"Ragnarök..."
The word did not seem to fit inside Tryg's mind, not amid so much turmoil.
Odin had not brought the peoples of Midgard to Asgard out of benevolence. It had been a calculated decision by the All-Father: placing the Midgardians amid the chaos of the end of the world. But why?
...To delay them, he thought.
Odin wanted to use them to slow his enemies' advance, even if only slightly. Tryg, his mother, Master Jorg, Skjöldr — they were all nothing more than pieces on the All-Father's board. Small, almost insignificant, but still... usable.
Tryg stared at the ruined homes of New Midgard, the scattered corpses, and the survivors gazing fearfully at the chaotic skies. He ground his teeth, furious with both the god who had deceived him and himself. How in Hel had he not realized it before? How could he have ignored all the obvious signs?
...No. How could he not have ignored them? Like most people, Tryg had blindly believed that the gods would protect their subjects.
Idiot, he thought, remembering what his mother had told him only moments ago. She had not been wrong to question the gods, to blaspheme them. Tryg had been wrong to believe in them so deeply.
Another explosion, just as earth-shaking as the first. The Helheim gateway had exploded, destroyed by the machines at the base of Hrimthur's Wall. Debris flew across the battlefield, striking enemies and allies alike, but fortunately, no stones reached New Midgard.
Thunder roared. Lightning illuminated clouds filled with arrows, bursts of fire, and red blasts streaking back and forth. Electricity gathered at a single point before descending violently upon the turbulent ocean. Not against the water... but against the head of the colossal serpent moving through it.
Another deafening crash followed the lightning strike, and Jörmungandr roared in fury. Thor and the World Serpent were finally fighting their long-foretold battle.
Tryg could have remained there, paralyzed before the battle of legends. But his mother was still inside the house, and they were still in the middle of a war. He needed to focus on what mattered most — what he could do to save his mother and, with luck, the other survivors nearby. There was only one problem...
Wherever he looked, Tryg saw nothing but chaos and death. No safe place. No apparent escape route.
What do I do? He clenched his fists, his gaze darting frantically from side to side. Then his eyes settled upon the realm towers.
Unless he was mistaken, boats were tied to the piers along the shore that the villagers used for fishing. With luck, some would still be available, and he could board one with his mother and the others and lead them toward a gateway that remained active — Vanaheim's, or perhaps even Midgard's.
His heart pounding against his ribs, but his mind made up, Tryg nodded and turned toward the door of his house. The instant he touched the handle, however, he froze.
Two beams of colored light descended from the heavens onto the muddy street, one to his left and the other to his right. A moment later, two warriors landed with thunderous crashes where the beams had struck, shaking the ground and scattering mud. As the light faded, they rose, wielding dark maces and daggers. Their skin was gray and lifeless, their eyes blazing with furious purple flames.
Although Tryg had seen similar warriors earlier, only now did he realize what they truly were. Einherjar... he concluded apprehensively. Warriors who had died in battle and been taken to Valhalla to await the day they would fight for Odin at Ragnarök.
They regarded the people of New Midgard with contempt, then pointed toward the war raging beyond them.
"Mortals!" bellowed the man among them—a bald warrior with a broad, bare torso—his voice deep and severe. "The All-Father grants you purpose. To the wall. Defend your gods."
The Midgardians widened their eyes and exchanged terrified looks. A middle-aged woman with curly hair and skin weathered by the sun took two steps toward the warrior, clasping her trembling hands over her chest.
"Sir... I don't know what is happening, but... there are children here. Wounded people. Where are we supposed to go?"
The Einherjar growled, grabbed the woman by the collar of her dress, and hurled her toward the conflict. She struck the ground and rolled across the muddy road.
"Fight!"
Groaning, the woman struggled to her feet and wiped the mud from her mouth.
"I-I don't understand, sir..."
Tryg studied the faces around him. As he had suspected, their expressions revealed not only fear, but confusion. None of them understood the orders being given. None except Tryg.
The language of the Einherjar sounded ancient and harsh, nothing like the only tongue he knew. Yet, for some reason, every word reached his mind with perfect clarity.
The villagers were not the only confused ones, however. The Einherjar did not appear to understand the frightened questions and replies directed at them either. And their confusion quickly turned to fury.
After repeating the order once more without receiving a response, the gray warrior growled and advanced toward the mud-covered woman, his brow furrowed and his threatening mace raised.
Damn it.
A storm of emotions churned through Tryg's mind. Fear. Uncertainty. Rage.
He grunted and, without thinking much further... charged toward the danger. He could not simply allow that innocent woman to die—not because some god wanted her life pointlessly sacrificed in his name.
Tryg hurled himself at the Einherjar armed with daggers, knocking her onto her back. Of the two, she had been the only one not to notice his presence; attacking her first was the obvious choice, and it would draw her companion's attention as well.
The Einherjar groaned in surprise as she fell but did not release her weapons. Tryg tried to pin both her arms, but one slipped free of his grasp. Growling like a maddened animal, the warrior drove one of her dark daggers into his shoulder.
Tryg screamed in pain. He had never felt anything so searing, so debilitating. Even so, he kept one of the Einherjar's limbs pinned and struck her. A bolt of agony shot through his injured arm. Tryg ignored the pain and punched her again. And again.
Though dazed, the warrior tore the dagger free and plunged it into his arm once more. But Tryg did not stop raining blows upon her. He needed to finish her quickly, before her companion interfered.
The Einherjar spat blood and a molar, her cheek cut and swollen. Soon, her hand fell limp and the focus faded from her eyes. She was losing consciousness.
One more, Tryg thought, roaring as he gathered what remained of his strength for a final blow.
A hard, brutal fist struck his temple. Tryg flew across the street like an arrow and slammed back-first through the wall of a nearby house. Wood and splinters rained around him. He heard his bones creak and his muscles scream.
Tryg howled and dropped to his knees, both hands braced against the ground. The world spun around him, and a piercing ringing filled his ears. His arm and hair were soaked with blood. His entire body and head throbbed as though he had spent hours being beaten with wooden clubs.
"Shit..." he growled, tasting an unfamiliar metallic flavor.
The Einherjar roared toward the heavens, thrilled by his own strike. With slow, heavy steps, he approached Tryg, crimson droplets falling from his mace.
Tryg did not know how he had survived a blow from that thing — and at that moment, he did not want to know. He planted one knee against the ground and tried to stand, but dizziness sent him crashing back down once more.
"Tryg!"
A frightened cry. Tryg's eyes widened. For a brief moment, he ignored the approaching Einherjar and followed the voice to its source — the doorway of his home.
She was there. His mother stood against the doorframe, sweating and flushed with fever, one hand clutching the clothes over her chest, her face stricken with anguish.
Tryg ground his teeth and violently tore the dagger from his shoulder. Using the pain to drive away the dizziness, he rose unsteadily and stared into the Einherjar's wrathful eyes.
"Come on," he declared, spitting blood.
The sound of rapid hooves drew nearer. Tryg and his enemy turned toward it. In the next instant, an enormous boar slammed directly into the Einherjar. The warrior was hurled away and crashed through the wall of another house. The boar did not stop. Squealing ferociously, it chased the Einherjar inside.
The Midgardians retreated, terrified of the animal. Tryg had no idea what to think of his sudden, beastly savior either. Still, he was grateful to be alive.
The other warrior rose unsteadily, growling. She glared at Tryg with eyes blazing in furious purple flames, wiping the blood from her swollen face with her forearm. Tryg's shoulders tightened beneath her rage, but he raised his guard and gripped the dagger firmly.
The moment the Einherjar took her first step, however, a chunk of ice the size of a barrel struck her head... And severed it in the blink of an eye. Her body collapsed like a rag doll.
Once again, Tryg looked to his right. Someone else had saved him this time. A woman stood there in a long blue dress, with pale skin, piercing azure eyes, and long blond hair bound into a braid as long as her entire body. Her open palm remained pointed toward where the Einherjar had stood, and her arm was covered in intricate, glowing blue tattoos.
Unlike with the boar, the Midgardians seemed relieved to see the newcomer, for some reason.
As the light of her tattoos faded, she exhaled and lowered her arm. Her eyes met Tryg's, as cold as the ice she had conjured.
For one brief moment, amid the slaughter at the end of the world, warmth rose into Tryg's cheeks, and he involuntarily looked away. The woman was beautiful. Ridiculously beautiful.
"Tryg!" his mother called again, now staggering toward him.
At the sound of her voice, Tryg shook his head and returned to the grim reality around him. He collapsed to the ground, overwhelmed by pain. His shoulder was still bleeding, and the clothes around it were soaked. After wiping his hand against the hem of his shirt, he pressed it over the wounds, trying to slow the bleeding even slightly.
"Gods, look at all that blood!" Frida exclaimed, sitting beside him in the mud and staining her dress. "Are you all right? Are you hurt anywhere else? Oh, my son..."
"Calm down, Mother. I'm fine." He managed a pained smile. "Strong as a boar."
His mother forced a smile of her own. "Funny."
She coughed several times, then tore a clean strip from the sleeve of her dress with her teeth and tried to tie it around his bleeding shoulder.
Seeing his mother's frail fingers trembling as they struggled with the cloth, Tryg took it from her.
"Let me."
Frida pressed her lips together and gripped her dress, her sweat-covered brow furrowed.
"I told you to stay inside the house... What happened?"
Finishing the knot around his shoulder with his teeth, Tryg shook his head.
"I'll tell you later. First, we need to get out of here."
"Yes..." His mother looked up at the chaos above them — dragons burning and devouring elves, Valkyries fighting other Valkyries. "You're right."
The boar returned with the Einherjar's mace in its mouth, crushing debris beneath its hooves. After dropping the weapon, a pink cloud glittering with golden particles emanated from its body, surrounding it and transforming it...
Into a human. A tall, powerful man with dark, weathered skin, twisted locks of hair, and a thin, unkempt beard. His eyes seemed to hold the maturity of someone shaped by a long and complicated life.
The boar-man studied Tryg for a moment, then picked up the mace and approached him. Everyone except the blond woman stared in amazement at his transformation
"You no longer need to be afraid!" the blond woman exclaimed, looking over the Midgardians. "We're going to take you somewhere safe."
The Midgardians sighed, smiled, and embraced one another in relief, Frida and Tryg among them.
"For a farmer, you fought surprisingly well, young man," said the boar-man. Then he examined Tryg's wounds. "Let me see that."
"There's no need— Ow! Hey!"
Hildisvíni abruptly tore away his improvised bandage and studied the wounds on his shoulder. When he examined Tryg's bloodied head, he narrowed his eyes suspiciously for some reason.
Soon, however, his expression relaxed. "Well, the bones seem intact."
Hildisvíni took one of the small ceramic bottles fastened to his belt and poured its contents into his palm — pink smoke glittering with ethereal golden stars. He spread the substance over Tryg's shoulder and head.
Tryg hissed as his wounds burned as though flames were sealing them shut, and the pain lasted for what felt like an eternity. Eventually, the bleeding stopped, and the cuts closed until only faint red lines remained. He was still in considerable pain, but at least much of his strength had returned.
"This won't completely heal the muscles or bones. It only stops the bleeding," Hildisvíni said, returning the empty ceramic bottle to his belt. "How do you feel?"
Tryg rolled and stretched his arm for a moment before answering, "Better. Thank you."
"Good. Do you think you can help me escort these people?"
Tryg looked at the mud-covered woman he had saved. Then at his sick mother. It did not take him long to nod.
"I can."
His mother suddenly took hold of his wrist, her head lowered. She remained quiet for a moment, then looked directly into his eyes.
"Are you sure, son?"
Tryg nodded again. "I know I'm not a warrior, but..." He looked down at his bloodied hands and clenched his fists. "Other than this man and the lady over there, I think I'm the only one here who can help these people."
Frida paused. Then she managed a restrained smile.
"Yes... I suppose you are."
"I'm Hildisvíni," the boar-man introduced himself, extending the Einherjar's mace.
"Trygve—" Tryg reached for the weapon but stopped halfway and blinked at him. "Hildisvíni? As in Hildisvíni, Freya's adviser?"
"Exactly. Come on, take it."
"Ah, right..."
Tryg pushed the revelation aside and took the dark mace. At first, he expected it to be far too heavy for him to wield properly. He was wrong. The weapon was strangely light — light enough for him to hold it in one hand.
A moment later, Hildisvíni said that he would help the blond woman tend to the other wounded and turned away. Tryg acknowledged him but did not follow. He allowed himself that moment to try to process all the madness that had happened over the past few days, especially the past few minutes.
It was impossible. His mind would need at least an entire week to accept so much.
Damn it, this has to be a nightmare. Tryg pinched the bridge of his nose. At this rate, I'll soon be drinking with Freya herself in some tavern.
"Thank you, Lady Sif," said the mud-covered woman, taking her savior's hand. "Thank you so, so much!"
"Don't thank me. There is still much to be done." The blond woman turned to the others. "Hildisvíni will help you. Follow him and do not get separated."
Tryg blinked, staring at Sif. An Aesir goddess. Thor's wife.
He exhaled. Of course... Why not?
"There are boats along the shore taking refugees to Midgard," Hildisvíni proclaimed after healing another Midgardian, his sharp, resonant voice immediately drawing everyone's attention. "Stay together and follow me. Those who can carry the wounded, do so. Those who can clear a path, clear it. Do not stop for anything. Anyone capable of fighting, take a weapon and protect the flanks. I want the wounded and the children in the center."
He looked at Tryg. "You. Stay with me at the front."
Tryg nodded, but his mother stopped him again, pulling him back. She studied Sif for a moment, then Hildisvíni, weighing obligations against her fears. Finally, she exhaled and looked deeply into Tryg's eyes.
"Do what you have to do. Just be careful, all right?"
He smiled, understanding her concern. "I will."
Tryg guided his mother to the group of refugees and asked them to help her. They readily agreed. Tryg thanked them, then joined Hildisvíni with the mace in his hands and his heart in his throat. Knowing what needed to be done was not always comforting.
He drew a deep breath and gripped the weapon until his knuckles turned white.
"Relax," Hildisvíni said, touching his shoulder with a confident smile. "Just stay close to me."
"Yes, sir..."
At the edge of his vision, Tryg saw Sif bid farewell to the group and advance deeper into the ruins of New Midgard. He narrowed his eyes, then discreetly glanced at the boar-man with suspicion.
Why were Hildisvíni, adviser to the goddess Freya, and Sif, Odin's daughter-in-law, helping evacuate innocent people? The gods were responsible for their suffering, weren't they?
Then again, if they had wanted to use the Midgardians as Odin had, they would not have stopped the Einherjar. For now, Tryg would trust them. But he would never lower his guard again.
"With me!"