A gigantic jail with dozens, perhaps hundreds, of barred cells along the walls inside — illuminated by incandescent braziers and yellowish torches attached to the columns —, their bars made of the same dark metal as before.
Most of them were empty or buried beneath mounds of snow that had entered through the windows. Others, however, were occupied by prisoners of the most varied races and kinds. Some were chained Draugrs; others, ordinary humans and elves, farmers and merchants; others, armored warriors twice Tryg's size.
But the most impressive thing was not the diversity of the prisoners, nor the dozens of guards watching them. It was the fact that many of the prisoners, even in Niflheim, even after the fall of the Aesir's reign, were still alive.
Not only that — they were well, healthy, kept warm by furry blankets and fed with heated water and handfuls of succulent foods, such as dried meat, nuts, and cubes of fat. Right, Tryg knew they were not exactly succulent. But who could judge his hungry reasoning?
But why were the Einherjar going to the trouble of keeping their prisoners alive? It certainly had nothing to do with logic, much less pity... Did they not know about the fall of the All-Father? Or did they know and insist on carrying out their duties anyway?
Whatever it was, a spark of curiosity emerged amid Tryg's hatred. And, with it, a certain relief. There was food, water, and warmth there. He had no idea where so many supplies came from. Perhaps there was a hidden storehouse. Or perhaps they had access to the other realms...
Tryg thought it would be interesting to look into that later, if he could. But, for now, survival was his priority, and if he managed to get even a little of those supplies, he would live to investigate another day.
But he could not simply go in and steal. One thing was taking down one or two distracted warriors. Another entirely was facing six Einherjar who walked together, one covering the other's back. Besides, even if he were capable of defeating them, any louder noise would surely alert the other guards in the prison.
Freeing the prisoners was an idea as well, but a risky one. Even if he managed to find a way to open their cells, there was no way to be sure they would not turn against him afterward. Imprisoned by Odin's justice or not, they could still be as vile as him.
I don't need to steal everything... Tryg noticed, staring at the daggers and thick, furry clothes of the Einherjar and their transparent copies.
Indeed, his time should not be spent exploring the prison in search of food, or defeating all the guards. If he had only a dagger, thick clothes, and perhaps a bag, he could already survive — hunt, cut wood, melt snow, light a fire, and stay alive.
Either way, he would still have to defeat some enemies and flee before many noticed him. And all Tryg had to face them with were his fists... and the shadows.
He narrowed his eyes, thoughtful, and considered entering the prison through the hole beside him. In the next instant, his shadow appeared and did the same, but only for a second. Then, in the blink of an eye, as soon as Tryg stepped back from his decision, the figure simply vanished, returning to limbo.
A moment later, he studied the hole and, after confirming the absence of nearby enemies, decided that he really would pass through the hole this time. One second before, his shadow executed everything he thought, the same way Tryg did shortly after. But it did more than that...
Its ears trembled. Its gaze flew to the right. Then it hurried and lay down behind the mound of snow and debris from the broken wall, hiding itself. In the next instant, from behind his improvised hiding place, Tryg heard and saw the six Einherjar passing through his field of vision, talking nonsense about the glorious All-Father, accompanied in front by their copies.
That was the confirmation he needed, and the realization struck him like a slap to the face. Honestly, stopping now to think, it was so obvious; Tryg should have reached that conclusion much sooner. Well, in his defense, it was not as if he had, until then, the luxury of spending his time thinking about the hauntings in his vision.
The shadows... were not people's souls, nor a laughing result of insanity brought forth by tragedy. They were echoes of events that had not yet happened.
Tryg no longer saw only the present.
He saw the future too.
At least, that was what it seemed to his eyes. But how could that be? Why was this happening to him, and what exactly did it mean?
Shaking his head, Tryg buried his curiosity. Hidden and silent, he watched the guards attentively. He studied where they walked, what they did, and what they said, as well as what they did not do and where they did not walk.
Because of the torches and fire pits, the interior was warmer than the outside. Not exactly pleasant, but warm enough for him to study his enemies for a good while. Added to that, the prison was also wide open, without corridors, allowing his vision to capture several details. That was also a problem, of course, since it made it infinitely easier for his enemies to notice his presence.
About two hours later, Tryg noticed that three of the six Einherjar patrolling the floor he was on would, from time to time, go downstairs to mock one of the prisoners, a man called... Odyr? Tryr? He did not know, but the important point was that this was an opportunity, and the only one he had identified until that moment. And he already had an idea of how he would take advantage of it...
While waiting for the next descent of the Einherjar, as soon as the guards had moved away from where he was, Tryg returned to the edge of the hole in the wall and thought about jumping. The height of the two floors below was not enough to kill him, but perhaps enough to break some bones. As he imagined, his shadow jumped and fell immediately afterward. However, in the next instant, since Tryg did not jump, it vanished in midair.
Right, I get it... I think...
Tryg turned inward and returned behind the mound of debris, breathing deeply, even though the cold air burned his lungs. Rage, fear, and anxiety mixed in his pounding chest. But none of them compared to what he had felt during Ragnarök.
Later, three guards went down, and Tryg waited a few seconds until he was certain they would not return. Only when the insults began on the floor below did he rise and approach, with light, measured steps, the remaining trio of warriors who were making their usual patrol.
Tryg gathered all his dwindling strength in his fist and, after confirming his actions through the shadow... punched the nape of the closest Einherjar. A crack resounded, along with the swing of her neck, and she fell stiffly to the floor. The other two guards quickly turned to Tryg, growling, their gray faces twisting into surprised and furious scowls.
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However, he had already not only crouched and drawn one of the fallen Einherjar's daggers, but also lunged toward the second enemy. Tryg saw his figure driving the blade into the throat of the gray man who opened his mouth to shout, and that was what he did after, merciless.
The warrior gurgled, holding his killer's wrists. Tryg frowned and twisted the knife, worsening the wound. Dark blood ran down the Einherjar's neck, and a chilling scent of rust filled the air.
The guard gritted his teeth, still alive. Tryg's eyes jumped when he saw that he would still fight and leapt away, leaving the weapon, before his arm could be broken. The other warrior woman did not take long to attack him, screaming. Her scream echoed through the floor, no doubt alerting one or another distant companion.
Damn it—
Tryg's neck was pierced. Or rather, his shadow's neck. Without thinking, he reacted and jumped back in any way he could, landing on his backside on the floorboards, changing his fate.
The woman tried to attack him again. Tryg avoided the strike of her dagger, rolling across the floor. Then he pushed her away with a powerful kick to the ribs and ran to the Einherjar he had stabbed. Tryg grabbed his mace and swung it broadly and vigorously toward the woman, not to hit her, but to create space.
The warrior easily avoided his blow and attacked. Tryg, however, read her attack and all the ones that came after, seeing his own death again and again, and avoided each of them, always at the last possible second. Or that was what it seemed like in the end.
Still, during his visions, during the fight... to Tryg, it was as if each second lasted an eternity. He did not know how to explain exactly what he felt. If he had to put it into words, it was as if time dilated, giving him a short opportune moment to react or not react.
Nimbly, Tryg pulled his head back, dodging the dagger that tried to cut his throat, and punched the Einherjar in the stomach. She groaned in pain and gasped, the air rushing from her lungs. Anxious about the passage of time, Tryg hurried and knocked the warrior out with a powerful hook.
Then, using his unusual strength, he swiftly took her dark daggers, threw her unconscious body over his shoulders, and ran. Of the three, she was the only one who carried a fat, interesting bag at her waist, which could very well have useful things. Besides, her size and build were similar to Tryg's — excluding the fact that she was a woman, of course.
Reaching the hole, he soon began climbing the window frames up to the roof. From inside the prison, his ears caught guards growling and shouting orders and irritated insults at one another. Already on the roof, Tryg walked with measured but hurried steps to the farthest edge from himself, where he had previously identified that the top of a snowy mound was separated from the structure by only a short jump.
Upon reaching it, he jumped and ran down the slope, sliding through the snow beside his shadow, which was also carrying a warrior over its shoulder. Tryg stopped a long while later, panting and, incredibly, sweating. He dumped the woman's body and lay down in the whitish grass for a while.
His heart was racing, his adrenaline at its peak. In a way, that was even a relief. Not only because of the warmth it provided, but mainly because it suppressed the burning in his legs, the scorching in his lungs, the trembling in his arms.
However, each beat also sent a dreadful chill shivering down his spine. In only that short space of time during which he had fought, Tryg had seen his own death a dozen times, in several different ways, each more dreadful than the last.
It was... disturbing... knowing that he would die, and yet survive anyway.
Good, too. But disturbing.
Fire... Food... he thought, straightening himself and beginning to remove the Einherjar's cloak, gloves, boots, and thick clothes. When he finished putting them on, a shiver ran through his body and a sigh of relief escaped his lips. For a moment, Tryg simply stood there, hugging the thick wool, feeling the warmth of the new clothes.
Then his eyes fell upon the warrior lying beside him, now unprotected against the cold. Tryg exhaled and dressed her in his old clothes. Undead or not, enemy or not, it would be cruel to allow someone to suffer in that cold.
Next, he opened and examined the Einherjar's bag. There were some very useful things in it, such as a whetstone, a flint, a bit of rope, a leather canteen with water, some strips of dried meat, and more. Salivating, he picked up the food, thanking the heavens that an undead woman had been carrying provisions.
She must have been the one who cared for the prisoners...
Luck finally seemed to be on his side. Tryg drank a little water and ate two strips of dried meat, savoring each piece as if it were a feast. He did not eat everything, of course; he saved a good amount for emergencies.
Finally satisfied, and thus more focused, he stared at the warrior, reminding himself of the reasons he had carried her. He tied the Einherjar's wrists and ankles with the rope and...
Her eyes shot open. Her teeth ground together. Tryg saw her shadow leaping, biting at his throat. He jumped away and rolled through the snow, and the warrior bit the air. Tryg got up and drew one of his daggers. Luckily, he had already restricted the Einherjar's limbs; she could not stand, only crawl furiously across the ground, like an earthworm digging through the dirt.
Tryg exhaled, relieved, and stared at the woman writhing. Then he saw her smile. Speak. Shine...
"Ek blœt!"
The words appeared in Tryg's mind with the horrible clarity of a sentence. The Einherjar's gray body ignited in an almost blinding chromatic radiance, growing more intense by the second.
He widened his eyes. His shadow ran. And he ran too.
"For the All-Father—"
BOOM!
The woman exploded. A shower of snow, ice, and stone burst through the air, pushing back the realm's mist. A shockwave struck Tryg's back, hurling him across the frozen fields. When he fell, he landed face-first on the ground, but the softness of the snow cushioned him. He quickly wiped it from his face, got to his feet, and stared at the smoking crater behind him.
When he carried her out of the prison, Tryg had indeed thought not only of her things, but also of the information she might provide. Of course, he knew the Einherjar were loyal to Odin. But, who knew, perhaps after convincing her of her lord's end...
Tryg stopped, bringing a hand to his face. She had already died, true. She was not truly alive. But, even so, destroying herself for a vile and finished man like Odin...
He sighed. Then he retrieved and sheathed his dagger and continued moving away from the prison. He still could not waste time; the Einherjar could very well already be after him. Therefore, still feeling his heart grow heavy, Tryg moved forward.
However, once again after taking a first step, his shadow showed him something important. He realized, while staring at its feet, that his own were leaving footprints in the snow. Tryg berated himself for not noticing that sooner, even more now after that explosion, which had surely drawn the attention of any enemy on his trail.
So, in a wide area of pale grass, Tryg began to walk from one side to the other, in circles, up and down, partially hiding the direction he would follow for the next few hours. He only hoped that this, along with the mist, would be enough.
At last, he moved on, without direction, but searching for one. He did not find it. He only walked and walked, with cutting winds striking his cheeks, his feet sinking into the snow now and then. When he stopped, near a pale tree, he was already far enough that the prison had disappeared behind the mist a long time ago. The moon had risen in the starry sky, much brighter than the sun he had seen earlier, enough to illuminate the entire realm.
Without delay, Tryg tore some branches from the tree and gathered a few gray stones, creating a base for the campfire. Then he arranged the firewood and used the flint and dagger he had acquired to strike sparks and, eventually, create a slender flame.
Tryg sat down, picked up a piece of dried meat, and nibbled on it, watching and enjoying the warmth of the growing blaze and allowing his muscles to finally rest a little. The logs gave off the scent of burnt, caramelized apples.
The snow around the fire melted little by little, unlike the ice, which resisted the heat more. It still melted, only more slowly. Tryg drank the rest of the water in his canteen, then filled it with snow and left it near the fire.
Then exhaustion hit him hard. The first yawns came and his eyelids kept falling and lifting. Slowly, his head settled on the ground and his eyes closed. He needed to do more. He needed to look for a way back to his mother. But he was so tired...
Tryg slept. And the last thing he heard... was someone crying.