"Er . . . I'm not exactly sure. I guess I just had a bad feeling about it."
"That is what I would call smart. If you do not listen to your instinct, I would call you stupid." Sigrun smiled again, pride leaching a glow into her cheeks.
"Why? Why was I right to refuse her offer?"
"Because each Valkyrie has a sword that is made for her. And only for her. No other person, living or dead, can touch the sword, let alone wield it in practice or battle."
I scoffed and resisted the urge to roll my eyes. "So, what, does it have a magical power or something?"
"No. It has a deadly power. When the sword is cast, a few drops of the Valkyries’ blood are mixed in with the molten metal. The sword itself then holds the blood of the Valkyrie who will use it in battle. I am not sure if it is Asgard or Valhalla or the smith or faith, but it has always been this way. The sword will kill any person who touches it who does not possess the blood which runs within it."
"Wow. How does it kill?" I asked softly.
"The sword emits a poison which seeps into the skin of the person. It does not take long for the victim to die."
My heart thumped as I processed what Astrid had tried to do.
The bitch had just tried to kill me.
Chapter 21
My face, twisted with worry, anger and a dash of fear, must have been a dead giveaway to my inner turmoil. Sigrun sighed. "Come. Don't worry about her," she said. "She has been bearing a centuries-old grudge. And ever since Mimir—are you familiar with Mimir?"
I shook my head.
"Very well. I will explain. Come, we can walk to the swordsmith and talk at the same time."
Sigrun strode ahead, and for the first time it took very little effort to keep up with her. I'd been gaining in strength and stamina during the last few days. Good. A plan was forming in my mind, to learn as much as possible and find a way out of this place. Part of me still held some hope of seeing Brody and Joshua, and satisfying myself that they were okay. But the rest of me was extremely keen to get the hell out of here.
I followed, and listened. Mimir, Odin's maternal uncle. An oracle. During a great war, which Sigrun described at length and to which I didn't pay much attention, Mimir was beheaded and Odin discovered the body. Retrieving the head, Odin returned with it to Asgard. To this day Mimir provides him with the most important predictions.
Sigrun glanced back, as if to make sure I was listening. Then she said something that did get my full attention: "A long while back, after Brunhilde's death, Mimir told Odin that Brunhilde shall return to us when we most needed her. Odin assumed it meant she would return at the time of Ragnarok. And this is why Fenrir and I are convinced you are her. And so is Astrid. But she has vengeance on her mind." Sigrun tutted sadly.
"So I'll be looking over my shoulder twenty-four seven from now on?"
She shook her head. "No. Not over your shoulder. Astrid will approach you directly. Valkyries are not allowed to fight amongst each other. It is Odin's Law. Besides, Freya will not approve, and our leader's wrath is worse than Odin's."
I wondered why, when Odin was King around here. But I held my tongue. We skirted a well-trodden road, gouged by wheel-tracks, with little mud-pools scattered within the valleys they made. It didn't take long before we reached a small village. Tiny wooden homes, with a few longhouses sprinkled in among them. The sounds were an assault on my ears. Clanging, banging, metal on metal. Not deafening, but loud enough that I had to raise my voice to be heard.
"Where are we going?" I asked, almost yelling.
Sigrun hollered back, "Not far. The next building up here." She walked up to the wide entrance.
I stepped into the dark interior and blinked repeatedly. Heat lapped at my face, eking out the last drops of moisture from my skin. A monstrous fire blazed in the single, brick-lined hearth, about half the size of my bedroom back home. Flames danced and burning wood crackled.
We were enveloped by noise. The rhythmic pounding of hammers on metal sounded almost musical in note and frequency.
A figure ambled toward us, a monstrous threatening shape made worse by clinging shadows. What little daylight managed to creep into the choking dark heat fell onto a cheery face, with rosy Santa-like cheeks and sparkling blue eyes. Bushy red eyebrows and a shock of carrot hair finished the picture. I liked him at once. He reminded me of Hagar the Horrible, only without the horned helmet.
"Ha ha, look what we have here!" he boomed. Then he grabbed Sigrun in a bone-squishing hug until she squealed for her freedom.
Sigrun laughed as her feet touched the ground. "We are here for a sword. For Bryn." The smithy turned to me and smiled again. But the cheerful grin lost its sparkle as he stared at my face. "Bryn, this is Njall."
He turned to Sigrun and I could almost hear the unspoken words flowing between them, despite her calm expression and bland smile. Here we go again. Even Njall the smithy thought I looked like the famous Brunhilde.
He peered at me for a moment and said, "Good, then. Come on over here. I think I may have just the thing."
He thumped his way to a back shelf, overloaded with boxes and piles of metal, layered in dust and shadows. If he claimed the corner hadn't seen sunlight in centuries, I'd believe it. He clanked and fumbled his way along the shelf until at last, after much grunting and puffing, he withdrew a long wooden box. Dust and cobwebs traced the grooves of the intricate carvings on the lid and all four sides of the box.
The beauty of the wooden box alone was enthralling, but a strange heat twisted in my gut. Njall brought the box to a table strewn with tools and odds and ends of metal. With one meaty arm, he swept them all onto the floor. Sigrun and I both winced, looking at each other surreptitiously, trying not to laugh. For all his size and seemingly careless treatment of his property, Njall placed the box onto the table with infinite care.
We both commandeered a shoulder and leaned over as Njall opened the lid to reveal its contents. Lined with a deep purple silken fabric, it held a magnificent sword and a matching scabbard. A low, entrancing hum reverberated around the room and sank deep into my bones, reaching the very pit of my stomach. A musical sound that I couldn't attribute to the other men pounding away with their hammers.
Njall and Sigrun stepped away from the table, leaving me to inspect the sword. I breathed softly, as if the mere expulsion of my breath would cause this incredible treasure to disappear into thin air. I dared not touch it yet. Just lovingly traced the beautiful carvings on the hilt and the scabbard with admiring eyes.
The silver blade gleamed, etched with the intertwined carvings from Odin's Hall and the designs on my armor and helmet. By now, I'd gotten so used to seeing the patterns that I'd stopped wondering what they meant. As if on autopilot, my hands reached out to trace the carvings on the sword when Sigrun cried, "No, Bryn. Wait."
I turned to her, annoyed. She'd broken the magical hold the sword seemed to have weaved around me. "What's wrong?"
Sigrun ignored me and spoke to Njall. "Are you sure it is safe?"
"Well, if you know for sure she is either Brunhilde herself or her child, then she will be safe." Njall eyes darted from the sword back to me.
A twitch of fear crawled across his face so quick I almost missed it. But I didn't. That was the problem. Astrid had offered me her own sword, hoping I would take it. If I had, I'd have died. What if Brunhilde's sword did the same thing to me? I certainly wasn't convinced the sword belonged to me just because my crazy father liked to play with ancient DNA instead of poker or Scrabble.
I stepped back, despite the almost overpowering urge to take the sword. The ancient weapon seemed to cast some kind of strange enchantment over me. The sooner I put some distance between myself and the sword, the better.
"Sigrun. I want to leave. Please." My voice was low, soft, as I gritted my teeth against the pull of the sword's song.
"We can leave if you wish, but we will have to come back again today." Sigrun's response was firm. "Fenrir said you will be training with a sword tomorrow morning, so you will have to have a sword by then. You do not want to anger him."
Anger blasted me with biting heat. Why should I care what Fenrir wanted, or what would or would not anger him? I didn't owe him anything. A longing for home spiked through me, and yet a strange sense of rightness also filled me. Confused, I didn't voice my anger or my doubt.
"Can't Njall just make another sword for me?" I asked, looking over at him.
The big man nodded.
"But we must know if this sword is meant for you," said Sigrun.
"Why do we need to know? Why is it so darned important?" My head blazed with angry heat as I turned to stare at the gleaming weapon. "Why can't you just leave me to be me?"
"I would love to do that, Bryn. But people like Astrid will not. They will not let go until they win. Or until you show them who you are."
"And by showing them, you actually mean I must show them I'm Brunhilde?" I asked coldly. I detested this whole game we were playing. Now I had to prove I was someone else before I could be safe.
"If that is what it takes, perhaps that is what you need to do." The voice of Fenrir filtered into the room.
Somehow, I wasn't surprised he was there. Everything that had happened since I arrived in Asgard had been a whole bunch of unbelievable wrapped in a shiny layer of impossible.