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But it was a sacrifice I was willing to make for Torsten.
A sudden roaring in the distance sent a wave of terror washing over me. I looked around in a panic, dropping to a low crouch. Knocking a knee against another outcropping, I bit back a curse.
Hell, I decided. This place was definitely Hell. A lake of fire, complete with wailing and gnashing of teeth.
The sounds seemed to be coming from a vast mountain range just beyond a slow-moving river of lava. No… that was no mountain.
“Oh,” I gasped, sucking in a lungful of too-warm air. It scalded my lungs, and I had to smother a coughing fit. “Oh, God…”
The shape was moving. The ground beneath it shook, sending shock-waves through the cracked earth. I felt it, even through my numbed feet, far enough away it was just a fine tremor. The ground beneath it heaved, spitting clods of the desiccated stuff into the air, falling to earth with cracks as loud as cannon blasts. It left a crater beneath it, the gaping hole pooling with lava even as I watched. It straightened to its full height, and another whimper escaped me.
It was double Torsten’s height, which meant it was at least twelve feet tall. Its huge, barrel chest was the size of a house and covered in what looked like plates of thick obsidian armor. And as more shapes rose nearby, shifting the earth beneath my feet, I realized it was one of the smallest ones.
Though I’d only seen these in the woven pattern of Fyrcat’s tapestry, there was no doubt in my mind that the figures were fire-giants. The ground groaned in protest as it marched purposefully toward the sounds I’d heard, seemingly drawn to them like a magnet to steel.
Torsten.
Skarde had said the giants could sense the blood of Odin. Deep inside I hoped my connection to Freya would keep the giants from sensing my own divine connection to the Aesir gods. There was nothing on Midgard that could compare to the sheer size of the ancient being that eclipsed the entire realm of Muspelheim.
I grabbed onto the stone wall to my left, feeling as if my knees were going to give out any second. The last thing I needed was to fall into a vat of churning fire. I breathed through my nose as best as I could and crept along the wall. There was no way of knowing how much time had passed in Midgard or whether Torsten and I could even get back, but I had no choice but to push on.
“Bold o’ ye ta come out ‘ere,” rasped a disembodied voice. “Fer we don’t get many o’ yer kind ‘round these parts.”
I blinked away the sweat that poured into my eyes and searched for the origin of the voice.
“Show yourself,” I said, hating the way my voice cracked. My tongue felt very dry and thick. A rough cough burned my throat as I struggled to breathe through the smoke and dry air.
I almost swung at the figure that rounded my hiding place before I caught myself. The thing was stocky, hairy, and unmistakably male, even through the haze that hung over everything in this cursed place. I had to blink hard to make out anything more than an unclear outline, but when I had, I almost wished I hadn’t. He was less unsettling than the giants, but only just.
He was barely four-feet tall and his braided beard was half his size. Large hoops dangled from plump earlobes, hanging like weights rather than like jewelry. His eyes were beady, too small for the broad planes of his face. His nose was also too large, the craggy brow ridges and hairy brows casting doubt on what color his eyes were. His gold-plated armor was smudged with soot, dulling the color to a feeble yellow gleam. A layer of ash had settled on the broadsword strapped to his back. It was at least as broad as one of his beefy arms. Plenty large enough to cleave a relatively average human in two.
I swallowed nervously. It hurt. A lot. But I finally managed to croak, “Who are you?”
“Name’s Brisingr,” he replied, eyes glinting far back in their sockets. I thought he was smiling, but it was difficult to tell through the beard. “An’ ye’re wearin’ one o’ my creations ‘round ye’re neck.”
I touched the brisingamen in surprise. I belatedly realized it hadn’t disappeared with the rest of my clothing and had to wonder why that was. Probably not important, in light of the more pressing dangers. I filed it away for later. I could ask questions when Torsten wasn’t in danger.
My arms dropped to cover myself self-consciously. The dwarf (at least I assumed it was a dwarf) chuckled.
“I wouldn’t worry about that at the moment, girl,” he said, gesturing broadly over my shoulder. “You have bigger problems.”
A huge, basso sound erupted behind me. At first, I thought it was another giant bursting from its rest in the earth, but when I turned, I found something smaller. It was roughly the size of a mastiff, barely distinguishable from the surrounding rock, but for the ember-like glow of its eyes. Its lips pulled back, displaying a row of sharp, needle-like teeth. Another growl rumbled in its chest, and I went a little weak in the knees.
“What is that?” I whispered.
“Pit-mutts” the man said, reaching behind him to grip the hilt of his sword. It cleared the scabbard with a neat snick of sound. “They’re loyal to the royal family. The pack won’t be far behind. It’s open season on your lot around here.”
So, the giants and their kind could sense my blood. Great. That was exactly what I needed.
He brought the sword into a guard position with a fierce grin.
“I suggest you run.”
Chapter Three
Skarde
“I am not a pack mule,” I said, and couldn’t keep an edge of growl out of my voice. The witch was doing this on purpose. “Carry your own damn bags!”
