Chapter 21

A dull murmur rose from the Frost Giant lines at Sigurd’s declaration.

Jarl Stenberg’s face twisted in pure confusion, then his features turned dark with anger.

“Have you gone mad?” He roared over the din, “There’s an army of the Undead right in front of us!”

“They are no longer your concern,” Sigurd told him. “You have been challenged, Vali Stenberg. What is your answer?”

Holmgang was a custom that hailed from the time that the Frost Giants plied the seas, sailing in their fleets to raid and plunder distant shores. If ever there was a dispute, a challenge, or an insult, the two parties would fight on a small island to settle their grievance. Though their seafaring days were a thing of the past, the custom was still practised in other forms.

One could not simply refuse this challenge, and failing to appear and defend oneself put them outside of the law. To kill someone in a duel was not considered murder, and it was winner take all. Rank and position – even that of a Jarl – did not offer any protection.

“To call upon such antiquated, savage customs,” Stenberg spat, “and you have no reason to, besides. I have never wronged you or taken anything of yours! What slight–”

“Your entire existence is a slight!” Sigurd snarled, “An insult to the traditions of our people and the memory of our ancestors! You and the other Jarls have led the tribes down the path of weakness and decay, and it is long past time to set things right again.”

His voice echoed in the silence that followed. Men and women looked at one another. Did they understand? Or had they all lost their way just like their decadent leaders?

“Weakness?” Stenberg scoffed, "The tribes have grown under our rule! We have never been stronger than before.”

“You mistake numbers for strength,” Sigurd told him, “and your faith in numbers has led you to scheming and politicking. The little strength that you possess allows you to rule over a weakened people. You have forgotten what true strength is; the resolve and spirit of our ancestors that brought the favour of the gods upon us. Have you forgotten the teachings that were left in our keeping?”

“Teachings? You mean those old and dusty myths?”

“Our mystics channel the power of our ancestors every day.”

“The myths have nothing to do with our ancestors!”

“Our ancestors followed those very teachings!” Sigurd cried out in disbelief, “Our people are out of time, Stenberg. The gods have sent an army of Niflheim against us – their judgement for our falling away from the true path. We have been offered one last chance to prove ourselves worthy of existence.”

Jarl Stenberg gave him a sharp look.

"What are you talking about?"

Sigurd pointed behind him, towards the Undead lined up across the field. The Jarl’s gaze followed the line of his arm, and his cheek twitched.

“You…are insane,” he said. “Delusional! I do not need to stand here and listen to the ramblings of a madman!”

“The accusation has been laid against you,” Sigurd told him. “If you walk away…”

Stenberg glanced over him with a sneer, then turned to walk away.

“Hákon!” He called out, “Put down this rabid animal!”

Stenberg’s Champion stepped forward. The other Frost Giants came to form a semicircle around them. It would normally be a ring, but they were probably wary of the army across the field.

“Our equipment is not a match,” Hákon noted as he came forward.

“He doesn’t need any damn equipment!” Jarl Stenberg shouted from the sidelines.

Hákon snorted at the Jarl’s voice and waited for Sigurd to reply. The champion of the Stenberg Tribe was adorned in the plate mail of a Blackguard. A tall kite shield covered two-thirds of his body, and he held a finely-crafted bearded axe casually against his leg.

“It will make up for the difference in our skills,” Sigurd returned with a grin.

Hákon barked out a laugh.

“Very well,” he said. “You are the challenger: name your rules.”

“The old way,” Sigurd replied. “There can be only one.”

The Stenberg champion nodded slowly before lowering himself into a defensive stance.

“I believe I’ve already struck the first blow,” Sigurd said. “I await your reply.”

Hákon advanced grimly, looking out over the rim of his shield. As he came close, the kite shield shifted slightly and his bearded axe darted out. Sigurd bent his body to avoid the sudden strike. By the time he recovered, Hákon’s weapon had already disappeared back behind his shield.

Blackguards were defensive warriors, so this much was not a surprise. The styles employed were varied, however, and they were complemented by a Blackguard’s skills and spells in addition to their Martial Arts. Fighting against them was distinctly different from fighting a regular warrior. From the first strike, at least, Sigurd understood that Hákon was both shrewd and decisive, worthy of serving as a Housecarl.

Sigurd’s steps drew him in a circle as he moved to Hákon’s right. He abruptly shoved his left hand forward, punching the blade of his long-handled greataxe straight at Hákon’s head. The Blackguard used the rim of his shield to drive Sigurd’s attack to the side. His bearded axe came up to hook the haft of Sigurd’s weapon below its head. Sigurd felt pressure against the end of his weapon, and he chuckled.

Hákon’s eyes widened in the shadows of his helm as he realized his error. The Blackguard tried to slam the boss of his shield into Sigurd’s face, but Sigurd simply brought the haft of his weapon up to bar the way. He twisted his grip, locking their axeheads together as he silently activated Ability Boost and Greater Ability Boost.

A roar filled the air as Sigurd stepped back and pulled. Refusing to surrender his weapon, Hákon was dragged out in a wide arc. With a savage tug, Sigurd ripped the weapon from his hand and sent him tumbling away. Shouts from the spectators rose as Sigurd advanced, greataxe winding around into an overhead swing.

“「Fortress」!”

The axe’s momentum was abruptly arrested against Hákon’s shield, but Sigurd was not deterred. He worked his weapon around again, in time with the Blackguard’s Defensive Art. Hákon didn’t wait for the attack to land. His form blurred as he dashed under the descending blade.

“「Shield Slam」!”

Sigurd caught the attack against his midriff, and Hákon added his full weight to the blow. They crashed to the ground, sending snow and ice flying into the air. Hákon rolled away with his momentum.

“「Lesser Strength」.”

“「Corrupt Weapon」.”

Sigurd rose to his feet, finding that Hákon had used the opportunity to retrieve his weapon from the snow. After casting the last spell, the blade of the Blackguard’s axe pulsed with dark energy.

“Finally realize I’m not some unblooded brat you can just bash around?” Sigurd asked.

“You’re not an unblooded brat,” Hákon agreed, “but I can clearly bash you around.”

The Blackguard raised his shield again and advanced. Sigurd did not wait this time, taking a corner off of Hákon’s shield. The Blackguard’s body twisted as his arm was thrown out to the side, but he kept coming to score a blow on the outside of Sigurd’s thigh. Instead of recovering from his swing, Sigurd slammed the haft of his greataxe into Hákon’s temple as he staggered by. Hákon rolled away with the strike, returning to his feet and shaking his head.

“What are you doing, Hákon?!” Jarl Stenberg raged from the side amidst the clamour of the crowd, “Finish him off!”

Sigurd’s face twisted into a vicious smile. Stenberg had a point, but he probably wasn’t actually aware of it.

They exchanged another series of blows before parting again with more cuts and bruises. With the next attack, Sigurd closed the distance to Hákon in the blink of an eye, axe raised overhead. Hákon raised his shield to intercept the blow and had his leg kicked out from under him. Sigurd’s weapon arced down after Hákon as he fell.

The axe stopped when it touched his breastplate. Hákon had used Fortress again. The weapon descended a second time, and the Blackguard rolled aside. Sigurd stomped after him, blows hammering the ground as Hákon fell back deeper into the field from Sigurd’s furious assault. Hákon finally rolled back up to his feet, eyes wide – he probably didn’t like what he saw.

“EEEEYAAARGH!!!”

Sigurd’s furious roar split the air, and his axe swept out in a colossal, underhand swing. The ice between them cracked, split, and exploded, sending a spray of jagged shards towards Hákon. Each piece struck him with the force of a boulder, and he was blasted backwards by the shockwave as chunks of ice rained over the field, thudding heavily as they landed. Uncaring of the outcome, Sigurd hurled himself after his opponent.

The remains of Hákon’s ruined shield flew out at Sigurd, and he caught it in his teeth.

“Fucking Berserker,” the Blackguard panted.

In response, Sigurd broke off the edge of the shield, spitting out its fragments.

Relinquished of his shield, Hákon assumed a different stance, leaning forward in a half-crouch. He circled tentatively as Sigurd continued to unleash his attacks, dodging some of them, guiding others away with his axe and blocking the rest with Fortress. Rather than tiring out, Sigurd’s momentum only grew, and Hákon could barely get any of his own attacks in. Blows rang out over the valley, echoing off the mountain peaks. The Frost Giants had long gone silent, shocked by the fury on display before them.

After yet another Fortress-augmented parry, Hákon grabbed Sigurd’s axe, pulling it in to fix it under his arm. He stepped forward, switching the bearded axe to his free hand.

“「Unholy Strike」!”

The weapon struck Sigurd in the hip, cleaving through armour and finding bone. Dark energies wracked his body. He staggered, then lurched forward to smash his helmeted head against Hákon’s. A savage backhand crossed the Blackguard’s face, snapping his head to the side. The grip on the greataxe loosened, and Sigurd stepped in behind Hákon’s sprawling form.

Sigurd drew the haft of his weapon under Hákon’s chin, pulling it against his neck. The Blackguard’s hand came up to oppose him, but then Sigurd bent backwards and lifted the seven-metre-tall giant off of his feet. Hákon’s legs kicked as he struggled, a good metre clear of the ground. When his struggles slowly ceased, the Stenberg Champion was cast to the ice. Powder flew into the wind with the impact, and the black-plated figure did not stir.

Sigurd fell to one knee, gripping his weapon for support.

“He’s down!”

Someone’s shout through the hammering in his ears.

“He’s down! Kill him!”

Sigurd looked up towards the Frost Giant line. Jarl Stenberg, along with his housecarls, approached.

“What are you doing, Stenberg?” Sigurd asked through heaving breaths.

“Getting rid of a nuisance,” he answered.

“Your Champion is dead!” Sigurd coughed, “By the laws–”

“Shut up! You’ll be dead! No one will speak for a corpse.”

“You dare? The servants of the gods are watching!”

“Yes, yes,” Jarl Stenberg said, “and you’ll be joining them soon. You lot: put an end to this raving lunatic.”

Sigurd struggled to rise as a dozen housecarls closed in on him, weapons brandished. With his rage abated, exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him.

“That’s quite enough,” a silvery voice chimed into the air.

The housecarls stopped as a figure in crimson armour interposed herself between them and Sigurd. Jarl Stenberg leaned over from where he was standing to peer at her.

“A Dwarf?”

“You fool!” Sigurd’s voice was hoarse, “Do you not recognize a Valkyrie when you see one?”

“I see nothing,” the Jarl curled his lip. “Only a corpse that stands before another corpse. What are you waiting for? Get rid of them!”

The housecarls moved forward again.

“Our lore speaks of the Valkyrie’s appeara–”

“Right,” Stenberg rolled his eyes. “Next, you’re going to be going on about Ragnarök and being chosen as one of the Einherj–”

“「Einherjar」!”

Blinding light flooded the valley, driving the twilight shadows away. Sigurd held out a hand to shield his vision. When sight returned, the light had coalesced into a glowing figure of brilliant white. Jarl Stenberg and his housecarls were gone. All that remained of them was a dark blotch staining the ice, fragments of blasted equipment, and a fine mist that scattered on the wind.

In the stillness that followed, the Frost Giants stared.

“…Einherjar…”

The word was whispered a hundred times. It was not in horror at the end of Jarl Stenberg and his men.

“Einherjar…”

Awe filled their voices, for a legend had appeared before them.

“Einherjar!”

The air trembled with rumbling shouts. Weapons clashed against shields, booted feet stomped, and hafts struck the ground. The rumble crescendoed into a roar that crashed into the mountain peaks and echoed into the twilight.

Taking wing, the Valkyrie flew over the assembled Frost Giants, who raised their fists and weapons towards her in a fervid salute. When she settled above them, a hush fell over the air.

“I am the Valkyrie, Shalltear Bloodfallen,” her voice rang out over the icy vale, “and I have come bearing a message for the Jotun tribes of the Azerlisia Mountains. Ragnarök, the fate of the gods, has passed.”

A dull murmur came from the Frost Giants as they looked at one another in confusion. The Valkyrie gazed down at them imperiously, stilling their voices again.

“Ragnarök has passed!” She raised her shining spear over her head, “The gods of old have passed. The prophecies have passed. No longer are you bound to prophecies and trapped by fate. For this is the new world now! A new world with new ways! A new world where the legends will be those of your own making!”

As she spoke, their fervour built again. Weapons and fists were lifted into the air again, rising and falling to the sound of euphoric cries. Eyes shone with the prospect of a brave new world that awaited them. Into their jubilation, the Valkyrie spoke again.

“The new world awaits!” Shalltear Bloodfallen declared, “New sagas await! Glory awaits! And who better to lead you to glory than the god of death!”