When the seeds of monumental Yggdrasil descended from its titanic branches, all the universe scrambled to secure them before anyone else could. For one reason or another, nearly every capable faction in all the nine worlds sought to acquire those precious bundles of life before the forces of Odin could eradicate them, thereby preserving his place as ruler of all that was. Such was the way of the Aesir gods, to destroy and ruin life to preserve the way of their own.

Dozens of occasions have since beheld this gruesome race, pitting world against world. In all that time, only once was a seed of the universal ash tree ever spirited away before the gods could reach it. It came to pass that a captain of an Aesir force rebelled against the All-Father, stealing the seed and fleeing despite the fatal wounds she received in the attempt. When a mere human chanced to came across the dying figure of that fateful Valkyrie, her courage moved him to weeping. He gladly accepted from her the precious seed with a parting promise that he would reach Bifrost, the rainbow bridge between the realm of men and the realm of gods, with her gift intact.

His road was a bedeviled one. Wolf-riding Valkyries, demons, giants, and a dozen other varieties of barrier harried him from the very first step. Though history has forgotten his path, his methods, and even his name, it is known for certain that this human somehow reached the fabled bridge and flung himself from its prismatic surface. The murdered Valkyrie’s name passed across his lips as he plummeted from the highest boughs of Asgard and gave up his life, his frail human body stretched to the absolute limits of its endurance.

For nine days his body fell between the worlds. Even then his passage did not go unimpeded. Alves flung their spells at him, great birds wrestled with his death grip upon the seed, and still the loyal Valkyries chased him. He fell past the crags of Jotunheim, where giants reached to catch him, and only just missed the gargantuan jaws of the world serpent Jormungand. Through the rocky ceiling of Loki’s prison he crashed, and finally came to rest at the bottom of the Well of Mimir, which is the base of the World Tree. There, where the black dragon Nidhogg dwelt, did the Valkyries at last abandon their fruitless pursuit.

Instantly, the universe shifted. Yggdrasil’s roots turned west, and it is said that the great ash uprooted itself from the fabric of existence that it might make room for its budding sapling to grow. The gods of Asgard made many an attempt to destroy the new World Tree, but Yggdrasil forbade it, displaying for the first time its endless power, wisdom, and sentience. Odin lamented bitterly the loss of the Well of Mimir, for with it went the prophetic knowledge he had gained so many ages ago by sacrificing an eye to the abysmal waters. In his resentment he allowed three long winters to pass without an inkling of summer in between, and failed to recognize the impending gathering of his enemies’ armies, and that which is now called Ragnarok came to be.

As for the sapling, which took for itself the name Hjadrasil, life began anew. The development of mortal and immortal races in its nine blooming branches mirrored that of its famous mother, for its climate and structure were suited to beings of a particular nature. That is how life in general functions. Humans and giants, alves and dragons, gods and monsters, all surged from the boughs of Hjadrasil, and the cycle of life began anew.

Still, every circle’s beginning knows no other way than to seek its ending. Now, in the shadow of Yggdrasil, Hjadrasil’s denizens can hear the infernal hoof beats of the death rider Ragnarok approaching. Empires have risen and fallen since last it came, and those few who know of its coming know nothing of what to do.

Except to watch.

And wait.

Chapter One: Randleif Valkyrie

“During the days of Yggdrasil, mighty Odin kept a court of Battle-Maidens known to the gods as Valkyries. They were wolf-women of only slightly wolf-like features who performed several different functions for their lord, and answered to none but Odin and occasionally sensual Freyja. Principally the Valkyries served as Choosers of the Slain, riding to human wars on the backs of gargantuan Aesir wolves to select the greatest heroes from amongst the dead that they might be sent on to Valhalla. There these chosen, called Einherjar, trained to serve in Odin’s vast army. In addition, the Valkyrie served as caretakers for them, feeding and supporting the warriors in a role that many felt to be demeaning and undermining to their vast power and loyalty.”

“Alright, ladies, settle down. We have a major war about to spill out today so please, please pay attention. I would not want to be the one whose babble brought about a lack of clarity concerning our duties today. I, for one, am no fan of being relegated to serving tables in the feasting halls.” Hrist Valkyrie tapped her bare foot impatiently, her curved claws clicking against the pearlesque marble beneath. Her croaking voice snapped to attention the dozen fair maidens before her. To her pleasure, all but one of them formed a line across the carpeted stairs with pristine military crispness.

Hrist’s golden, cat-slit eyes settled upon the single straggler.

“Randleif,” she pointedly barked, “in line. Right now!”

A lily-white lady of twenty-five apparent years lifted her eyes from the codex that held her attention. Her soft, thoughtful gaze met that of Hrist, unmoved. “Yes, commander,” she sheepishly said, “right away, commander.”

Hrist would have sighed, if not for her position at the head of Hjadrasil’s fledgling Valkyries. Eleven of her twelve volunteers respected her power, her lineage as the last surviving member of All-Father Odin’s court. To them, her beastly visage was a badge of honor in the face of their sublime, copy-doll beauty. All of them represented the finest in martial and aesthetic art, and Hrist was proud of them.

Except for Randleif, of course. Randleif, the honey blonde in a court of brunettes. Randleif, who spent her precious free time reading and drafting poetry while her sisters honed their considerable warrior talents. Randleif, whose insistence on individuality both inspired and infuriated Hrist Valkyrie.

“Today,” the commander began once her artistic disciple took her place in formation, “vast allied human armies are expected to clash with giants next to the river Rubel in Midgard. I want all of you out there, because it is going to be glorious rout. The humans are going to lose the day. It will be spectacular, so I want all of you at your best. Seek out the brave and talented, avoid those who resist authority. We want loyal soldiers for our chosen Einherjar, not heroes.” Hrist’s spear butt clattered against the floor. “This time the Gods will not succumb to the will of anyone else. We will be well prepared for a second Ragnarok, even if it never comes.”

As one, the gathered Valkyries clashed their weapons against shields and cried in a single voice, “it shall be done!” One by one the armored beauties filed out, each a carbon copy of the next until Randleif passed with a ring of pastel-hued flowers set into her decadent emerald helm.

Hrist stepped between her and the last of the others, a considerate expression giving her wolven features a more human quality. “Randleif, I need to speak with you before you set out. Would you join me on the battlefield before the Einherjar go out for the day? I’d like a spar with you.”

Randleif nodded without hesitation. Hrist Valkyrie was not one to physically involve herself in the training of her cadets but, when she did, it was always a spectacle. Even more so, for a cadet Valkyrie it was an honor of the highest order. “To what do I owe this privilege, Commander,” inquired the muse-like Valkyrie, “when you have seemed upset with me?”

“I want to see what you can do when you are threatened by a spear instead of writer’s block,” quipped Hrist as she set her fiery helm over her ears. “I have to know that you aren’t going to fly to the battlefield and find yourself murdered in the morning. You are a warrior of god, whether you realize this or not.”

The poetic shield-maiden followed behind her commander as a whipped cur trails its master. Randleif’s admiration for Hrist ran as an endless river pouring untold gallons into a quiet little brook, a devoted, almost carnal following condemned to an eternity within the shy banks of her personality. But Hrist Valkyrie served the gods first and, as such, Randleif’s lust for her commander’s genuine camaraderie went unprofessed. For that, and no other reason, did she allow the senior Chooser of the Slain to criticize her poetic tilt with such fervor.

Outside the glorious fortress, Dame Astra, vast fields of clover and blossoming flowers stretched as far as even godly eyes could see. It was an immortal paradise of waterfalls, heavenly birds, and anything else a mortal or otherwise could ever want in a heaven. Randleif knew the entirety of Svastheim to be as such, but the significance of these fields was not lost upon her. Amidst that jubilee of color and greenery, the chosen Einherjar gathered every single evening to do battle with one another in preparation for the second coming of Ragnarok. She had seen these fields run ankle high in the blood of men and beasts, only to clear by morning and find every last warrior safely asleep in his bed. In fact, several pieces of her poetry had been spun from those disturbing images.

At this time of day, however, only she and her commander occupied those rolling pastures. Hrist strode a thousand feet from the gates of Dame Astra before whirling to a halt and planting her spear into the earth.

“Pay attention, Randleif,” the Battle-Maiden called to her gentle student, “this fight is more important than I have elected to tell you. Arm yourself and listen closely.”

Randleif felt a thrill of fear tickle her spine. Everything about these proceedings seemed ominous somehow. Hrist’s bearing hinted at a fatalistic sense of seriousness, as if she knew without a flicker of doubt that something grand rode upon the outcome of this duel. Something that Randleif did not.

“Yes, Commander.” The artist held out her hand and called for her weapon, as all Valkyries are taught at one point or another, an unimpressive short bow of Yggdrasil’s ash bark with a hair from the devilish Nidhogg’s mane serving in place of a bowstring. “May I ask why you have allowed me this honor? I know that you worry for my health on the field, and for that I am deeply moved, but surely you know that I am in no danger.”

Hrist Valkyrie set her feet apart. “I do have ulterior motives. But we can talk more about them when you hit me.”

Randleif smiled a darkly written smile. “I’m all yours, lady Hrist.”

“Hurry up, Ingrid. We shall miss the fight if we tarry!”

Unbeknownst to Hrist and Randleif Valkyrie, a vast audience of their comrades and superiors gathered along the impregnable ramparts of Dame Astra. Ingrid Valkyrie and her sisters, having overheard Hrist’s challenge to Randleif, spread word of the trial all about the mighty palace. Entertainment for the gods fetched a high price indeed.

“Shall we wager on the contest?” inquired hawk-faced Geldr, patron of the flock. “I offer two golden apples against two hours of a lady’s time that Hrist sends Randleif home with her tail between her legs.”

“I will take that bet.” Epheyja, soft-spoken goddess of the muse, held up her dainty hand. “I rather like dear Randleif.”

“You like my apples, as well.”

“Enormously so, Geldr.”

“And I,” cried the thunderous Ostmond, whose barrel chest and mountainous shoulders required two seats at the feasting table, “shall wager my wind-forged helm against a Valkyrie’s dance that Randleif is embarrassed by Hrist today!”

The sprightly, boyish Mitre, patron of mischief and cunning, was next to rise. “What use is your helmet, man-mountain,” he demanded with a flourish of his garish garment, “when the heads of these lovely ladies would scarcely fill a half of it?”

“I will accept your wager lord Ostmond.” Ingrid tilted her proud chin as she addressed her divine idol. “I could use a new cauldron for my soup.” Ostmond cackled along with the rest. Perhaps the joke was not a groundbreaking spire of humor, but the air that day seemed so filled with mirth that he could hardly help himself.

“Poor Randleif,” Mitre observed with stunning clarity. “Will no one bet for her, instead of against someone else? I haven’t the courage, myself, but I thought I might ask.” One of the Valkyries lightly slapped him across his scrawny knee, admonishing him with an amused smirk.

“I have all kinds of courage,” the warrior patron Styrn supplied, “but it matches unfortunately with common sense.”

“Then allow me to display my lack.” The cackling of the gathered host dimmed beneath the words of All-Father Alvenveyjn, whose wise eyes scanned the dueling Valkyries below. Ingrid and her sisters beamed at him as they often did, for it was Alvenveyjn who had made the decision that Valkyries ought to be beautiful instead of fearsome as Hrist and her sisters had been under Odin. “I will wager a night of festival in honor of our beloved Emily, against a day of service cleaning Dame Astra’s stables, that Randleif surprises Hrist today. Who will stand and bet with me?”

Together the gods and Valkyries conferred. Alvenveyjn’s stables, in short, represented the greatest pig sty in the history of divinity. Even so, festivals devoted to the love and fertility goddess Emily meant one vastly enticing thing.

Unrestricted, unadulterated hedonism.

Though the goddess herself was of the nubile virgin variety, a booming voice in the debate of true love versus rampant carnality, the soirees thrown in her honor certainly were not. For the divine, it meant a consequence-free chance to cut loose and simply enjoy oneself for a night. For the mortals of Mitregard, it meant the flow of love and lust in the air and the beginnings of a great many families.

“I will take that bet!” The answering voice came from far away, and it was not until Ingrid chanced a look over the balcony that the source of the voice became clear.

Hrist Valkyrie gazed up at them, smirking in her impatience. Behind her, Randleif’s face was hidden behind her painted buckler to conceal waves of laughter.

“If you punters are finished, we have a duel to begin!”

It took a moment for Randleif to compose herself. As her laughter subsided she weighed her situation. Hrist, the finest warrior in all the living Hjadrasil, served as her opponent. Armed with a simple spear the commander of the Valkyries gave up a great deal of range against the archer in Randleif, but only a total fool would believe that Hrist stood at any kind of disadvantage.

“Go!”

Randleif’s monstrous bow required no material arrows to fire. Instead, her divine hand fed its demonic string with pure bolts of elemental wind whose dense tips could split a breastplate just as well as any ballista bolt. These arrows rained down upon Hrist Valkyrie in a steady stream as Randleif played her bow like a masterful violinist.

All above applauded at the artist’s skill with her chosen weapon. Very few of them, save those with whom she had trained, expected to see her put up much fight at all. Not to be outdone, Hrist evaded the arrows as if they were petals floating upon a slow breeze. Only once did a missile strike home, splitting the commander’s burning helm on one side and bringing a smile to her face.

Randleif darted from side to side in a conscious arc, testing her commander’s reactions. She knew better than to think this fight would end at distance. Hrist loved close quarters combat too dearly for that. But, perhaps, the archer could set her enemy off balance before that part of the duel came into play.

“Ready to talk, Randleif?” Hrist shouted her words unnecessarily as she came into spear-distance, the last syllable fading under her spear clanging against Rand’s buckler. Hrist struck and swiftly feinted. Randleif shoved the spear aside with her buckler just long enough to sling her bow over her back and rip a short sword from its sheath.

“About what, Command-augh!” She had expected Hrist to attack while speaking, but still, the blow rocked her like a horse-kick. The archer gave with the blow and fell back enough to hop away without shifting her momentum.

Hrist followed, her efforts relentless. “About the human you’ve been protecting in battle all year.” Thrust, block.

“I am sure I have no idea what you mean, Commander.”

Hrist lunged once again. This time her spear’s tip splintered Randleif’s buckler. “His name is Sigrimm Arnson. Mortals are starting to think him invincible in battle, impervious to a blade.”

The archer danced away from Hrist’s assault on feather light feet. “But Commander, why would you say that?” A short lateral cut of her sword nicked Hrist’s exposed cheek, drawing a bead of black blood. The commander of the Valkyries counterattacked instantly. Spear clashed against sword. Randleif’s weapon spun from her hand, but the movement allowed her to pivot inward. Hrist’s spear could not swing about quickly enough to prevent it, and Randleif used that lapse to press a hidden knife against her commander’s throat.

Hrist’s chest heaved at the exertion of the fight. “I concede the fight,” she admitted. “Well done, Randleif. Now that I know I can trust you, I hope you know that it is Sigrimm’s time to die today. In the battle at Rubel.”

Randleif’s colorful eyes took on a sheen of desperation as Hrist walked away. She put out a hand to protest, but could not get a word out before Hrist turned and flung her heavy spear like a javelin. The missile rammed squarely between the archer’s ribs.

“That,” Hrist growled as Randleif crumpled to the fields of clover, “is for lying to me. Here in Svastheim you will revive come evening. Down there, in Ehrgard, you would stay dead until your soul recycled in the pits of rebirth. If you continue to violate your oath by protecting this Sigrimm, I will kill you down there.”

As the punters above settled their bets, Randleif’s body gave in to the endless waves of pain flowing along its length. Though she knew her resurrection was inevitable, still, she felt an interminable sorrow pulling at her heart strings. Not for herself.

For Sigrimm.

“That’s ‘im, up there on his ‘orse. Lucky son of an ‘ore, that’s all he is, but ye knew he could afford one.” Gundland turned his head away from the marching line to his right and spat a wet missile at Sigrimm Arnson and his precious auburn horse. The mounted master-of-arms paid him no mind, though. He had long since grown tolerant to the pettiness of jealous men, and these summer soldiers broke no molds in their portrayal of every other fool he had come across in his travels.

“I wouldn’t do that, Gund, if I were you. I’ve been in three battles with that Sigrimm, myself, and never once saw him take even a cut.”

A heckler nearby clashed his single gauntlet against a shield. “Are you sure he was at the battle you were with him in, Jorgy? I’ll bet he was hiding under his horse,” he called over the ruckus of marching. Their ungainly laughter rolled across Sigrimm’s ears like the passing of a weak breeze.

“I’ll lay odds that a thrown knife bounces off him. Who wants to play at it?”

Sigrimm’s hands tensed on the reigns. His eyes narrowed into cautious slits, breathing slowed to wariness. Their courage likely stretched only as far as their non-existent manhood. Even so, it would not be the first time a group of scoundrels had taken upon themselves to test his famed invulnerability. Three short, slashing scars across his nose and cheek attested to that.

“Settle down, boys.” Another man on horseback, the benefactor of this particular land-grabbing venture, rode to their sides. “I paid handsomely for his services, more than all of yours combined. My gold is not spent lightly.”

Sigrimm rode on ahead. He despised men like that, whose ravenous hungers could only be appeased through personal gains made on the backs of dead men. A detached part of his mind said that he ought not to be so hypocritical about it. After all, death merchants like that paid his wages, and paid them well, especially since this ‘the invincible Sigrimm Arnson’ nonsense began several months ago. A typical soldier in a mercenary army, like the one currently tramping across Bosch en route to the river Rubel, earned free provisions for the duration of the conflict and a small wage on the side. If the soldier was of the exceptional variety he might be outfitted with new gear, typically acquired from the benefactor’s vast stores of taxed enemy equipment, or preferably paid a bonus in gold or land. Despite what the clandestine Alves believed, however, human armies never, ever, used women for any form of payment. The ladies of Ehrgard could be frightful folk, what with their muscular figures and penchant for fisticuffs-- not many men could be convinced to take one over gold, at least not without protest.

“The river isn’t far ahead. Any signs of the allied army from Ogden?”

Sigrimm could not see the man posing the question, lost as he was in a sea of comparable filthy, ragged heroes. It occurred to him that they even smelled alike. He smiled at that, his self-spun notion of men engaging in supremely unattractive camouflage.

“It doesn’t help that we’re surrounded by hills,” replied one of ten horsemen traveling with the mercenaries. Sigrimm knew him to be called Auldrisk, from hilly Ogden far to the south, whose mercenary wage rivaled his own. Auldrisk came highly recommended as a scout whenever battles occurred on open ground. Rumors, and Sigrimm imagined them to be the same sort of gossip as his invincibility, suggested that the Southman had acquired the vision of the gods along with their favor through some act of suicidal bravery. Still others suggested his remarkable sight stemmed from actually being a god himself. Sigrimm doubted that Auldrisk’s lady-like face had ever seen so much as a speck of mud before, let alone the blood of the man next to him, and tended to think the latter a more likely possibility. He did not seem the type to do anything more than shy away in the face of personal risk.

“I take it that is a no?” The broad Sigrimm drew his horse next to Auldrisk‘s pale mare. He read the irritable growl under the other man’s breath as a sign of that legendary southern hubris. That only made him smile a Northman’s smile. “My apologies, madam. I meant no offense.”

Several of the surrounding men chortled, and the combined odor of their sour breath nearly brought an illness to Sigrimm’s stomach. Auldrisk’s pallor burned into red outrage in an instant, the tint of a noble.

“How dare you? Savage! I’ve a mind to put an arrow in your skull for that.” His furious warning only drew more laughter from the men, all of whom knew Sigrimm Arnson by sight. “What are you peons laughing at?” the archer demanded, so red he looked fit to burst like an overripe tomato. He would not have done it, though, if for no other reason than to keep his expensive cloak from staining.

“Sigrimm, Auldrisk, knock it off. Unity is when you idiots all trust each other and don’t get killed, so start practicing it. Those giants aren’t going to lay down for jokes.” Again, their benefactor put his golden will into play, to the endless irritation of the famous warriors. “The river is just ahead. It looks like we aren’t getting any reinforcements today, so… we need to make camp here.”

Instantly Sigrimm wheeled his horse about. “Here? In this valley, are you daft?”

The benefactor held his position. “Well, why not?” he genuinely inquired. “What’s wrong with this valley? There’s good water, we can’t be seen from outside the hills, and the men are tired.”

“Giants can see better than humans, even this imbecile.” Sigrimm jerked a thumb at Auldrisk, who wore a look of horror. “If they surround this valley they will have the high ground advantage. And they’re hard enough to hit in the head on even terrain.”

“If the men are exhausted they won’t be able to fight. I think they’ve marched far enough for one day.” Benefactor had a way of using a perfectly valid point to counter another one while failing to resolve the conundrum at hand. It was a trait that drove Sigrimm positively ludicrous sometimes.

“Actually,” said Auldrisk, “the savage is probably correct. If we light cooking fires in this valley we’ll lose that distance camouflage tonight, and I would not want to tell these smelly brutes to wait until morning to eat.” A number of the men voiced hearty approval of his point, if not his method of delivery. Even Sigrimm had to admit it was not a statement foolish enough to befit the twit noble Auldrisk seemed to be.

“Here is fine,” Benefactor insisted. A twinge of nervousness showed in the quiver of his fat lips. “If Auldrisk can’t see giants, then they aren’t close enough to pose a threat. Sigrimm, you can ride on if you like.” The clatter of hooves served to punctuate the conversation, leaving the other riders to grumble and shake their heads at such an obscene error in judgment.

“If I didn’t know better,” the noble Southman wondered out loud, “I might think something was amiss.” Sigrimm held his tongue, but one thing was for certain.

Neither of them would be sleeping on that night.

Chapter 3: Submission to Consequence

Randleif Valkyrie knew it to be a dream as soon as its universe touched her consciousness. Her first clue came in the form of her inexplicable appearance somewhere in the bowels of an Ehrgard mortal city’s shopping district. Perhaps ‘bowels’ failed to properly capture the mood of the place as a metaphor, but certainly the city was a part in the lower abdomen. A liver at best.

The second, and to Randleif, more poignant bit of evidence only occurred to her afterward. Here she was, a charming woman whose features bewitched gods and Alves at a simple glance, meandering unnoticed down a busy mortal street. Even worse, her skin did not miss the feel of silk sliding along her curves and angles, as if it knew nothing other than the scrape and rasp of linen. Without her armor the poetic Valkyrie did feel a touch naked, though.

In her dream Randleif felt the eyes of mortal women tearing her apart. They, with their broad shoulders and dark hair, spread vile gossip and insults behind her back. Her warm blonde hair, they said, was nothing but gray painted over to make her look young. Clearly, they went on to say, her svelte figure originated from illness and poverty instead of meticulous training. Why, her poor little body probably teemed with disease, they sneered, gathered from her doubtlessly vast promiscuous streak. They could see the whore in her eyes. A good woman ought not to have eyes so green.

Poor thing. Poor, wasted Randleif.

Randleif rose stiffly from her cool bedding of clover. Her innards hurt even worse than her outwards, as though something had been pushed clean through her navel, even in the wake of such a disturbing dream. Sitting up became the stuff of legend, seemingly unapproachable even if she spent her life in the pursuit of it. Mist, heralding tears, flooded her winsome eyes.

“Hrist? Is anyone there…?” Her cries bordered on desperation, rising shrilly from her tired throat. Her hands unconsciously fell to center of pain in her middle, grasping, searching. In a way, Randleif took no surprise in the discovery of a spear shaft protruding from her solar plexus. The memory of Hrist’s fury had burned her spirit badly; she would not forget that lesson soon. “Someone…? Can anyone hear me?”

“Yes, yes, keep your drawers on. Or off, if you go for that sort of thing.” The answering voice belonged to wily Mitre, whose bouncing steps carried him a good measure ahead of his companion ravens. He had the look of a scheming deviant whose master plan is coming together before his very eyes, a look that never failed to set the divinities of Svastheim on their respective guards. “Are you okay, dear?”

Randleif glowered at the short little trickster. “Mitre. You know I love you. But your grasp of the obvious is-”

“Ridiculously underpowered, yes, I know.” Mitre glanced to his escort, giving a small, tight-necked nod. The ravens abruptly descended upon Randleif, one perching on her thigh while the other snapped its mighty beak across the spear’s shaft, cleaving it cleanly. “This is going to hurt,” warned their owner. “I tell you because I think you ought to know.”

The poet smiled grimly at the ravens, Orn and En. “I know. Thank you, Mitre. Fellows.” Wearily Randleif pushed herself onto her side, bracing for what she knew would rate among the worst experiences of her short life.

Mitre’s child-sized hands closed around the head of Hrist’s abandoned spear. He guessed the wound to be knitting itself around its shaft, which would explain Randleif’s lack of mobility. It never occurred to him that having a spear stuck through one’s belly could have that effect without the revitalizing dust of the ensorcelled clover at their feet, as any other episode of abdominal puncture-by-spear generally spelled immediate death without a mention of paralysis.

“Alright. Don’t hold your breath, and do try to loosen up, sweet parakeet. I’m just going to--” Randleif felt herself screaming even before the gushing aperture in her midsection shot its torturous message into her brain. Orn and En fluttered away from her only to swoop against her shoulders to pin her to the clover below, cawing in distress to their master. “Sorry about that,” Mitre calmly spoke to the whimpering Valkyrie, “if I warned you, you might have clinched.” With a casual air that rather stung Randleif’s heart the trickster spirit tossed the extracted spear aside. “What in the nine worlds did you do to make Hrist want to hurt you so much? She is usually quite the gracious loser, the one other time I saw it happen.”

Randleif would have answered, but for the longest time she felt unable to draw her breath. In the time she needed to speak Mitre’s ravens had already flapped into the air and begun circling, as do vultures over carrion. “Sorry about that,” their owner could not help but chuckle. “They do have a sense of humor about them. Can you breathe? I ask because your belly button has grown back.”

The Valkyrie glanced downward. Relief flooded over her when she saw pale skin peeking through the gaping hole in her armor, the work of the miraculous clover no doubt. “That was awful,” she groaned. “I cannot believe the Commander did that to me!” She felt Mitre’s hands tugging at her helmet, but felt no inclination to resist what other Valkyries might have considered an affront. The fresh air felt marvelous against her sweat-soaked brow, after all.

“The question still remains,” said the cunning little man, who made a point to place her articles within reach. “Did you steal Hrist’s ugly lover, or something?”

Randleif shot a half-amused glare at him. “You are horrible, Mitre.”

“True,” he smiled right back, “but at least I’m good at it. So what, then?”

Underneath her skirted bottom Randleif felt the clover shivering, as it often did when drunk on the blood of Einherjar. For some reason, she failed to connect that phenomenon with the bloody edges of her armored cuirass until much later. “Promise me that you will not tell anyone?”

“Cross my heart and hope to get a look at your chest.”

Randleif shot a dirty look at Mitre, who simply grinned.

“I am in love with a mortal.” The Valkyrie’s words caught in her throat, briefly, before forming at her lips. “And I have been protecting him in battle.” She tensed, suspicious that he might laugh at her and demand to know the real reason. Instead, the cherub-faced schemer took on a distressingly serious visage.

Just like a criminal plotting a crime, she thought.

“Dearest Randleif, why in the nine worlds would you even look at some execrable human when you could vie for the heart of a god?” Mitre sounded genuinely concerned with her apparent lack of good judgment, enough that Randleif felt her suspicions easing away. “You aren’t the most beautiful flower in this garden,” he continued, earning a grudging smile from her, “by far. I mean, look at the competition. Emily is perfection in corporeal form. Lord Auldrisk is handsomeness defined. And the other Valkyries are the peak of what mortal beauty ought to be, but still falls tragically short of.”

The poetic battle-maiden gazed at her boots forlornly. “Then what chance do I have compared to them? If I desired the heart of a god, that is.”

“Let me show you. Take off your clothes.”

“Mitre!”

“Pardon. Involuntary spasm, you know, I am having it looked at. Have a look at this.” In the cupped palms of his hands Mitre held a pile of translucent stones, all but one glowing softly in blue. Just to the right of the mound’s center a single, lonely stone gave off a gentle red light. “Now,” he began, “if I asked you what you noticed about these baubles, what might you say?”

“One of them is off color?” Randleif formed her words carefully, as does a person who fears being wrong.

“Yes, but not the words I would’ve used. One of them, you see, is different,” Mitre explained, and Randleif thought that she saw the meaning behind the demonstration. “You noticed it because it wasn’t like the rest. You’re an artist where your sisters are fighters. You’re blonde. You have a sharper nose. Better teeth, slimmer lips. And you’re willing to pull off your armor for me.”

“You are far too determined, Mitre. Though I thank you for your kindness today, I regret that you will not be seeing my body anytime soon.” Randleif failed to suppress a giggle at Mitre’s disappointed frown. “What, though, do you suppose I ought to do?”

“Ask Emily about matters of the heart,” the little being immediately replied. “She’s probably the only divinity in Svastheim who won’t judge you for loving some hulking dirt-magnet. And if this is a secret, and Hrist doesn’t already know that you love this man, keep it away from her. If she speared you like a trout for protecting him, All-Father only knows what sort of horrible things the commander of the Valkyries might be willing to do if she learned about it.”

“Right,” dejectedly answered the charming Valkyrie. Her pain had at last faded away, leaving only the wet sensation of the bloody clover to nag her into moving. Still, the thought of it seemed most unappealing. “I am free until the battle at Rubel starts, so I will go to ask her. Thank you again, my lord.”

“Oh, no trouble. And trust me. This will work out wonderfully in the end.”

Something in Mitre’s tone caused Randleif to spin on her heels, casting a look back to where she had been sitting. But the clever gamester was gone, leaving only his ravens to wing their way back to the palace. Her heart rate lifted a little, complementing the unearthly shiver rising from the base of her spine.

Whatever the cause of that sensation, though, Randleif dismissed it as some side effect of her injury. Mitre was as strange as strange could be, but still, her heart held a soft spot just for him. Never in their short history as amicable comrades had they failed to show kindness to one another, even when Randleif’s training days had exhausted and pained her so much that she wished only to snap at everything and anything. Mitre, with his legacy of infuriating the gods, still treated Randleif Valkyrie like solid gold.

“Well then,” she said to herself, a whiff of lavender on the breeze lifting her spirits, “I suppose I am off. Sigrimm… wait for me.”

“The festival of Emily is never held on the same day in Hjadrasil. Modern scholars believe that Emily is the counterpart of Yggdrasil’s Freyja, and yet evidence to the contrary of this relationship does exist. Though both are revered as matrons of love and fertility and poetry, Emily’s undeniable bias towards sacred, true lovers frankly contradicts the whorishness of Freyja, who used her body even amongst the gods to further her greed for wealth and ambition for control. Petty Freyja represented perfectly the spirit of the old guard, in that her lack of foresight, her avarice, and a practically discordant disregard for the hearts of others led her to a fall from which not even a goddess can return.”

--Edmund Penson’s Study of Mother Yggdrasil

Amidst a cluster of flowering perennial trees Randleif trekked en route to divine Emily’s villa. The difference between Emily’s tropical land and the bulk of deciduous Svastheim made locating her attractive home a simple enough matter. As soon as Randleif Valkyrie stepped across the crystal bridge connecting the villa lands to the rest of the island she broke a fine sweat, and was quick to remove her armor and under padding. Emily would appreciate the simplistic informality of a Valkyrie stopping by in a sun dress, anyway, as opposed to a sweaty warrior woman begging for a drink in full combat regalia.

Not for the first time that day did Randleif find herself overwhelmed by the enormity of what she was about to do. As her still-booted feet marched along she caught herself holding her breath, her lungs tightening up in some deep-seeded paranoid episode. What had given her the notion that the dearest of all divinities would just listen to her concerns and provide advice on the matter? Who was to say that Emily would not simply laugh, or even worse, expose Randleif’s forbidden love to the rest of the gods? Fear slowed her progress enough that a fifteen minute walk became thirty.

Randleif picked up her feet. The war at Rubel would not wait for her to get love advice, after all. Emily’s villa shortly thereafter rose from the center of a lively tree clump blooming in sanguine red and heart warming pink, the passionate colors that brought so many of her visitors to open up their deepest, darkest secrets to her. Randleif was certain that she would be no different.

“Alright,” said the winsome Valkyrie to herself, “here I go. I hope the Norns are on my side today.”

Divine Emily’s throne room was a far cry from the fastidious presentation of her brother, Alvenveyjn All-Father. The two were night and day, the sun and moon. Alvenveyjn’s throne was an intimidating, high walled structure of vast architectural complexity and a generally war-worshipping tone. Emily’s throne was a bedroom with a tall, four-poster bed as the focal point. The All-Father’s walls consisted of white and gray stone dotted with etchings of swords and shields, monsters and men. The Divine Virgin surrounded herself with fiery reds and a dozen shades of fading violet, mauve, and burgundy, decorating her softly carpeted walls with paintings of lovers entwined in none but the most tasteful of amorous positions.

Randleif Valkyrie found that she greatly preferred this setting, as the artistic and aesthetic value of it drove her muse’s heart to a delightful flutter. In what she might have considered a stroke of irony, but was more likely just the thrum of coincidence, she happened upon the Divine Virgin sitting upon her painting stool, applying some sort of oil to a sizable canvas. It smelled to the Valkyrie like linseed oil but, knowing Emily as she did, it could have just as easily been something far more exotic like dragon tears or essence of dwarf beard.

Divine Emily lifted her eyes from the canvas after a moment or two, and Randleif found herself mesmerized by them. She took little solace in the excuse that hazel was her most adored color, but did not mind being lost in those eyes. Emily had a certain attractiveness about her character, her bearing, and of course her appearance, a subtle kind of allover beauty that could creep up on folks and devour their hearts without a hint of warning. Randleif envied that unique power, the ability to ensnare a heart without first ensnaring the libido.

“Hello, Valkyrie. Were you looking for more paints?” Just as always, Randleif needed a moment to steel herself against the indescribable sweetness of Emily’s voice. The goddess always seemed amused, more than anything. She turned away from her canvas, nodding towards a carrying case nearby. “I have already packed some for you. And you just let me know when you run out, my dear.”

Randleif felt irrationally like a little girl asking a favor of her mother. As soon as she could wipe the ‘good girl’ smile from her face she approached the Divine Virgin, taking a respectful knee several feet away. “My lady,” she began, dipping her head down in reverence, “though I thank you for your thoughtfulness, I actually came here today with a different request.”

Emily had picked up her oil brush, but at Randleif’s earnest behavior she set it on its tray, blinking. “Dear, stand up. You know I dislike formality amongst equals. That is better. Now, tell me what’s wrong, Randleif.”

The Valkyrie smiled a nervous smile for the woman who served better than any other as a role-model. “I have a problem, my lady. I’ve,” she paused, gathering her courage. “I’ve fallen in love. And I have no idea how to handle it.”

Emily’s softly curved features smoothed into a comforting smile rife with maternal admiration. “You have come to the right place, then, my dear. Is it Mitre?”

“Mitre…? Oh, heavens, no! No, my lady, oh gods, no.” Laughter would have been an insult to the whimsical little man who’d extracted a spear from her belly not an hour previous. Still, it was all Randleif could do to keep from giggling.

“Oh?” Emily shrugged her gentle shoulders. “A pity. You and he are a beautiful match. And I do believe he would have you, if you would have him, and be thrilled with the arrangement.”

Randleif’s head tilted of its own accord. “Really? How… sweet? Forgive me, my lady, but I have come to seek your advice about a mortal and I’ve not much time.”

Emily’s smile darkened just a touch, as if she’d smelled an emission of some sort. “A mortal? Little daughter, why in Creation would you wish to sully your divine body with the filth of a mortal? No, forgive me for asking. I of all should know that love, in all its blindness, love is without prejudice. Tell me about him?” Her legs crossed beneath an exceptionally modest dress.

“Well…” Randleif Valkyrie lowered herself to the floor to sit upon her heels. “He is a mercenary, of course, like all men down below seem to be. He is great and broad, and strong as a yoke of oxen, and when I look at him, I… feel overcome.”

Emily’s mysterious eyes flashed softly, as a predator stalking elusive prey.

“With what, my dear?”

“I am not quite sure, my lady. I do not believe that lust drives me, or I would certainly handle that on my own.” Randleif gazed at the floor, wondering for the millionth time why Divine Emily would carpet her walls and ceiling and tile the floor. “A tryst with a mortal is simple enough. Instead, I have committed a grave injustice against my title by protecting him in battle. Do not misunderstand, his talents as a soldier are vast and I do not know if he needed my help before. But now, Hrist has promised me that his time has come, and the battle at the river Rubel is to be his last.”

“And to protect him again is to earn Hrist’s disfavor, I am sure.” Emily turned fully away from her painting to give Randleif a much more complete attention. “This man, this mortal. Has he a name?”

“Oh yes,” Randleif replied with a hint of honey, “and I flush to even speak it.”

“Then you must tell me,” a suddenly intrigued Emily cooed, “for such a creature must receive the favor of the Divine Virgin.”

The Valkyrie felt her heart racing. Could it be so easy as this? “His name is Sigrimm Arnson, my lady.”

“Sigrimm Arnson?” Emily’s glowing smile took on a taste of thoughtfulness. “That name sounds familiar, my dear. I… oh. I remember. Lord Auldrisk was dispatched to Ehrgard to keep his eyes on a man named Sigrimm at the battle Rubel. What a strange coincidence.”

Randleif stared impassively.

“I have no idea why. You know me, dear, I like to keep my nose out of the killing business. So what is it you really want from me, after all?” Emily’s knowing gaze intensified. “I have interrupted you twice.”

“Basically,” the Valkyrie begins, almost stammering as she does, “I was hoping I could ask your advice as to how I ought to approach him and tell him so, without getting him killed. And, obviously, I must save his life. You know that we are forbidden intimacy with the Einherjar, what with their being Alvenveyjn’s property, so if he dies and one of the Valkyries chooses him my chance will be lost forever.” Though Randleif fought against her wayward emotions, an unsubtle hint of her despair succeeded in sneaking into her voice. Emily’s maternal gaze told the Valkyrie that the slip had not gone unnoticed.

“You cannot tell him, my dear. If you do, Hrist will retaliate quickly and thoroughly. Whether she kills you, or kills Sigrimm to spite you, I cannot tell. Hrist Valkyrie is a harsh mistress that way.”

“But, is there no other way?” The honey-blonde fell to her face in humility before her most revered of deities. “I know that he will be chosen. His talents are many even without my help. And he is a good man underneath that brash soldier skin.”

“Randleif, please get up. Does this human really mean so much to you?” Emily’s voice shifted away from its air of divine superiority, taking on a heartfelt tone of soothing. Randleif’s whispered affirmation carried itself just far enough to be heard by the amorous goddess, no further. “I will certainly come to regret this, but for love I cannot turn my back. Randleif, do you know about the Well of Mimir?”

“No,” replied the desperate Valkyrie, “not enough to say so, at least.”

“Settle in, my dear.” Emily’s perfect smile turned up, amused as well as radiant. “This may require some time to tell.”

“At the base of the great world tree Hjadrasil lie two of the limited surviving aspects of Yggdrasil, the great mother tree. One of them is the ravenous dragon Nidhogg. The other is a spring of water we call the Well of Mimir. It is a pool containing the knowledge of an ancient Vanir deity and is the same pool to which the tyrant Odin sacrificed his left eye. If you travel to the well and brave the mighty Nidhogg’s hunger, you must then make a sacrifice to the spirit of its patron god. With that sacrifice you will be given the answers you seek-- or more likely, be pointed towards those answers. But know that time is against you, and even if you make your sacrifice you may not receive the end result you seek.”

Randleif Valkyrie listened with uncharacteristic intentness to the words of her patron goddess Emily. This business with sacrifice put her out more than she would have admitted. What would she do if the well demanded something truly precious? Her sight, or her hearing perhaps? Her voice? The look on her face must have given her away, because Emily was quick to reprimand her line of thought.

“If you consider this act, you must commit yourself to it, my dear. If you strive halfheartedly then you will not make it, and your actions will still be exposed to Hrist.” The effeminate deity pursed her wide lips thoughtfully. “I would rather you didn’t go. I hope you will have the sense to forget about Sigrimm Arnson and to continue with your training. But love is not known for its rational decisions.”