn't bothered to answer my question.
He cocked his head, his glassy eyeball seeking clarification. "Do you not see them fighting, Brynhildr?"
"The blood, Hugin," I replied, raising an eyebrow.
"There is none," he answered.
I rolled my eyes. "I'm very well aware of the absence of blood, Blackbird!" My annoyance drew Aidan's pet name for the feathered pest to my lips. "Why is there no blood?"
"Blood is life, Brynhildr. Where there is no life, there cannot be blood," he answered, unperturbed.
I muttered a reluctant thank you and stared at the battle again. They were all dead. I shook my head.
"Why?"
I hadn't realized I'd spoken aloud until Hugin answered me. "They are doomed to replay their battles. It is their love of pillaging, of taking lives, that has brought them to the arms of Hel. This is their punishment, an eternity of battle to sate the needs of even the most ardent of soldiers."
I loved and hated the way the bird spoke. But at least this time he'd actually told me something significant about the realm of Hel. The dead who belonged here were destined for eternal punishment. Eternal strife. I studied the men who fought tirelessly on the field. They reminded me of something. Blank, staring eyes. Emaciated limbs. Grey, papery skin.
"Zombies."
"In your world that would be a suitable description, but here in Hel these men can do nothing else but fight each other. They cannot break free and attack at random. But yes, they are similar to your zombies. They are the dead, revived to live a life of death, forever."
I swallowed, thinking again of Aidan and his future. I had to get him out of this awful place.
"Come on, Hugin, which way to Freya?" I just wanted to get the hell out of Hel.
The bird flapped ahead and I followed, shivering, trudging along for what seemed like forever. I felt no thirst, no hunger and no fatigue. Only the biting cold.
"Hugin." I called him down. "Why am I not hungry? It's been ages since we last ate. We've been walking for hours now."
"In the world of the Dead, only the Dead shall suffer at the hands of fate. The living shall remain immune to the touch of Death."
I nodded, thankful for the information. Hugin was a regular chatterbox today, at least compared to the last time he'd been my guide. On our mission to find Brisingamen for Freya, Hugin had been painfully reticent, only providing information when I asked a direct question, and sometimes not even then. It was bad enough that Aidan couldn't hear him speak, and worse when the darned bird actually declined to answer our questions. He'd pissed me off pretty royally last time around. So much so that, on more than one occasion, I'd had to quell the urge to wring his feathery little neck.
The raven launched off my shoulder, rising high into the bleak sky. Guess he didn't plan on answering any further questions, then. I didn't see anyone else jumping up and down to offer to guide me around this dead world.
So I followed in silence.
The cold snuck beneath my cloak, and I pulled it closer. My wings fluttered at my back, reminding me I could fly, that I could really just take off and fly with Hugin. But I figured I'd stick to the ground for the moment. I'd tested my sore muscles that morning, and they were still stiff and unforgiving. The bruises on my skin shone yellow and purple, and no amount of salve or soaking in hot pools was able to ease their vicious color. At least they didn't hurt as bad as they looked.
I stared up at the dark speck that was my feathered guide, then shook my head. No way in Hel was I going to risk making a fool of myself again in front of Hugin. No way.
Hugin certainly knew where he was going. Not five minutes had gone by when he descended toward me in a wide curve, landing smoothly on a blackened branch of a dark, shadowed tree nearby. He turned his head slowly, peering down the path, and I knew we were almost there.
On the hill ahead of us sat a longhouse, the polished wood out of sync with the dead black of the trees we'd just passed. Could such an unglamorous structure be Freya's Hel-house?
A few moments later, drawing closer, I was sure.
Two large statues flanked the doorway, each guarding the entrance, a fierce expression on their beautiful stone faces. The wings drew my attention: raised and curving outward, at once threatening and welcoming.
Valkyries.
Chapter 8
I shoved the door open, a rush of welcome warmth bathing my skin and hair in loving greeting, soothing the ache in my bones. Inside, the large room looked a lot like Valhalla, with its huge beams and spiraling carved pillars holding up a monstrous roof. Dozens of empty tables lined either side of the hall, and a clear pathway ran down the center all the way to a raised dais. The lighter wood of the floor and the tables complimented the warm red of the pillars and rafters.
The room resonated warmth. But where were the occupants of this hall? And where was Freya? I swallowed my curiosity and walked to the empty dais.
"Ah, welcome to my humble home, Brynhildr."
The voice floated around me, twisting its way hypnotically into my mind. The intoxicating warmth of love and fealty swelled within me, forced there by the magical allure of the voice, but I fought down the enchantment. I blinked, glad I was able to hold off the thrall of this powerful goddess.
I had the sense to pretend though, and just stared ahead calmly as if her magic had won me over, the way it worked on all her other thralls. I waited for her to appear, knowing there was no sense upsetting her by revealing how little power she had over me, not when I relied on her to keep Aidan safe.
Freya stepped onto the dais, materializing from shadows to corporeal form in a matter of seconds. Her little magic trick failed to surprise or disconcert me; I'd been treated to Freya's appearances and disappearances before.
"Come forward, child," the gentle voice beckoned, and a smile twitched at her lips. She dazzled the eye, no less beautiful than the last time I'd seen her, when she'd taken Aidan from Odin's hall and promised to find a way to help him.
"How have you been, Brynhildr? I believe you have fared well with your training."
The normalcy of her questions threw me. The goddess was making small talk with me, and yet I knew she would gladly end both Aidan's and my lives without blinking a single one of her gold-tipped eyelashes. Small talk? Really?
Oh, I'm excellent, my lady. Except for the part about missing a boyfriend because some ungodly god decided it was good sport to poison him and have him carted off to Hel.
"I have, my lady." I had no choice but to maintain a certain civility, since she happened to be the only one who could possibly cure Aidan. When she planned to get around to it, I had no idea, but I had to hope. And I had to behave.
"You are here to see him, I assume?" Freya moved toward me, silken silent grace. I could see how men fell in love with her on sight. Worry and a twinge of jealousy rose in my throat like bile. I had to admit I hated the thought of leaving Aidan here with her when I returned to Asgard. What if she found a cure and he regained consciousness, and what if he fell in love with her and didn't want me anymore? When confronted with this vision of beauty and manipulation, I suspected few men could resist.
Besides, Aidan and I had barely had much opportunity for a normal relationship. In fact, we'd spent the better part of ours apart, with Aidan either dead, dying or in a coma. My heart hurt to even think about it.
I answered her question with a nod. "I promised I'd come to see him."
She laughed, soft and slightly mocking. "Do you really think he heard you, my dear?"
"Studies say that coma patients can still hear the people that speak to them," I replied, keeping my tone as flat as possible, even though every instinct made want to scream at her.
"Ah yes. The doctors of Midgard. Perhaps there is some truth to that, Brynhildr." She inclined her head and said no more. Was that a dismissal? Had she just provided permission for the visit? I wasn't sure.
A movement at my side stirred warm air against my skin, and I turned to meet Astrid's blue gaze. Great. I now stood face to face with the one person I'd prefer to avoid.
And by her dark scowl I guessed she was no more pleased than I at our reunion . The stunning, blonde, blue-eyed ideal of a Valkyrie hated me with an undeniable and yet unfathomable passion. Hated me for something I'd apparently done in a previous life. A life that I still found hard to believe in.
Good thing she'd disappeared off to Helheim with Freya. Best place for the goddess's pet. I was glad I hadn't seen her in Asgard at any point since Aidan had been sent to Hel. I don't think I could have controlled myself. Her snitching had enabled Freya to blackmail me into finding her necklace. I blamed Astrid. If it hadn't been for her malignant interfering, Aidan would've been just fine, training in Valhalla instead of lying unconscious in the middle of this dead realm.
Astrid suited this cold world, with her icy eyes and her pale emotionless face. She suited her mistress too. Both beautiful, both cold.