Tryg was truly and completely lost.
And he remained that way through the next sixteen rooms he explored afterward, with his nervousness growing as time went on. He began marking the corridors as well, and still memorized the directions he took and left carved stones along the way. But none of it helped. The cuts he made simply vanished, as if the brushing of the mist wiped them from the rocks.
Somersaulting forward, rolling across the floor, Tryg avoided another set of long spikes and entered the next area. Panting and aching, he stood up and stared at the sameness around him. He pressed the bridge of his nose, feeling the claws of despair squeeze his heart. Then he sighed and rolled his shoulders, pushing his wandering thoughts away for now. That was a large chamber, which meant the doors would not close, but...
Two men emerged from the ground, digging through earth and snow. Their skin was gray and furrowed by greenish lines that glowed with an ancient and impure power. Both stood and opened their hands like claws, summoning threatening green flames. They were not the only ones, however.
Shortly after, two similar men also emerged from the mist, carrying battered and cracked swords, but still capable of piercing Tryg. He narrowed his eyes, watching the monsters' shadows, predicting their movements. Fortunately, he had faced similar enemies before; he was used to them.
But then, something new whirled inside the fog, bellowing guttural roars in an ancestral tongue, too ancient to be known. A hunched and frail woman, carrying a branchlike staff and dressed in a ragged cloak and a mask of bones that covered her face and ran down her bent spine. Green clouds of poison swirled around her, and her body seemed to ripple, to tremble in the wind, like a mirage.
The lines in Tryg's frown deepened. He had not faced that enemy before; he did not know what to expect. But his instincts warned him that she was the most dangerous among all the others there. He always had the option of turning back and taking another path; the only problem was that it would take time to dodge the traps. In the end, the fight was inevitable.
Tightening his grip on the daggers, he advanced, dodging the greenish flaming orbs launched in his direction. The two men with swords advanced, brandishing their blades. Tryg avoided one of them and deflected the other with his daggers. Then he shoved one of them back with a shoulder strike and kept running, focused on finishing off the bastards who could attack from a distance first.
Both, in fact, were already preparing their next attacks when Tryg finally reached them. He pierced one of their necks, twisted the blade, and pulled violently to the side, tearing the wound open and sending dark blood spraying. But he did not stop there; he could not, even seeing the other man retreat, even hearing the undead swordsmen approaching. After all, these monsters in particular had some kind of healing magic that regenerated their wounds.
Tryg drove his blade through what remained of the man's neck and finished him. As the corpse fell, he dodged another blast of green flames by a hair's breadth, close enough to smell its rotten stench. In the next instant, his daggers reached the second undead and pierced through him. Tryg pulled the blades upward, cutting him down and dropping him onto the snowy grass.
His eyes widened. Tryg quickly turned back, hearing something digging through the earth. At first, he thought it was one of those serpent-felines from before, but he was wrong. It was the witch's magic — a trail of poison burrowing across the surface of the ground toward him. Grinding his teeth, Tryg jumped and rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the attack.
Wretched witch—
An undead attacked, swinging his sword downward in a brutal blow. Tryg displaced it with his daggers, but his shoulder was still cut by the dull blade. He grunted in pain from both the cut and the poison now contaminating and burning his arm. The other man attacked. Tryg jumped back and continued to retreat.
Far enough away, he stopped, took the rest of an Idun Fruit from his bag, and ate it all. A wave of warmth and relief passed through him, healing the superficial cut and slowly destroying the poison. He exhaled... but his satisfaction soon collapsed.
The witch was now invoking another spell, shouting new unintelligible words. Through his shadow, Tryg saw what she did next: the woman spat jets of poisonous clouds into the sky, from which three floating, tentacled eyes were formed.
Great, he thought with disdain. Of course she summons those things too.
Controlling his panting breath, he advanced again. It would be better to deal with the witch and the eyes first, but the undead were closer. They attacked together. Tryg avoided the blows and kicked one of them away, so he could finish them one at a time.
The eyes fired crimson beams of magic. Tryg drove his daggers into the man's chest, making him grunt in pain, then moved him and used his body as a shield. The blasts struck the warrior's back.
He screamed. Then, glaring at his killer with fury, he opened his arms. His entire body began to glow with a green healing aura, which gradually restored his vitality. Tryg, of course, did not take long to rip the blades free and drive them in again, pushing the undead back and making him fall, dead.
He tore the daggers free and rushed toward the next man, still stunned by the kick. The witch fired more jets of poison, this time from above. Leaping from side to side as he ran, Tryg avoided the attacks, which left a foul green mist where they landed. Upon reaching the last warrior, he quickly decapitated him and turned to face the floating eyes...
But there were no longer only three of them. At some point, the woman had summoned more. Now six dark irises stared at him, their viscous tentacles swaying in the wind.
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What a nightmare...
At the same time, all of them fired their magic, both the eyes and the witch. Running and swaying left and right, Tryg was able to dodge the attacks with the help of the premonitory shadows... But not all of them. He did not see that he was heading toward the poison that had contaminated the ground moments before.
Tryg tried to avoid the patch of greenish smoke. His shadow stumbled over a half-buried stone a heartbeat before he did. Then came the last of the blasts, a poisonous jet that struck him in the arm and sent him rolling through the snow.
When he stopped, his fists dug into the frozen ground and he pushed himself upright, coughing nonstop from the gas he had inhaled. Fortunately, he still had two Idun Fruits in his bag...
His eyebrows rose, a dark affliction seizing his spine. The bag was no longer with him.
The sword... he realized, remembering the undead's blow that had grazed his shoulder. It had cut the strap, but overwhelmed by adrenaline as he was, Tryg had not noticed the sudden lightness on his shoulder.
He frantically scanned his surroundings, searching. The bag was not far; only a few steps away, still closed. Forcing his exhausted legs forward and coughing, he advanced as fast as he could, staggering. The poison was already taking effect, tightening his throat, blurring his vision.
More blasts. Tryg jumped, avoiding magic coming from the ground, and dodged four crimson magical attacks. Two, however, struck him square in the chest. He flew and rolled, air forced out of his lungs.
Shit... he snarled internally.
That crimson magic was not as damaging as a blade or a poisonous jet, but it still hurt. Once again, Tryg forced himself to stand and ran, dodging more blasts while cursing the existence of enemies who attacked from a distance.
Luckily, he reached the bag, crouched, dropped one of the daggers, and quickly grabbed an Idun Fruit. But the witch suddenly appeared in front of him, laughing wickedly and with amusement. Tryg frowned and, after seeing his shadow successfully pierce the woman's stomach, did not hesitate and did the same.
...But the blade did nothing. It merely passed through the witch without causing any damage, her image rippling, as if she herself were made of mist.
Tryg froze.
What—
The witch swung her branchlike staff. Tryg predicted the blow, but as close as he was, he could not avoid being hit. The wooden base struck his temple dead on. He was sent flying back, screaming. His back slid through the snow until he came to a gentle stop against the chamber wall.
Tryg coughed several times, his skull throbbing, his breathing gradually becoming more labored. He was cut, bruised, and poisoned. But he had not dropped the bag. He could still recover. He could still fight...
And what good would that do? Since entering the labyrinth, the hordes of enemies had been growing more numerous and difficult, their damage more frequent and worrying.
Besides, even if he managed to keep moving forward, his Idun Fruits would soon run out, as would his food and water. Of course, he could feed on the carcasses of certain creatures and get water with some snow and fire. But for that, he needed to fight. Not to mention the greatest problem he needed to solve: the mysterious workings of the labyrinth.
His success was unlikely. At the rate his progress was going, Tryg would never be able to fight, survive, and, at the same time, investigate the labyrinth and reach Ivaldi's Workshop. Not in his current state, at least.
He needed more resources... He needed to be stronger.
But, even if that was a fact, he could not give up. Unlikely or not, at the very least he needed to get out of that place to rethink his strategy, prepare himself, and then, and only then, return to complete his objectives.
Yeah... That's it...
Tryg stared at the eyes already summoning new crimson spells and at the witch letting out a shrill, mocking laugh. He opened the bag and shoved his hand inside, searching not for an Idun Fruit, but for the gift he had received. Sinmara's jewel.
I don't think there's a better moment than this...
Tryg clenched his fist tightly and crushed the small light-blue stone into thousands of crystalline shards. In the blink of an eye, dense clouds sprang from his hand and flowed between his fingers, cold and glittering.
The witch faltered at Sinmara's magic, as if sensing the queen's power. Then the skeletal woman roared in fury and attacked together with the eyes. Mist swirled around Tryg, protecting him, redirecting the magic away. And it continued to spin and spin, until a white, freezing hurricane wrapped around him completely.
He closed his eyes, groaning, and simply trusted that the magic of the queen of Niflheim would end the immediate dangers. However, the freezing whirlwind did not defeat the enemies...
When he lifted his eyelids, Tryg quickly realized he was no longer in the labyrinth.
He had returned to the Idun Tree, landing lightly beside one of its white roots.
"By Surtr..." He heard a low voice, almost breaking, say.
Sinmara appeared beside him, her crystalline figure casting a shadow over his face. Her expression was apathetic, as always. But her eyes were wet too.
She was crying for him... again... That was the only thing he managed to think in that moment.
"How could you get this wounded in such a short time?" she asked, extending her crystalline arm and picking a glassy fruit from the branches.
"Short time...?" he asked, his voice coming out weak, rough. The poison still worked through his throat, making his words difficult.
The queen created a transparent mug from mist and cold. Then she squeezed the fruit over the vessel, filling it with thick golden juice.
"Yes. Short," she repeated.
Sinmara crouched beside him and brought the mug to his lips. The pleasant sensation of the Idun Fruit came, like the warm touch of the sun on a winter day. A minute or two later, the poison was expelled, the pain eased, and the lighter wounds healed. After drinking it all, Tryg exhaled, satisfied.
"Thank you... truly."
She nodded, as if nothing had happened, then rose and sat on the largest root of the tree, crossing her legs.
"What happened?"
Tryg sat on the ground, took one of the fruits from his bag, and took a bite.
"I was defeated by a... witch... I think," he answered, staring at the ground, guilty. "A woman who used poison magic and summoned some floating eyes."
Sinmara nodded. "A Revenant who summons Nightmares — a creature create by Seiðr magic. You tried to attack her directly, did you not?"
"I did, but I couldn't. My dagger passed through her like she was nothing." Tryg looked at her. "But I guess you already know that..."
"I do. They are immune to physical attacks, at least while in their spectral form. You need to hit them with some kind of magic to make their bodies tangible."
"I see... Well, that's problematic..."
He frowned, worried. Obviously, he had no way of facing a Revenant head-on. If another one appeared in his path, his only option would be to run to the next chamber. But could he really use that strategy until he reached the Workshop, with the enemies becoming more numerous and dangerous as time went on?
No, I can't, he concluded, shaking his head. I need to think of something.
"Are you going to answer my question?"
Tryg raised an eyebrow. "What question?"
Sinmara sighed. "When I asked what happened, I was referring to how little time you lasted in there. I know you are nowhere near the strongest Aesir I have ever seen, but still..."
"Little?" he repeated, perplexed. "I spent hours in the labyrinth."
The queen crossed her arms.
"What are you talking about? You spent a few minutes in there at most."