The Legend of the Five and the Choosers of the Slain

Chapter 1 - Kara the Shieldmaiden

            With a mighty roar, they charged. The sound of that battle cry shook the mountaintops, frightened birds from the trees, and even caused a far-away giant to rethink the direction in which he was traveling. No one wanted to be near anything that made a sound like that. More fearsome than the roar of a chimera… it was the war cry of two charging Northmen tribes, calling out for blood.

One of the charging groups was the Darkcliff Tribe, some of the most savage “barbarians” of the North. The Darkcliff Tribe was named for its homeland, Dark Cliff Gorge, where these mostly hideous and nearly deformed Northmen lived in caves and ate anything that passed by their lairs… even other men. The Darkcliffs made even the fearsome Frostaxes and terrifying lycanthropic Bloodboars look civilized in comparison. Their bodies were hunched from life in the caves, and their countenances often bore evidence that there was some orcish blood in their veins… or possibly worse.

            Usually the Darkcliffs attacked passing Imperial patrols, wagon caravans, or sometimes other, more nomadic Northmen tribes. But today they were actually defending themselves. The Tribe of the Bear, one of the greatest and most noble Northmen tribes, had decided the Darkcliffs were moving too far north. It was time to stop their advance once and for all. Luckily, they had been able to enlist the help of the wood elves, who were also beginning to feel threatened. Yet none of the elves could be seen in this battle…

            Yet.

            Suddenly the lead warriors of the Tribe of the Bear slowed to a halt… and from out of the trees behind them came a volley of arrows so thick that it covered the ground in flickering shadow. The Darkcliffs, who had just come within range, began to drop like flies. But it hardly slowed their overall advance. Many of them picked themselves right back up and charged on, riddled with arrows, while others were crushed into the dust by the flood of men… if they could truly be called men… behind them.

            Urthag, son of Olthag, leader of the Tribe of the Bear, hefted his claymore over his head with one hand and waved it in a wide arc, a feat which would have caused most lesser men to fall over backwards. But it barely strained the mighty Northman, and next he effortlessly slashed downward and cried, “Attack!”

            The elf arrows had ceased now, and the melee battle began. Blood stained the earth as axe met sword, club met skull, shields shattered, and blades cut into flesh. In the mass of writhing, raging bodies two shapes stood out, carving a wide circle around themselves, killing all who came close. The first was Urthag of the Tribe of the Bear, with his great and heavy claymore. The second… was a much smaller target. From a distance, it was hard to tell whether this mighty Darkcliff warrior was a particularly short and deformed human Northman or a very ugly and vicious dwarf who had joined the tribe. He swung his long-handled axe back and forth, chopping off the limbs of whoever came close in a single swipe. He was not the leader of the Darkcliffs, if they had anything that could truly be called a leader, but those who were watching saw that he was certainly one of the mightiest warriors present.

It was a devastatingly quick and deadly fight, like many of those fought between two groups of Northmen often were. Surprisingly many would survive, living through wounds that would kill any three other men, but most of them would die, hacked to pieces and left to rot in the sun. Food for the beasts and the worms… and the birds.

            Indeed, even now, the birds were watching. They did not circle overhead or do anything that would in any way interfere. They merely sat there on the limbs of the trees, their great keen eyes staring out over the proceedings, grim and seemingly uncaring. The elves noticed them, and who could not notice such a strange procession of birds? On one side of the field, on a single limb of a single tree, sat a great golden eagle and a shining white hawk, with three ravens in-between. On the other side of the field, in another tree sat a single hawk, large and red. But the peculiarity of that sight actually lay below the hawk… where there sat three lovely swans, two white and one shining black.

            Arylia the wood elf turned to her dark-haired companion, who was sitting behind her on the large limb she had chosen for her perch. “Do you see them?”

            Surandil was sitting cross-legged on the thickest part of the limb, reading a book on his lap. His black hair and dark robes contrasted with his light skin in the daylight. They also contrasted with his fair-haired female companion, wearing her autumn-colored burgundy and gold armor. Their personalities contrasted as well. Arylia was a warrior elf, and when she was doing her duty as a warrior, all of her mind was concentrated on it. Surandil, on the other hand, always seemed to have his head at least half in the sky, or in the books he frequently carried with him. His attitude was calm, relaxed, and he never seemed to take anything entirely seriously, except magic and his study of it.

            Surandil lifted his head, a bit too far, and looked out at the battlefield over the length of his nose. “Yeah, I see them,” he said languidly. “A bunch of idiots bumping into each other and hitting each other with sticks. One group bothers us too much, so we send the other group to chop them up. Both groups get killed. Seemed like a fine plan all on its own. Makes me wonder why we’re even here.”

            “No one asked you to come, night elf,” Arylia said.

            “Yeah, yeah, I know. Yet here I am. So why do you think I did come?”

            “Because you actually want to help these Northmen and deep inside you have a spark of kindness that you will not admit even to yourself?”

            Surandil chuckled. “Oh yes, that’s it for sure. Either that or I just have, you know, a morbid fascination with death.”

            Arylia sighed. “Yes, I suppose that could be it too. But either way, I was not talking about the Northmen. I was talking about the birds.”

            Surandil looked up, with more interest this time. Night elf though he was, his eyes were nearly as keen, even in the day, as his wood elf kinsman. He saw them… the eagle, the two hawks, the three ravens, and the three swans. Then he shrugged.

            “Yes, of course they’re here. I’m not the only one a bit interested in the study of death among mortals. There are some who devote their entire lives to it. Lives which last nearly forever…”

            Arylia nodded, and looked back out over the field, across the sea of fighting men, and at the birds beyond.

            “The choosers of the slain,” she said.

            And then she notched another arrow. The battle was not yet over.

            In fact, the battle did not end that day. It was late in the evening when it was fought, and it lasted well into the night. When it was finally over, the battered and beleaguered Darkcliff forces retreated, running all at once back to their canyon walls and their caves and shelters there. The last one to retreat was the dwarf-like figure who had fought for so long. Though he was covered in wounds, he did not seem to care to stop. Still, his survival instinct eventually kicked in, and he took up the rear of the retreating army. Then came the arrows of the elves for the last time that day, cutting down many of the fleeing enemies. The short one took two three arrows before he fell.

            When all was quiet beneath the stars, the forces of the Tribe of the Bear began gathering those dead that they could carry with them, mostly the noblest warriors, so that their bodies would not end up as food for any carrion beasts… or worse, for the Darkcliffs who would no doubt return and scavenge the battlefield. Even mighty Urthag, son of Olthag, had fallen.

            “It was that short one with the great axe who killed him,” said a Northman as he lifted the upper half of the body.

            “I saw,” said the other, taking the huge dead man’s feet. “I had great respect for Urthag, but this savage who killed him, he too deserved a better death than being shot in the back by elf arrows.”

            “Aye, I was thinking the same,” said the first with a hint of sadness. “Any warrior mighty enough to slay Urthag deserves a worthy death. But it was Urthag’s decision to bring the elves along, so we cannot question it. What’s done is done.”

            The second nodded. “What’s done is done.”

            They were the last to leave the field, carrying their leader respectfully between them. Afterwards, all was truly silent. The warriors were gone. The elves had slipped away. Even the birds perched on the trees had disappeared.

            Then came the riders. From out of the trees on the east side of the battlefield, where the eagle, hawk, and three ravens had sat and watched, rode five warrior women on the backs of giant wolves. They emitted at once both an aura of savage warfare and of majestic nobility. Their armor was silver and gold, glittering in the starlight, and their long hair flowed down their backs over capes of fine bird feathers. They carried intricately designed weapons and shields and wore helmets adorned with many decorations, chiefly outspread bird wings. The wolves they rode were equally majestic, perfect and beautiful specimen, with shining fur gliding over rippling muscles.

            These were the Valkyrie of Odin… the Sky God’s Choosers of the Slain.

            But then their beauty and majesty was outshone by the next group, the five riders who rode from the forest on the opposite side of the field. Where earlier there had been a red hawk perched above three swans, now there were four tall, stunning warrior women on strong and stately warhorses that appeared to be the very picture of equine perfection. They too wore shining gold and silver armor, covered in many decorations, with long hair falling over feathered cloaks. All in all, however, their attire and appearance was much lighter than the first group’s, and they appeared nobler, less dark and warlike.

            These were the Valkyrie of Freyja… the Beauty Goddess’s Choosers of the Slain.

            As they rode, most of them were looking around them at the dead that they passed, at those slain in battle. But the two leaders, who rode foremost and wore the finest armor of the assembled, were staring straight at each other. In the very center of the field, they met.

            The auburn-haired Valkyrie on the white horse spoke first. “Who shall claim Urthag, son of Olthag, this night?” she asked.

            The golden-haired Valkyrie on the back of the huge grey wolf answered, with only a small note of resentment detectable, “This is your choice. As per our Lord Odin’s agreement with the Lady Freyja, you shall have first choice.”

            The auburn-haired Valkyrie nodded. “But you do want him, Rynnhilda, do you not? He fought bravely.”

            Rynnhilda stiffened, though it was hard to look even stiffer in form-fitting custom-made field plate armor. “Are you taunting me, Reginleif?”

            Reginleif smiled a calming smile and, riding up beside Rynnhilda, put a chainmail covered hand on one of her heavy shoulder pauldrons. “Nay, sister, I would not do such a thing. I merely think that Urthag would not suit the tastes of my Lady Freyja. He fought his battles merely for the sake of fighting and led his men in many battles that perhaps need not have been fought…”

            Rynnhilda’s face remained stern. “Yet this was not such a battle, fighting these monstrous savages. And he died well, a brave man’s death.”

            Reginleif smiled and nodded. “Indeed he did, sister. But so did this one here, and I believe we would rather take her instead.”

            Rynnhilda looked past Reginleif in the direction she was indicating. Her three Valkyrie followers had gathered around a single body of a warrior of the Tribe of the Bear, and they were now joining hands in a circle about it. Rynnhilda’s eyebrows went up, though this motion was hard to detect behind the face guard of her heavy helmet.

            “A shieldmaiden,” she said. “I saw her in the field but could not see past her disguise. I do recall she fought well, however. You have made a good choice, Reginleif.”

            “Thank you, sister.”

            Rynnhilda extended her arm, and Reginleif grasped it. Then Rynnhilda clapped her on the back, and the sound of her gauntlet crashing on Reginlief’s plate cuirass was barley muffled by the latter’s hawk-feather cloak.

            “It is a deal,” Rynnhilda said. “Now, I go to join my sisters.”

            Reginleif nodded, and they parted ways. The leader of Freyja’s Valkyrie then rode beside her own followers, who were just finishing their ritual over the body of the shieldmaiden. A pale white glow extended down from the stars above, a lone shaft of moonlight… and struck the body where it lay, inside the circle of Valkyrie.

            One of them, whose braided golden-brown hair was now shining like pure gold in the shaft of light, commented, “She’s very pretty.”

            “You always say that, Gondul,” said Myst, a particularly fair and effeminate Valkyrie with stark white hair. “All beings, no matter how they appeared in mortal flesh, are rendered beautiful in the light of holy immortality.”

            “Still,” said Skegjol, the tallest of the three, who was armed with an axe, “she fought well, and that is what matters.”

            “Shhh…” they heard Reginleif say from her mount behind them, “she is awakening.”

            A shape had taken form now in the pale beam of light… the shape of the fallen woman, her body and armor now clean and pure again. Where her face had been muddy and scarred, it was now smooth and clean as ivory. Her rusted iron mail shone like silver, and the bronze on her shield and armor now shone like gold, as did her two blond braids of hair. Even her sword, though still a simple footman’s weapon of primitive design, shone like a mirror, now clean of all the dried blood that encrusted it in reality.

            After a while, the light faded away, and the hovering shape of the woman dropped to her feet… right next to the shell of what she had once been. When she opened her sky blue eyes, she found herself staring directly at her own face… wearing a lopsided helmet, covered in blood… pale and dead. A lesser woman would have screamed at such a sight, but she merely gasped and staggered backward… bumping directly into the clasped arms of the Valkyries around her. It was then that she noticed them for the first time, these armed and armored women who surrounded her, glowing softly in the night even after the moonbeam had disappeared. Slowly, realization dawned on the shieldmaiden of exactly where she was, what had happened… and who she was looking at.

            Though somewhat reluctantly, a smile broke out on her face.

            The Valkyries around her lowered their arms.

            “Greetings, sister,” said Myst, giving a slight bow, her loose white hair falling about her face like a snowdrift. Unlike the other Valkyrie, she wore a large amount of fine jewelry, and her many necklaces dangled, sparkling in the light.

            Behind her, Thruda, one of Odin’s Valkyrie, beamed. “Welcome to the Golden Host! We’re going to make one helluva team!”

            The others shot her very disapproving glances.

            She shrugged. “That is to say… one heaven of a team, I mean.”

            “My turn to speak,” the shieldmaiden heard a voice say behind her.

            She turned to see the most majestic Valkyrie she had met so far. Her auburn hair hung down her back, blending in with a cloak made of the feathers of a reddish hawk. Her armor was shining gold and silver, and over it was draped an oddly shaped white and green tabard, trimmed with decorations of gold. On one of her arms was a great shield colored green and white, and in the opposite hand she carried a great long spear tipped with a golden head. Finally, like all of the Valkyrie, she wore a helmet adorned with outstretched wings… wings so great and large that no mortal head could have held aloft that helmet.

            “I am Reginleif,” she said in a soft, calming voice, “leader of the Valkyrie of our Lady Freyja, Goddess of Beauty. Those behind you are also members of our host. They are Gondul, Skegjol, and Myst. And what is your name, my dear?”

            The shieldmaiden’s chainmail-clad breast was rising and falling now as she took it all in, and it took a few seconds for her to gather her wits to answer.

“I am called… Kara,” she said at last, “My parents are… unknown to me.”

            “And they need not be known to us,” Reginleif said kindly. “I trust you know what has happened here, Kara?”

            She shook her head, but said aloud, “Yes, I think. I am dead, and… I… and I…”

            “Your thoughts are correct, I am sure. In life, you sacrificed the traditional way of women, the way of the family, remaining a virgin. Instead, you took up the way of the sword and the shield. Thus you will still carry them now in death. These, Kara, are for you.”

            Kara, who had been glancing back and forth at the others and had seen Odin’s Host in the distance sorting through the dead, now turned back to Reginleif and saw her extending both hands. In one she held a winged helmet of silvery metal, and in the other she held a sheathed sword, adorned with gold and gems like the sword of a great and noble king of men.

            Kara fell to her knees. She was about to prostrate herself before the Valkyrie Queen when Gondul reached down, grasped her by the shoulders, and stopped her. Kara looked up into Gondul’s particularly large, pale blue eyes. The Valkyrie shook her head.

            A voice called out to them from across the field. It came from one of Odin’s Host, a Valkyrie in a black raven-feather cloak that contrasted starkly with her fiery red hair. “Oh, do kick some pride into the girl, Skegjol! She’s acting more like a princess than a shieldmaiden! And certainly not a Valkyrie…”

            Kara heard Myst sigh. “Ignore her, Kara. That is Skogul, Skegjol’s blood sister. In life they were kindred and rode together in glorious battles. Yet they fought for different reasons, and in death they went their separate ways.”

Skegjol nodded. “My sister Skogul is a warrior with no love of weakness.”

            “No weakness of love, you mean!” Skogul, who was now walking closer to them, retorted.

            “Enough,” Reginleif said in a soft but stern voice that silenced the rest of the Host immediately. “Please rise and take these items, Kara, if you wish to accept the duty offered to you.”

            Suddenly, as if driven by the hinted possibility that she might lose her chance at joining the Golden Host of the Valkyrie, Kara rose to her feet and took the helmet and sword. She immediately clamped the former on her head and tied the latter to her belt.

            Reginleif smiled. “There. You are almost a Valkyrie now. When we ride back to Valhalla tonight, you will be given your cloak of bird feathers, which will grant you the ability to travel between the worlds. You will also get a steed, and armor of your choosing. But for now, we have more business to attend to.”

            “Right,” Kara said, “the… the dead?”

            “We are the Valkyrie,” said Reginleif, nodding, “the choosers of the slain.”

            Kara turned to see the others going about their duties in silent and reverent calm. Each time they passed one of the dead, they would look him over, inspect his wounds, and then if he was satisfactory, they would press their palm to his forehead, and the warrior’s soul would rise up as a tiny sliver of light, and then a ghostly form would appear, a silent remnant of the dead warrior, following the Valkyrie where she walked.

            Curious, Kara walked up behind Gondul and began following her as she went about her duties. She walked among the dead with complete calm, looking down with her eyes, as pale as the moon, full of sadness. Her golden-brown hair seemed darker now, in the night and amongst the dead, but her armor still gave off a glowing radiance. This was magnified whenever she accepted the soul of a worthy dead.

            “How do you know which ones are worthy?” Kara asked.

            “You talk to them,” Gondul replied mysteriously, in her soft voice.

            “I don’t understand.”

            “You will.”

            A hand wearing a black glove with the fingers cut out came to rest on Kara’s shoulder, and a voice behind her said, “You must forgive her. She is a reclusive one, and she prefers to be alone with the dead. I do as well, but I will try to help you.”

Kara turned to see a particularly dark Valkyrie standing behind her, the only Valkyrie she had seen so far who had entirely black hair, though her eyes were still a clear, shining blue, like all of the others’. She wore a cloak of equally dark raven’s feathers, and her armor was entirely silver on black, marking her as obviously one of Odin’s Host. She carried a strange, ornate silver rod in additional to her sword.

            “I will guide you through this,” she said in a faraway voice. “I know it can be hard at first, but you will come to accept it. If you are like me, you will come to enjoy it. My name is Roata.”

            “Thank you, Roata,” Kara said.

            “Look at this one,” said the dark Valkyrie, extending her arm and pointing to a dead Northman. “He is so gored and mangled that one cannot even tell which side he fought on. Perhaps it is better that way, for we are not to judge by earthly allegiances, but by immortal and spiritual ones. Was he a force of honor and good, loyal to the gods? Or was he like the giants, treacherous and scheming, evil in thought and deed? Also, did he die in battle because he chose to fight, or because he was forced to?”

            “But how do you know these things…?”

            Roata put a finger to her lips and closed her eyes. “Shhhh… you must listen to him. Come, follow me and do what I do.”

            Kara mimicked Roata’s movements as she knelt down on the ground next to the dead man and placed one hand on his forehead. Suddenly, Kara could feel the thoughts of his very soul streaming into her mind. His memories were her memories, his pains her pains, his guilt her guilt, and his joy hers. She knew in a flash, as soon as they touched, that his was not a spirit destined for Valhalla. He was warlike and cruel, a nasty man who enjoyed torturing others who were not of his clan. He did fight for the thrill of battle, but it was only for bloodshed and not for honor or any other reason.

            She drew her hand away. “No. He is a monster.”

            But Roata was stroking the man’s filthy hair now, staring deeply into his blank, wide, dead eyes. She smiled slightly. Kara shrank back. There was something frightening about the sight… and yet, comforting. She could almost feel the blood rage of the warrior beginning to calm under Roata’s touch.

            “His life was so full of sorrow…” Roata muttered. She used the word sorrow as if she knew the meaning very well.

            “And hatred,” Kara added.

            “He will go to Odin,” Roata said, looking up. “He may not belong with the Host of Freyja, but Odin will take him in.”

            “But he had no honor!”

            “He had some. He did fight for his people and for his family, even if he hated all others and wished to do them harm. This spark of honor can be trained to grow, in the eternal batlte halls of Valhalla.”

            “But he deserves punishment in the afterlife for the needless deaths he has caused; I could sense them! He…”

            Roata laughed a mirthless chuckle. “Ah, I can see why Reginleif chose you for the Host of Freyja. You think just like them. Well, think on this, follower of Freyja: Is not forgiveness also an honorable thing? Sometimes Odin, God of the Sky and of War, can be even more forgiving than his gentle cousin whom you serve.”

            Kara shook her head and turned away. “He still deserves punishment.”

            “Perhaps,” Roata whispered softly. “But perhaps he will realize that on his own, and his conscience will punish him accordingly. Perhaps he will punish himself. And that, Kara, is a much greater punishment than all the pain that the legions of Hel could put this warrior through.”

            Kara would hear no more of such morbid, unjust talk. She turned away and walked off, heading in the direction of another group of Valkyrie who were gathered around a single corpse. Kara recognized it as the body of the short, black-bearded Darkcliff Northman with the long-hafted axe… the one who had slain her leader, Chief Urthag. She joined the group and looked down at the body. Where she had expected to feel revulsion, she was surprised to suddenly feel pity.

            “The poor man,” said Myst, who stood beside her. “He deserved a better death.”

            The Northman was short and hunched, with broad shoulders and muscular arms and legs, but a large, deformed head and a hideous face. His round nose and wrinkled eyes were the only things visible behind the mass of matted, greasy black hair that surrounded his face on all sides. Indeed, he almost looked like nothing but a ball of tangled black fur. His body was freshly cut in many places and covered in much older scars as well, and four arrows protruded from him. One had hit him in the side of the leg; two more in the back, one in the shoulder and one in the side; and the last had struck him in the arm. The head of his mighty battleaxe was solid black with the blood of his foes, as was most of the rest of his body. The air around him reeked of the foulest odor Kara had ever smelled. It was beyond words.

            Rynnhilda, leader of the Host of Odin, walked up beside them. She wore full plate body armor of silver and gold, and her winged helmet was of a half-face design, covering her cheeks and surrounding her eyes. She looked, acted, and spoke as if she were the Queen of the Valkyrie. And she certainly played the role well.

            Finally she said, “I think we should take him. He fought bravely, slew many men, even the mighty king of the Tribe of the Bear. His death was dishonorable, being shot in the back, and for that I pity him. He deserved a worthier demise. Nevertheless, he will be a mighty Einherjar in the afterlife, fit to fight for Odin in the halls of Valhalla. But let me speak to him first, and we shall…”

            They all started as suddenly a gruff voice emerged from the throat of the corpse, and its lips apparently were moving behind the shroud of hair that covered him. “Ah, that sure is pretty. I never thought I’d hear the day such a woman said that kinda stuff ‘bout ol’ Bomm.”

            Suddenly the corpse jumped to its feet, though it stood barely above waist high next to the mighty Valkyrie. He extended a grimy hand, which the Valkyries stared at before exchanging disgusted glances. The barbarian frowned and tried wiping his glove on his leather tunic, but when he extended it again it only looked filthier and bloodier. He shrugged and let the limb drop to his side.

            “Ah well, ‘twas worth a try. Anyway, me name’s Bomm Blackbeard. Nice t’ make yer acquaintance, ladies.”

            “It is an undeserved honor that you now look upon the Golden Host, filthy one,” said Rynnhilda through clenched teeth. “So do not dare to try and touch us.”

            “Wow, a real mood-swinger, isn’t she? Hey it ain’t my fault ye thought I was dead,” he said, fiddling idly with the fletching on one of the arrows protruding from his shoulder. “Prissy elf-made crap…” he muttered.

            “I believe it was your stench that fooled us,” Myst commented. “It is hard to believe that anyone could smell so much like a corpse and not be one.”

            “Been workin’ on that smell all me life,” said the Northman. “Never once bathed, ye know. Not intentional, no ways.”

            The hulking brunette Valkryie, Thruda, stepped up to the scene and laughed heartily. “What a specimen this one is!”

Skogul sniggered. “Indeed! Can I keep him, ma?”

            “Silence, you two!” Rynnhilda hissed. “Answer me this, short one: are you man or dwarf? You look like the latter, but with your tribe it is hard to tell.”

            There was a long moment of silence, during which Bomm simply stared at the Valkyrie with a somewhat bored expression. Then he glanced around, looking beside and behind him as if expecting someone else to be there.

            “Who ye talkin’ to?” he asked. “I don’t see no ‘short one.’”

            Kara could not restrain a slight giggle at this comment.

            Skogul gave a snort. “Oh, right, right. So I suppose you think our faces are our belt buckles?”

            Rynnhilda was losing patience now. She stamped her booted foot. “Answer! Be you man or dwarf?”

            Bomm started as if surprised. “Oh, so ye spoke at me! Well, shorty, it just so happens I’m a dwarf.”

            Skogul, still appearing highly amused, gave a low whistle. “Ohh, he just called Rynnhilda ‘shorty.’”

            Rynnhilda drew her sword. The sound of it caused everyone to take a step back. The blade was about as long as Bomm was high, and it shone a brilliant light golden color, almost as golden as the hilt. As soon as it was free of its sheath, it started to flicker, and slowly, tendrils of flame began to appear along its edges. There were no more snide comments once Viragil, the Golden Flame, was in sight. The Queen of the Golden Host demanded respect, and she received it from all who could see her.

            Except for Bomm.

            “Nice sword,” he said nonchalantly. “Where’d you get it? Been lookin’ for somethin’ decently impressive to replace this shoddy bit o’ craftsmanship ‘ere.” He lifted his battleaxe. “Look at that! It’s dented. Ruined, in fact. Ah well, I’m sure there’s plenty more ‘round ‘ere.”

            “So get you gone and find one!” Rynnhilda shouted. “Scurry away fast, before I hasten you with force.”

            “Fine, don’t get yer braids in a knot,” Bomm grunted, shuffling off.

The hairy little dwarf began inspecting each of the corpses. Eventually he found a double-bit, bearded battleaxe on one of the warriors of the Tribe of the Bear. Hefting it and leaning it on one shoulder, he then turned and walked off, headed back toward Dark Cliff Canyon. Then, as they watched, he appeared to change his mind about going back there and started walking aimlessly in a different direction. After a while, he disappeared into the trees.

“Do you think he will survive with those wounds?” Myst asked.

“Let us hope that he does,” said Rynnhilda as she sheathed Viragil and walked off, “because I certainly don’t want to see him again any time soon.”

It took a while for Kara to understand this comment. Then she remembered that she would now be spending most of her time with people who were actually dead.

Again Kara heard Thruda’s booming voice behind her. “Eventually he will join the halls of my father, where all great warrior dwarves are destined.”

Kara turned to see the tallest and most muscular Valkyrie she had encountered yet. This one had brown hair tied up in a pair of long braids, and she carried a wicked yet elegantly-designed mace that looked like an array of six to eight axe heads, all facing in opposite directions. She had a strong jaw, but her features were not unattractive. Her face lit up with a smile as she clapped Kara on the shoulder.

“Good to meet you at last, sister!” she said with enthusiasm. “I am Thruda, daughter of Thor, God of Thunder. In life I was regarded as something of a heroine, I am told. I never stopped fighting long enough to hear such rumors, myself. I’m sure you’re becoming weary of introductions, but I think I’m the last one you haven’t met. Well, besides Sigdrifa back there, the last of the main five Valkyrie in the Host of Odin, but she mostly keeps to herself. She’s the one with the white wolf.”

Kara kept nodding as Thruda talked, but she did not stop speaking until she was interrupted by Reginleif and Rynnhilda calling out to their riders to prepare to leave. The sorting of the dead was over, and now they had to transport the souls they had collected back to Asgard, to Valhalla and the realms of Odin and Freyja. Kara could not wait to see them in person.

The Valkyrie climbed aboard their various mounts, Kara riding behind Gondul on her great white steed, the rest of the Host of Freyja on their horses, and the Host of Odin on their great wolves of grey, black, and white. They took off at a run together, riding all the way across the field, and the steeds glided so effortlessly along that Kara hardly even noticed when suddenly their hooves and paws left the ground and began running across open sky. Up, up, they went, into the stars, and the night sky grew brighter as they rode, until suddenly all was washed away in a great flash of white…