Authors: T. G. Ayer
I stepped into the dark interior and blinked repeatedly. Heat lapped at my face, eking out the last drops of moisture from my skin. A monstrous fire blazed in the single, brick-lined hearth, about half the size of my bedroom back home. Flames danced and burning wood crackled.
We were enveloped by noise. The rhythmic pounding of hammers on metal sounded almost musical in note and frequency.
A figure ambled toward us, a monstrous threatening shape made worse by clinging shadows. What little daylight managed to creep into the choking dark heat fell onto a cheery face, with rosy Santa-like cheeks and sparkling blue eyes. Bushy red eyebrows and a shock of carrot hair finished the picture. I liked him at once. He reminded me of Hagar the Horrible, only without the horned helmet.
"Ha ha, look what we have here!" he boomed. Then he grabbed Sigrun in a bone-squishing hug until she squealed for her freedom.
Sigrun laughed as her feet touched the ground. "We are here for a sword. For Bryn." The smithy turned to me and smiled again. But the cheerful grin lost its sparkle as he stared at my face. "Bryn, this is Njall."
He turned to Sigrun and I could almost hear the unspoken words flowing between them, despite her calm expression and bland smile. Here we go again. Even Njall the smithy thought I looked like the famous Brunhilde.
He peered at me for a moment and said, "Good, then. Come on over here. I think I may have just the thing."
He thumped his way to a back shelf, overloaded with boxes and piles of metal, layered in dust and shadows. If he claimed the corner hadn't seen sunlight in centuries, I'd believe it. He clanked and fumbled his way along the shelf until at last, after much grunting and puffing, he withdrew a long wooden box. Dust and cobwebs traced the grooves of the intricate carvings on the lid and all four sides of the box.
The beauty of the wooden box alone was enthralling, but a strange heat twisted in my gut. Njall brought the box to a table strewn with tools and odds and ends of metal. With one meaty arm, he swept them all onto the floor. Sigrun and I both winced, looking at each other surreptitiously, trying not to laugh. For all his size and seemingly careless treatment of his property, Njall placed the box onto the table with infinite care.
We both commandeered a shoulder and leaned over as Njall opened the lid to reveal its contents. Lined with a deep purple silken fabric, it held a magnificent sword and a matching scabbard. A low, entrancing hum reverberated around the room and sank deep into my bones, reaching the very pit of my stomach. A musical sound that I couldn't attribute to the other men pounding away with their hammers.
Njall and Sigrun stepped away from the table, leaving me to inspect the sword. I breathed softly, as if the mere expulsion of my breath would cause this incredible treasure to disappear into thin air. I dared not touch it yet. Just lovingly traced the beautiful carvings on the hilt and the scabbard with admiring eyes.
The silver blade gleamed, etched with the intertwined carvings from Odin's Hall and the designs on my armor and helmet. By now, I'd gotten so used to seeing the patterns that I'd stopped wondering what they meant. As if on autopilot, my hands reached out to trace the carvings on the sword when Sigrun cried, "No, Bryn. Wait."
I turned to her, annoyed. She'd broken the magical hold the sword seemed to have weaved around me. "What's wrong?"
Sigrun ignored me and spoke to Njall. "Are you sure it is safe?"
"Well, if you know for sure she is either Brunhilde herself or her child, then she will be safe." Njall eyes darted from the sword back to me.
A twitch of fear crawled across his face so quick I almost missed it. But I didn't. That was the problem. Astrid had offered me her own sword, hoping I would take it. If I had, I'd have died. What if Brunhilde's sword did the same thing to me? I certainly wasn't convinced the sword belonged to me just because my crazy father liked to play with ancient DNA instead of poker or Scrabble.
I stepped back, despite the almost overpowering urge to take the sword. The ancient weapon seemed to cast some kind of strange enchantment over me. The sooner I put some distance between myself and the sword, the better.
"Sigrun. I want to leave. Please." My voice was low, soft, as I gritted my teeth against the pull of the sword's song.
"We can leave if you wish, but we will have to come back again today." Sigrun's response was firm. "Fenrir said you will be training with a sword tomorrow morning, so you will have to have a sword by then. You do not want to anger him."
Anger blasted me with biting heat. Why should I care what Fenrir wanted, or what would or would not anger him? I didn't owe him anything. A longing for home spiked through me, and yet a strange sense of rightness also filled me. Confused, I didn't voice my anger or my doubt.
"Can't Njall just make another sword for me?" I asked, looking over at him.
The big man nodded.
"But we must know if this sword is meant for you," said Sigrun.
"Why do we need to know? Why is it so darned important?" My head blazed with angry heat as I turned to stare at the gleaming weapon. "Why can't you just leave me to be me?"
"I would love to do that, Bryn. But people like Astrid will not. They will not let go until they win. Or until you show them who you are."
"And by showing them, you actually mean I must show them I'm Brunhilde?" I asked coldly. I detested this whole game we were playing. Now I had to prove I was someone else before I could be safe.
"If that is what it takes, perhaps that is what you need to do." The voice of Fenrir filtered into the room.
Somehow, I wasn't surprised he was there. Everything that had happened since I arrived in Asgard had been a whole bunch of unbelievable wrapped in a shiny layer of impossible.
Fenrir's words didn't require a response. I had to make a decision, right now: walk right out, go back to my room and refuse to pander to all these ridiculous demands they were making of me. Or accept it, own it.
Only the knowledge that my friends were here somewhere stopped me from turning my back on Fenrir, turning my back on all of it. I held on to what little hope I had of seeing them again.
But anger still boiled in my gut. I hated being pushed into a corner, having no choice in anything. Resentment simmered somewhere inside me, somewhere deep and dark but hard to ignore. Resentment toward Sigrun, for pulling me out of my real-world dilemma. And Odin, for forcing wings on me without even bothering to tell me what would happen. And Astrid, for trying to kill me for vengeance against a person who'd lived and died centuries ago. And now three pairs of eyes bore down on me, waiting for me to accept the weapon that would be my downfall.
If there had been sufficient space between myself and the table, I would have stomped to it. I really wanted to give in to some kind of childish tantrum. I had far too many responsibilities for my liking. Whatever happened to being a plain old teenager where the worst thing in life was a zit, with unpopularity a close second?
I rolled my shoulders and stepped to the table.
"So if I lift this and I'm not Brunhilde, then I die? Right?"
"No. I do not think so," said Fenrir. "If Brunhilde's blood flows weakly within your veins you will merely become ill and weak for a while. You will recover, so you do not need to fear. You can only be afraid if you do not have any of her blood at all. Then you will die. We know that it was Brunhilde's remains uncovered eighteen years ago in Hovgårten. And we know that your DNA structure contains her DNA too, or you would not have transformed so easily."
Easy? You mean that horrifically painful, mind-blowingly agonizing experience I had in front of Odin and the gathered Valkyries could have been worse?
I shuddered and asked, "So what would've happened if I really didn't have her DNA in me at all? Would I still have become a Valkyrie?"
"No. You would have died. The Mead and the pain would have killed you." Fenrir kept his voice flat, so matter of fact about the possibility of my death. "The only way you would have survived is to receive the Anointing of the Valkyrie. It is a rite in which Odin chooses the woman who will become a Valkyrie. The process is different from what you experienced."
I wanted to gasp for breath, but I pushed the hysteria away, using my anger to claw it back out of my throat. I turned and met Sigrun's apologetic, sad eyes. I should have been angry with her, but she'd been my constant companion, teacher and friend. And her bright cheer had helped me get through this strange transition. Seeing her eyes flat and her smile gone hit me hard.
"So I survived that test, and you think I'll survive this one too." I glared at the sword while I spoke to Fenrir.
"Yes."
I waited a moment, but he said no more.
Well, I suppose one can't argue in the face of such confidence.
I tugged the box closer and flitted my fingers over the seductive silk. The sword gleamed and glittered in the dancing firelight. I ignored the scabbard and slipped my fingers beneath the cool metal. I'd expected the sword to be heavy, but it felt as if it were a mere extension to my hand.
"It's so light. And really well balanced."
Three pent-up breaths released behind me. Fenrir broke the silence first. "It is your own strength that bears the sword. In fact, the sword itself is really heavy, even for a master swordsmith like Njall."
Frowning, I remembered that Njall had grunted with effort as he released the box onto the table. I glanced at Njall, who nodded vigorously, meeting my gaze with glowing pride.
"I guess I'm not dead yet." I faced the three of them, holding the sword flat on my palms. "So . . ."
I didn't need to hear their answer. The fact that I was still alive, still healthy after touching the sword, meant one thing and one thing only.
I really was the Great Valkyrie Brunhilde.
Fenrir had this strange idea that my survival after touching Brunhilde's sword meant I now possessed all the knowledge, power and skill she'd had when she'd been alive. So the ferocity of his training session the next morning didn't surprise me.
I struggled to catch my breath. We sparred alone on the empty field, and Fenrir kept me too busy to ask where everyone else had gone. Despite the inordinate amount of energy and strength I'd been awarded with since receiving my wings, Fenrir's onslaught of thrusts, parries and jabs left me pretty winded. Bruises purpled my arms below the armor, and my ribs ached from a stray shot he'd landed.
"Now rest. I will be back." He patted my shoulder and walked off.
Did that mean he was satisfied with my performance? Fat chance. I sat on the low wall of stones, drawing the breath back into my lungs, waiting for my thunderous heartbeat to return to something like normal. My stomach burned for lack of breakfast. My pre-training nerves had ruined my appetite, and Turi had hurried away after leaving my tray of fruits and breads. So there'd been no one to force or cajole me to break my fast.
I regretted it now, as my stomach complained. Fenrir returned, a round shield in one hand, large enough to cover him from mid-thigh to chin, and painted with snaking, twisting emblems. He tossed it to me, giving me a split second to think about how to catch this much-too-large Frisbee.
I snatched it from the air, holding onto opposite ends of the circle of wood. I'd heard the thwack-thwack of metal meeting wood during yesterday's and today's practices and now it made sense. Despite the shield's heavy, bulky appearance, it was light and easy to move around.
"Let us try some defensive moves."
Fenrir lowered his body, bending his knees to find his center of gravity. I'd learned to do that during yesterday's practice, after falling a good few times on my rear end. He swung his blade at me, and I deflected the shot easily. But although my instinctive reaction with the shield was a success, a wave of energy from the blow reverberated through the shield and all the way into my arm, right to my bones.
Did I just hear my teeth rattle?
We battled until my arm muscles ached and my hair clung to my face and neck in soggy clumps. At last, he called the end of the session. "You have the basics now. From tomorrow you will spar and practice with the rest of the Valkyries. As you get stronger and more skilled, you will progress to sparring with the Warriors."
Interesting.
I battled against stiffening muscles and limped toward the fence. The other Valkyries filed into the field from another practice area beyond the stone wall, and chatted as they moved around, collecting cloaks and cleaning muddy swords and shields. Fen walked off toward the chattering group.
My ears still rang from the thwack of Fenrir's sword on my shield, so I didn't hear the Valkyrie approach until her voice startled me. "Sigrun says it will not be long before you can go on a Retrieval." Her voice held a bitter edge, and I knew it was Astrid before I turned. The nerve of her, especially after trying to kill me just yesterday! Her eyes rested on the amber pendant. Eyes filled with venom and a strange satisfaction.
"I guess it's up to Fenrir to decide if I'm ready," I replied.
She laughed, her eyes cold and mocking. "No, Brynhildr. It is up to Odin to
decide
when you are ready." She trailed her eyes up and down my body, from helmet to flushed cheeks, armor to bruises. "I am not so sure you are good enough to qualify. Not yet."