Jond’s heart pounded in his ears as he buried his axe in Rolf’s skull. He felt bone crunch and blood splatter his face as the blade drove through. Rolf’s eyes sprung wide in pain and horror just before his body collapsed to the ground. Tearing his axe free, Jond roared out his victory cry.
For a second, he saw Gunnar fiercely grinning in approval. Then the older man was lost in the press of bodies. Shaking a tangle of hair from his face, Jond leapt into the heart of the melee, crashing his axe against the shield of the next opponent.
That evening, Rolf avoided him, sitting and sulking far from him at the Great Table. Catching his attention, Jond raised his goblet, a salute to a good opponent. Rolf shot him an angry glare, then turned his head away.
“Forget it,” Gunnar advised. “Rolf is also new here. He still takes defeat personally. In time he will come to understand.”
“Perhaps I need to split his skull a few more times to help him understand,” Jond said, angered at the slight.
“Don’t get too arrogant, pup,” the older warrior warned. “You are good, but perhaps tomorrow he will split yours.”
Jond laughed.
Gunnar shook his head, smiling patiently.
They drank and wenched themselves into exhaustion and slept.
The next day, Rolf was killed before Jond even caught sight of him. It didn’t matter. There was plenty of battle to be had, and Jond enjoyed it to its fullest. Against so many, more-experienced warriors, he was forced to draw on all his strength and skill just to survive. It was exhilarating.
His large axe gave him an advantage. It was a hard weapon to defend against. For most men, a large, heavy axe was a clumsy weapon—difficult to use in close combat. To Jond, it felt like a part of his arm. He swung, jabbed, and blocked with it easier than most men did with much smaller weapons.
Indeed, with his axe in hand and his blond hair brushing the muscles of his broad shoulders, Jond knew that he was the true image of a Viking. In life, some of his clan, while deep in their cups, had even gone so far as to compare him to the thunder god … in appearance at least. Jond had done his best to live up to—and die with—that image. In a short but glorious life, he had been a fierce and respected warrior. In the end, it had taken three enemies to kill him, and two of those, he was sure, went to their own gods shortly after him.
But that was in another life although, sometimes, he thought of his final moments on Midgard … and the Valkyrie who had carried him to this land-after-death.
He had risen from the ground, feeling strong but strange. Then he had looked down onto his own body, his face crushed, his head half-hacked from his shoulders and his body chalk white except for the gaping wounds. The sight of his death had shaken him in a way that he still denied though the image would not leave his mind.
Around him and unaware of him, his living kinsmen had rested, recovering from the battle. Others of his clan rose up from their bodies as he had and stood looking around in the same daze that he felt.
Then a motion caught his eyes, and he’d looked up to see the Valkyrie riding down from the clouds on their winged horses. One of them had landed and stopped right next to him. He’d looked up at her, full and beautiful in her armor, her tightly-braided hair pulled back from her strong face. She was perfect beauty.
He had stared, unable to speak.
She had seemed to understand. She’d smiled at him.
“Pick up your weapon, warrior,” she’d said. “You will have need of it.”
He had bent and grabbed his axe, then he mounted the horse behind her. He had gripped her tightly as the horse launched from the earth and they rose into the sky leaving Midgard far below. Inside the clouds, the sky became an endless, shifting grey, yet horse and rider had ridden on as though they could see their destination clearly.
At last, the swirling fog had parted, and the horse’s hooves had sounded on solid ground again. They slowed to a trot and stopped before a huge, looming set of doors set into a grey, stone wall. A dozen feet to either side of the doors, the wall had blended into the swirling fog.
“Through those doors is your future, Jond,” the Valkyrie had said, looking over her shoulder at him. “I must return to Midgard to bring others.”
Indeed, even as they had talked, two more Valkyrie arrived with men from the battle. Jond had dismounted and stood next to the horse, looking up at her beauty.
“Will I see you again?” he’d asked.
She had looked at him a moment, as if deciding his worthiness.
“Perhaps. That is your decision.”
With that, she had turned and galloped into the fog. Jond and the others had pushed open the great doors, entered Valhalla, and joined in their first of endless battles.
Now, he stood among this day’s battle. He shook himself from the memory of the Valkyrie’s beauty and returned his mind to the fight. To die because he was dreaming of a woman, even one of the Valkyrie, would be an embarrassment that would not soon be forgotten. Deflecting his next opponent’s blade, he lunged in and killed him.
The next day, Jond found himself fighting side by side with Rolf. The two threw aside their bitterness to fight together against the common foe. Together they fought. Together they fell. That night, they drank together and talked as friends. Gunnar looked on, pleased.
Jond caved in Rolf’s ribs, crashing through to his heart. He stepped past Rolf’s twitching body to engage the next man.
Jond felt the fire burn inside him as the blade sliced his belly open and his entrails spilled out.
Rolf smiled at him as he fell.
“At last, I kill you, friend.”
Darkness closed in from the edges of Jond’s eyes as he watched Rolf step over him to engage another man. He reached up with his hand to grab Rolf’s boot, but he was too weak, and his hand was kicked aside. He fell into the darkness.
He and Gunnar tested each other, probing and feinting. Then they crashed together. Only one moved on to another foe.
The battle done, Jond screamed out his victory cry. Nearby, Rolf joined him. Gunnar laughed and wiped his blade clean on a body.
Time passed without passing. Glorious Time, filled with the strength of men’s arms in battle and their laughter around the Great Table. Time passed with the ring of metal on metal, the clunk of goblets on wooden tables, and the cooing of warm maidens in the night. Time passed, and Jond watched the ranks of Valhalla swell.
Gunnar?” Jond slurred, the ale numbing his tongue.
“Hmmmm?”
“Have you ever wondered … what is the … reason for Valhalla? What it is for?”
“What?” the older man asked drunkenly. His heavy-lidded eyes continued to stare out into the almost-empty Great Hall where they sat on the floor swilling ale, buttocks on the cold stone, backs against the cold stone wall. Most of the others had left already for wenching or sleep.
“Some say that this is the reward for those who fall as heroes,” Jond said. “Others say that it is a training ground. That the greatest are taken here after their death to fight endlessly, honing their skills so that they can fight for Odin when Ragnarok comes.”
Gunnar nodded drunkenly, in complete agreement.
“You have been here longer than most, old man,” Jond said. “What do you think?”
“I think that the gods do not care what I think. We are here now … and now this is all there is for us. Forget your dreams of glory, pup. Forget about fighting with Odin and Thor against Ragnarok. It is not named the End of All Things by chance. Think only of now. Live this second life you have been given. Live it full … while you have it.”
“While I have it?” Jond asked. “What are you talking about? We will live forever here. No man dies in Valhalla.”
Gunnar snorted a laugh.
“In one breath you talk of Ragnarok, and in the next you babble about living forever. You know nothing of what you speak.”
The old man lifted his cup to his lips but didn’t drink. He stared into it and spoke in a hollow voice.
“Heroes die in Valhalla, Jond.”
Jond felt his anger rising. He turned drunkenly to argue, but the words died in his throat when he looked into the old man’s eyes. Those eyes sent a frozen arrow into his heart.
For the first time since his boyhood, Jond felt fear. Fear for his old friend. Fear for a man who was so like a father to him.
Gunnar’s words were not the harsh words of a rebuking elder; they were the tired words of one who would go soon. Jond had been here long enough to have seen a warrior leave. The words echoed in his mind.
Heroes die in Valhalla.
He slumped back against the cold stone and drank his cup dry.
So it came. Time passed without passing, as always. Gunnar fought with the same skill and strength, but his spirit faded a little each day. Jond watched as the old warrior fell in battle more and more often, more a victim of himself than his foe.
A man without heart did not last long in battle.
Then came the day they faced each other again.
Jond finished his foe. Turning to grapple with the next man, he found himself facing Gunnar.
Hesitation stretched out between them, a fragile calm amid the storm.
Stunned, Jond watched Gunnar slowly lower his weary sword. The young warrior followed the elder’s gaze down to his own battleaxe. Jond saw only the normal gore of battle on the blade and haft, but when he looked up again, it seemed that Gunnar’s eyes saw something more.
Those old eyes looked up again.
Gunnar shook his head slightly.
Shocked, Jond watched him turn away. Fear shot through his belly. If Gunnar was ready to leave battle, he would be ready to leave Valhalla. That was how it always happened.
He charged the older man.
Gunnar sensed the charge and stopped, waiting for the blow without turning.
Jond swept his axe by, inches from Gunnar’s head and shoulder.
The old man nodded, still without turning, then stepped away.
A wave of battle swept in and caught Jond up, pushing him away from Gunnar.
Jond remembered little after that: only blind, angry bloodlust. When it passed, he found himself kneeling in the gore cradling Gunnar’s mangled form, hot tears streaming down his cheeks. No one came near them.
Jond ate without feasting that evening. Rolf sat on his right. An empty chair sat on his left.
Around the table, others tried to carry on as though nothing had happened, but he knew they felt the heaviness in their hearts too. Gunnar had been one of the oldest and best-liked here. He had been a true Viking.
The ceremony ran itself through Jond’s mind again, unbidden and unwanted. It had taken place as soon as all could stand again, as was the custom. Here the spirit could not leave the flesh as it had on Midgard, for they were, in fact, spirit made flesh. Here, death was a decision, a surrender.
The tables had been pushed against the walls, and the host of heroes had assembled themselves on either side of the Great Hall, leaving a wide corridor up the middle. Gunnar’s closest friends stood near the end.
From that end, Jond watched as the old warrior entered through the distant doors and laid his shield and sword at the foot of the Hallmaster. Then he began the long walk up the aisle between warriors. One after the next, they each turned their backs as he approached, shunning him in his shame and cowardice. Some turned away in anger. Some turned away reluctantly.
Jond watched Gunnar walk steadily up the human corridor. There was no shame in the set of the old man’s shoulders, just weariness. He walked toward the tapestry at the end of the Hall.
To Jond’s left, Rolf hesitantly lowered his head and turned away.
Jond remained facing forward, watching Gunnar close the final steps between them. His eyes locked with the old man’s.
Jond burned the pity from his heart. Gunnar had come here as a hero many years before Jond had even been born. He would not insult his friend now in his final moments.
The Hallmaster walked the required two paces behind Gunnar and Jond felt the huge man’s hot glare ordering him to turn away.
He set his shoulders and refused. To the grey realms of Hel with the Hallmaster. Jond’s father had died at sea, not as a hero, when Jond was a young boy, and Jond had never seen him again. He would not turn his back on Gunnar who was so like a father to him.
The old man stopped in front of him and looked into his eyes. Gunnar smiled a little and gripped Jond’s arm.
Jond gripped Gunnar’s in return. This time, Jond held back his tears.
Gunnar’s smile faded and, in the old man’s eyes, Jond saw … pity?
Then Gunnar nodded and turned to face the end of the hall.
The Hallmaster walked past them and drew the tapestry aside, revealing a small door. He unbarred the door and swung it open, exposing the swirling, grey fog beyond.
Jond watched Gunnar’s shoulders rise and fall with a deep, final breath. Then he watched his friend walk through the door and be swallowed by the greyness. Jond felt as if he were choking.
It would have been better if Gunnar had never risen after falling in that last battle. Now he was nothing, not even a shade in Hel.
The Hallmaster closed and barred the door, then swung the tapestry back to hide it again.
Jond turned his back on the angry glare of the Hallmaster and stalked down the corridor of warriors, leaving before the Hallmaster could speak the ritual words denouncing Gunnar.
No one turned their back on Jond as he passed.
The battles came with the days and passed with them. For a time, Jond fought more fiercely, and angrily, than ever. But, eventually, Valhalla returned to its routine, and Jond just fought.
There have been no new arrivals for some time,” Rolf said quietly, chewing on a roasted bird’s leg.
“So?” Jond asked, washing his own food down with a swallow from yet another of the endless goblets of ale.
“So? Do you not wonder what is happening on Midgard that there are no new heroes?”
“Perhaps our people are in a time of peace. It is no concern. Soon their blood will call them to battle again.”
“What if it is not that?” Rolf asked. “What if Ragnarok has come? What if Midgard is no more?”
“If Ragnarok, the End of All Things, has come, how can we be sitting here eating burnt birds and talking nonsense?”
“Everyone knows that Valhalla is special, made with a part of Odin and Hel both. Perhaps Ragnarok came too quickly, and Odin could not call us forth to fight at his side. Perhaps we are all there is now.”
Jond guzzled his ale.
“Well?” Rolf asked.
“Well, what?”
“By Odin’s Eye, Jond! What do you think?”
“I think that neither the gods nor Ragnarok care what I think! What does it matter if we are the last? We were here for eternity before; we are here for eternity now. We can do nothing about it until eternity is done.”
Rolf fell silent then. Jond finished his meal in that silence, then looked around for a woman to bed. Changing his mind, he got drunker and fell asleep alone.
The battles and days passed—meaningless without seasons, empty without cause.
Jond fought.
Others walked beyond the tapestry.
And still, Jond fought.
He sat in the Great Hall, staring at yet another roasted bird.
Thoughts crept into his mind. He tried to push them out, but they returned again and again.
He thought of the day’s battle, and the day’s before, and the many days before that. He thought of tomorrow’s battle, and all the tomorrows beyond it, stretching off beyond sight into infinity.
Into eternity.
He stared at his food and ale, untouched on the Great Table before him.
Why had they fought today? Why would they fight tomorrow?
Eternity was a long time to fight without cause.
Jond stared into that eternity, seeing the days and battles stretch off into a distance that couldn’t be seen. Endless. Meaningless. He saw and decided.
He stood.
Heads nearby turned toward him, expecting a drunken toast.
He stepped over the bench and retrieved his axe and shield from the wall.
Excited murmurs ran along the table. Jond was going to challenge someone! As word passed down, more heads turned to see who would be challenged.
Jond turned back and laid shield and axe on the huge oaken table.
Cold silence gripped his section of the room.
It spread like a slow wave down the table, then washed outward, spreading over all who sat in the Great Hall, smothering all sound.
He looked around at the men nearest him. In their eyes, he saw that a few of them would also make the same decision soon. In others, he saw the same weariness growing but held back by their fear of the grey nothingness beyond the door. He stepped back from the bench and turned toward the tapestries.
Rolf grabbed his arm.
“Jond! No.”
Jond wrenched his arm free and walked toward the covered door. At the head of the tables, he saw the Hallmaster rise and move to intercept him. They met at the end of the tables, only a few feet from the door … only a few feet from where Jond and Gunnar had last stood together.
“You are drunk,” the Hallmaster said. “Sit down again and make your decision in the morning. See how the call of battle changes your mind.”
Jond shook his head sharply.
The Hallmaster was a large man. He set himself solidly in Jond’s path, hands at his side but ready.
“Then there must be the ceremony. You will wait until the others have eaten and moved the tables back. Then you may face your decision properly.”
Amazement crept through Jond’s weariness. It brought a tight smile to his lips. He almost laughed.
It amazed him that—in this moment—the Hallmaster thought ritual and ceremony meant anything to him. His fist lashed out and crushed the man’s bull throat.
The Hallmaster crumpled to his knees, choking for air.
Jond stepped past him without concern. In the morning, the man would rise again and be ready for battle.
In the shock and confusion, Jond covered the few feet to the tapestry.
A cry went up behind him, but he was already tearing the tapestry from the cold, stone wall. He heard footfalls racing toward him. He grabbed the heavy bar and lifted, throwing it aside. The footsteps stopped as the thick, wooden board bounced on the floor. He smiled thinly, grimly amused that men who faced pain and death daily could fear something as simple as a door. He grabbed the cold handle and pulled.
He stood staring at the greyness beyond, and for a moment, he hesitated.
Then he remembered the endless fighting.
Tomorrow, it would begin again. And again. Ever again.
He stepped into the swirling grey.
Unreplenished from Midgard, the ranks of Valhalla shrank by one more.
Jond found himself swallowed by a wet, grey fog. It swirled and flowed all around him, even under his feet, though the ground felt solid beneath him. He looked over his shoulder, but the door and wall were gone. More grey swirled behind him. Perhaps this was Hel’s underworld. If so, he welcomed it. Here he would fade into an uncaring shade—the empty spirit he was.
He stepped forward, ready to begin the aimless, endless wandering and forgetting …
… and emerged into a strange land.
It stretched on, seemingly endlessly. And it was filled with people. Many people.
Several stood near him, almost lined up side-by-side, looking around with the same confusion he felt.
Just a few feet to his left, a woman magically stepped out of a large, grey hole. She also stopped and looked around in confusion. The grey hole began closing behind her.
Jond looked behind him just in time to see a small, grey hole shrink to a dot and disappear. Apparently, he had arrived here by the same magic.
“I’ve been waiting a long time for you to make the decision,” a voice said in front of him.
He spun back and found himself facing the Valkyrie who had brought him to Valhalla.
She stood before him in a loose-fitting tunic of light green, white leggings and sandals. Her blonde hair settled loosely on her shoulders, unbound.
He stared at her.
She smiled and held out her hand.
“Come,” she said. “Everything will be explained.”
“Where are we?” he asked. He saw the other arrivals also being met by someone. Farther in, many were walking in a loose, long procession headed somewhere.
“A common area that is kept plain to ease the transition from the different afterlives,” she said.
“Transition? Afterlives?”
She nodded. “Most people are not ready to move on until they’ve spent enough time in their version of the ‘land beyond death.’ When they finally tire of ‘paradise’ or ‘hell’ or whatever they were taught to expect, they reject it. Then, they are finally ready to open up to less Earthly concepts and learn what really awaits.”
He stared at her. None of this made sense.
“Come,” she said, taking his hand. “Let me show you.”
“How did you know I would be here?”
“It’s my task to bring people. I asked to know when you would be coming.”
“But who could tell you that?”
She smiled.
“You ask more questions than you used to, Jond. Hopefully, that means you’re ready to learn. I could say ‘the gods’ but that isn’t really correct. It’s easier to show you than explain it.”
She stepped back, tugging gently on his hands.
Wearily, he resisted. Even if it meant losing her, he could not return to more violence.
“I am not worthy to walk in the halls of the gods. I have left Valhalla. I have fallen.”
The weathered lines of her face softened. She reached out and caressed his cheek.
“No one falls here,” she said softly. “And there is so much more than you’ve been told.”
He looked into her soft, blue eyes and saw that she was not mocking him.
For just a moment, something touched his heart, licking at weary wounds.
She gently pulled his hands, and he followed … into a world that was more than he had been promised … more than he had dreamed.
After a long career in high tech Darrel Duckworth returned to his first love, writing. He now spends more time on other worlds, occasionally returning to Earth to refill his coffee mug. His stories can be found in magazines such as LORE, Bards and Sages, and Plasma Frequency and in other anthologies such as Coven and Wild Things.