“Not interested,” Erland replied immediately. “So if you could just send me back to Midgard…”

Baldr just stared at him for a minute, drawing a smile from Erland. The Aesir let out a long sigh. Baldr thought, shaking his head internally.

“No, I’m afraid not, Erland,” the white-eyed Aesir replied, holding the mortal in his sights. “If you don’t wish to serve me in the competition, you will still serve me in other ways. Perhaps as a hallboy, or boot cleaner.”

“Never been much good at cleaning,” Erland replied, smile never leaving his face. “And they say a fool for a servant reflects a fool of a master.”

“Truly obstreperous servants can always be used as fodder for the hounds,” Baldr countered. “That really was the smallest of Fenrir’s pups, and they’re always hungry.”

“Sounds much more fun than cleaning toilets,” the blue-eyed man told him. “I don’t fight for others. I’m no slave. If you force me to fight for my life, you’re just doing me a favor. Now, are you going to follow through on these threats or are we done here?”

Baldr thought as he considered his options.

“If you were to accept and compete on my behalf in this tournament, you would grow stronger faster than you could imagine,” Baldr tried, appealing to Erland’s greed. “Additionally, I would outfit you with any equipment you could desire. You could climb the Tiers like the world’s easiest training stairs.”

“No thanks,” Erland flippantly tossed out. “I was doing just fine climbing by myself as it was. As for gear, I prefer not to give myself handicaps.”

Baldr sighed again. He hadn’t really expected the appeal to work, not with Erland’s personality. He only took money off the corpses of his unfortunate opponents if he ran out and needed food.

When he’d snuck into an F-Tier dungeon as a young teen, he hadn’t even taken the D-Tier item that had been his reward for completing it.

“Let me show you one last thing,” Baldr said, fingers flying across his keyboard without looking. The screen that had been displaying the invitation now shifted, settling into a dark and foreboding landscape. The sky was choked with ashy black clouds, the fields barren stretches of charcoal colored grasses. Twisted and stunted trees were scattered everywhere.

The screen panned then, blurring as the perspective dove through the ground. It passed through with no more effort than a man walking through an empty hallway, but at great speed. When it finally stopped, it revealed a large cavern. Baldr keyed in another sequence and the screen shifted somehow, revealing the interior of the cavern in its dark environs.

Gathered here were thousands of charcoal skinned orcs, seated on the stepped bleachers of a massive underground arena. At the center, on light gray sand, a dais had been wheeled in. From that dais, one of the rulers of Nidavellir addressed his people.

“The Great Tree has issued a challenge to the rulers of all the Nine Realms,” the speaker was shouting to the crowd, her God-Tier lungs easily carrying her voice to even the highest tiers. She was a massive woman, topping out at over fifteen feet tall and corded with rippling muscle. The adamanstal suit of armor she was clad in must have weighed hundreds of pounds.

“One champion shall be chosen from each tier,” she continued, sweeping her gaze over her subjects. “Each of the Dark Council shall be choosing a fighter, and you all know how I like to choose. Trial by Combat.”

Her last words were greeted with a sweeping roar of cheers, strong enough to visibly rattle the walls of the cavern. It was in no danger of falling. Adamanstal was the most plentiful on Nidavellir, the World of Darkness, home of the orcs. They used it for everything, from the massive structural supports holding their caverns stable, to the tiniest spoons for their meals.

Baldr sped up the recording, the figures moving in a fast motion caricature. A few quick battles between young low-tier warriors proceeded, with nothing too impressive happening, though a shaman fighter from the second round of battles made Erland’s nose twitch before he eventually won.

The recording slowed back down, showing significantly more powerful warriors now. It was also the largest of the competitions so far, having nearly three times as many contenders as both previous rounds combined. D-Tier was the first major bottleneck in power after all.

The screen swept down into the arena, zooming in on a familiar face.

Iligan stood there, a grin stretching his lips wide over his tusks. He had facial piercings here that hadn’t been present in Helvegr, metal crowding his features. Two silver rings caged his left eyebrow, three on his right. His bottom lip sported a pair of piercings at the edges as well. Both ears sported bars through the tops, and chains ran between several other piercings in each.

He wore an elaborately studded black leather jacket, crawling with various band patches. Slung across his back was a massive double-necked runic guitar painted a deep crimson. His fingers flexed as he waited for the announcement to begin.

“LET’S ROCK!” Iligan screamed when the battle commenced, his voice rattling the walls almost as strongly as the crowd had before. Several of his closest competitors were caught completely unprepared, their eardrums rupturing from the sound. They were the first to fall.

The orcish bard cut a swathe through the battlefield, demonstrating the power of his skills. He stunned with whispers, damaged with calls, and destroyed with shouts. Not once did he ever need to bring his guitar into play.

Erland got goosebumps as he watched, brushing his arms to scrape off the tingling sensation. His blood was practically screaming in his ears by the end of it.

The thing that Erland noticed most however, was the look on Iligan’s face.

Erland thought, eyes locked on Iligan’s every move.

By the end of the fight, Erland found himself standing. Both of his hands were wrapped around the edge of the display, clenched so tightly he felt his bones creaking. He was short of breath, his hackles risen and electric desire coursed through him. He wanted a fight like this more than anything.

“Your friend Iligan is one of the most talented battle bards in centuries,” Baldr said, his voice crashing against the blood screaming through Erland’s ears like waves upon the rocks. “He’s but one of the talented competitors I expect to make it through the qualifiers. If you join, you can fight like that every day.”

Erland’s soul warred with itself, clamoring for both fighting and freedom. His blood sang crooning calls of fantastic fights to him. His gaze never left Iligan’s face as he raged against his conflicting desires.

Eventually he pried his hands off the screen, running his sweaty palms down his legs as he straightened up. His gaze moved finally to Baldr once more, and he spoke.

“No,” Erland forced through clenched teeth, rage burning in his bright blue eyes. “I will not be your slave for promises of fights I will eventually find on my own.”

Baldr clucked his tongue to himself, and slumped back into his seat. He raised a hand and the door to his office opened behind Erland, an einherjar attendant walking in. He stared at Erland for one last moment, before sighing and gesturing for him to be taken away.

“If you reconsider, you need but call my name,” Baldr said, voice heavy with resignation. “We don’t keep slaves here, Erland. We train warriors for Ragnarok.”

Erland was led from the hall, but taken down different streets through Asgard. Most people would have been slack-jawed at the marvelous craftsmanship and gleaming cityscape that surrounded them. Erland’s eyes were pointed downwards and unfocused, replaying Iligan’s fight in his mind. Over and over again, the exultation writ large on the orc’s face splashed through his mind.

He didn’t even notice when they stopped walking, standing in front of a large golden gate. The einherjar eventually cleared her throat, breaking Erland from his reverie.

“This gate will bring you back to Midgard,” she informed him once she had his attention. When Erland nodded and moved to walk through, she cleared her throat and brought his attention back. Her tone was clear and the resolution and faith in her words held a great gravitas. “Baldr doesn’t deserve your harsh words. He’s a great man, and he doesn’t single people out often. If he chose you, it’s because you’re the best for the job. You should reconsider.”

Erland frowned at her but didn’t respond. He was slowly coming back to himself after the battle-high that had consumed him watching Iligan’s fight. His legs were getting wobbly, his skin pale and clammy. He simply nodded before striding through the gate.