EV Chapter 2:

Chapter 2: 

Bjorn slid his sword out of my stomach and flicked it clean. My legs, no longer offering any support due to my severed spinal cord, dumped me onto the sands of the arena. I was able to control my fall just enough to land on my back, looking up into the stars.

A pretty face appeared above me with a slight smile. "Two this time. Congratulations, Miles, that was very well done." The Valkyrie said in a warm tone. "Now I get to take you to the Lesser Hall."

"Thanks, Mary." I wheezed, and I let her pull my spirit to its feet above my latest body. "It was closer than I would like, but I'm looking forward to eating inside finally."

"Yes, the mead in the Courtyard is awful," she agreed, her full black eyes twinkling. "The stuff tastes like it was made in a trash can."

The nearly six months I had spent out there haunted me as I grunted my agreement. Getting out of the Snowbank and in through the gates to the Courtyard had taken me a week. Progressing past that had eluded me though.

Her wings flapped twice as she lifted off and carried my ghostly form up into the sky. The journey passed in a blur of warped time before we reached our destination, and everything snapped back into reality.

Landing by a set of double doors flung wide, I got my first glance into the Lesser Hall of Valhalla. Sounds of revelry poured out with the warmth of the fires within. I could feel the chill that had taken up permanent residence in my bones, being slowly forced out. Mary gave me a gentle push forward before fading away. I stumbled through the doors and looked around. 

Long tables ran the entire length of the hall, disappearing off into the distance beyond where I could see. Hearths pumped warmth into the room. On the benches was a great congregation of men, each one a mass of muscles and beard. They roared with laughter and drunken exuberance as toasts were made and ale downed. Various roast animals were placed every few feet along the table. Barbarians carved into them with their belt knives or tore parts off with their bare hands.

The Lesser Hall of Valhalla. It had taken me nearly six months of trying to make it in here from the cold outside. As loud and crowded as it was, at least it was warm. A meaty hand clapped me on the back broke me out of my distraction and sent me stumbling forward a step. 

"Good fight! Good fight, Miles!" The volume of the congratulations in my ear left it ringing. I turned and had to look far up to meet Bjorn's eyes. Despite what the monster said, it had not been a good fight, not at all. He had soundly beaten me for the whole 15 seconds it had lasted, but I couldn't hold it against the man.

"You too, Bjorn, You too," I said, reaching up and thumping his shoulder as hard as I could in response. The dark wall of muscle didn't even flinch at the blow, his smile growing wider as he turned and grabbed two horns of mead from the hands of someone walking by. 

Thrusting one in my hand, he held the other out to me, forcing me to take it. Once I had accepted the drink, he lifted his horn to the ceiling and roared. "To honor in death and the everlasting fight!"

Several others around him joined in yelling the toast before chugging the mead. He reached out and tipped my horn to my mouth, forcing me to drink as well. I gulped as fast as I could, but some still spilled out of the corners of my mouth to run down my patchy beard. About halfway through the drink, the man Bjorn had stolen the horns from realized what had happened and took offense. 

A flurry of blows ensued, and surrounding revelers got pulled in. I did my best to defend myself, but eventually, a stray tankard smashed into the side of my head, and the rest of the night was rather blurry.

***

The next morning, my head pounded from the concussion I received in the brawl. Gods, I hated it here. I wasn't a real fighter, not like Bjorn or the others. My soft body had no place in these halls. I just wanted out. Waking to train for hours with bladed weapons, then going into the challenge to fight to the death, then drinking and feasting the night away 'til the next morning wasn't my idea of fun.

I didn't know how to fight at all when I got here. The only reason I was here at all was because the broken bottle I had held in my hand as I died counted as a weapon. When I accepted the invitation to Valhalla, I had reverted to my 'prime' physique. But the lanky 27-year-old me wasn't more a fighter than the decrepit 67-year-old body I died was. Broken beer bottle or not.

My idea of fun was a nice book with a glass of fine wine, as far from bar fights and beer pong as possible. I wasn't a warrior. I was a marketing executive and grandfather, not some seventh-century barbarian who wanted to pillage and plunder.

Groaning, I rolled off the hearth I had passed out on last night and stretched. The warmth had kept the ache out of my bones, but with my head feeling the way it did, I reconsidered if the hall was worth the pain. To get back here, I would need to kill two more people tonight. Still, it was better than spending the night out in the Courtyard, drinking so as not to freeze to death before the next fights began. 

Luckily, we weren't entirely static, and training would help us do better the next night. Unfortunately, everyone had access to the same training, and some had been at it much longer than I had.

Walking over to a table, I grabbed a discarded steak knife. Adjusting my grip, I started carving into the table. The rune was one of the first things I learned when I got into the Courtyard. After the rough carving was complete, I cut my palm open and let some blood drip on the table.

The blood tickled into the carving and filled it up. The cut on my hand healed as soon as it started spilling over. The blood kept welling up out of the carving and spilling onto the table. Slowly, it formed into runes that then changed to English. These numbers described me in the eyes of the gods. Or so that's what everyone said. I just thought of them as stats in a game.

Status: Tier 3: The Lesser Hall

Weapon Proficiencies:

Sword: F - 1

Spear: F - 2

Striking: F - 3

Stats:

Strength: 7

Speed: 8

Constitution: 5

My base strength had only increased by one since I got here. From what I could tell, I didn't have any way of increasing it outside of training. When the challenges switched from spears to swords, that had really set me back. When I asked around about the switch, everyone shrugged and said that the gods liked to mix it up every once in a while. 

Apparently, I should expect massive shifts to the format and equipment in the challenge every few months. The last several years, it had been a single elimination tournament of some sort, but that wasn't always the case. It wasn't for us to know. As I climbed higher in Valhalla's pecking order, I might find out more.

Making my way out of the now cold and empty hall, I walked over to the training yard. It was an endless field with sandy patches used as training rings. I shoved my way toward a weapons rack, fighting the press of people ready to go train.

Reaching the weapon's rack, I picked up a two-and-a-half-foot sword. It was the most similar to the one-handed blades we used in the challenge that I could find. Ducking out of the scrum of people trying to get to the weapons, I carried it over to a free training dummy. 

As I fell into the pattern of strikes and blocks that a generous, experienced warrior had shown me, the noise and people around me faded into the background. I pictured using the sword in the challenge against imaginary opponents, trying to visualize each move with detail and clarity.

The training was something that nearly everyone around here took seriously. Though not as seriously as they took fighting, drinking, and feasting, but more than anything else. The parts of life I enjoyed, like art or a nice wine, no one else seemed to care about those here. 

Training seriously also meant everyone was willing to spar. I found asking a better warrior for a spar was the best way to learn. Everyone was surprisingly willing to give tips despite the fact that you might be fighting to the death later that night. 

Only the ones stuck out in the snow with no food and no ale were in the mindset that telling others what was going on would hurt them. I supposed that might have something to do with why they were still starving every night. Once I got into the Courtyard and had some food. Things got better. If I survived the night's cold, I had people to train with, and I finally got some answers. 

People like Bjorn were a lifesaver. Not many in the Lesser Hall would talk with those from the Courtyard on the training fields, but a few would. And they explained how things worked. Everything came down to one thing:

Do better in the challenge. 

Progressing further would get me answers, better accommodations, interesting tasks, and so much more.

After I spent a few minutes hacking at the straw dummy, I looked around and found Bjorn walking over to me. The man supported a huge smile and a cheery wave. I aborted my next attack on the dummy and lowered my sword while I waited for him to reach me.

"Care to spar?" The massive monster called when he was a dozen feet away. I blinked in surprise. From what I knew about the man, he was close to leaving the Lesser Hall. He should be focusing on making that last push. For each challenge, he killed nearly a dozen people and had the run of the place. I barely snuck in for the first time last night. 

Most people practiced with people around their level, maybe a little better or a little worse, but nowhere near the gap between our skills. Still, I would be an idiot to turn him down. "Sure, why not."

I jogged to catch up to him as we pivoted to an open ring of sand nearby. Curiosity got the better of me, and I had to push it. "I have to ask, why me? You could spar with anyone."

Bjorn sent me a side-eye. "We had a good fight last night."

It took me a second to realize he was talking about the brawl rather than our extremely one-sided duel. He continued. "You are surprisingly creative. I wouldn't have ever thought to use a gravy spoon in that manner."

I flushed in embarrassment at the memory and didn't have the heart to tell him it wasn't intentional. A companionable silence followed us as we walked the last few paces. When we squared up, all hints of joking had vanished. 

"What are you working on?" Bjorn asked me with a discerning eye. 

"I'm still trying to get my strikes to come naturally without having to tell my body to move in a certain way," I said sheepishly. It had taken me nearly two months with the spear to get through that stage, and the sword had so many more options. Bjorn shook his head. And I flushed from embarrassment at how basic my practice must seem to him.

"No, that's no good. You don't do that during sparring; use a dummy and spare time for that. 1000 of each of the main seven moves a day until you can do it in your sleep." He looked at me and motioned for me to show him my moves. I ran through a few of the basic strikes and blocks for him. "You're good enough. As we go on, I'll leave you some openings. Even if you can't capitalize on them, I want you to call them out. I will hit you whenever you miss one. Okay?"

I nodded grimly. At least I passed the smell test. I would just have to find some time to finally get used to the sword. Even if it was swapped out again, I bet it would be back eventually. I kept my eyes fixed on his shoulders, trying to read his movements and avoid as much punishment as possible. It would be harder to make it into the Lesser Hall today if I was going to be as black and blue as I expected.

Bjorn took it easy for the first few minutes, matching my pace as we traded blows. Then suddenly, his left fist came from nowhere and hooked into my ribs. The wind rushed out of my lungs, and I reeled back, coughing all the while. "I overextended that last thrust. Watch your footwork. It was a perfect chance to work your way to the side."

The next time he came in, I started with a looping strike toward his head; as he went to block it, I twisted my hips, sending my shin hurtling into his calf. He turned his foot slightly, and our shins met with a crack. We both winced, and he gave me a nod. "Much better, but your feint shouldn't be that obvious. The best feint is a strike that needs to be addressed. I could have ignored that lazy swing, and nothing would have happened. You need to be ready to follow through if the opportunity presents itself."

We went on for hours like that. Maybe I was improving, but against him, I couldn't tell. He was just that much better. 

***

In the evening, the challenges started.

My first opponent walked from the opposite arch in the nothingness that surrounded the arena of sand we stood on. Surprisingly, I recognized the man standing on the other side of the ring. It was the second person I had bested last night. The one that had got me into the Lesser Hall. Somewhere, one of the gods was surely having a laugh at this joke.

From the man's eyes, I could see he recognized me as well. Though there wasn't any resentment in there that one might have expected. We both knew our place. So far down in the pecking order of Valhalla that we were merely entertainment, fighting and dying for some twisted game.

There was no fanfare to start the bout. The ambient light kept our 20-foot circle lit despite the inky blackness all around us. It cast no shadows, giving the motion an ethereal quality as our blades met. The rigging of steel on steel dissipated into the edges of the depthless void mere paces away. 

Vibrations running up the blade and into my hand pulled my attention to the fight here and now. I needed to win this if I was going to get food tonight. And I didn't want to be cast out beyond the Courtyard to starve in the snow again. It was impossibly hard to pull yourself out of that bottom rung. I had already had to do it several times, and I would do everything I could to avoid it happening again.

There was some seeding mechanism that I didn't understand, making it so that I didn't have to face monsters like Bjorn right away. But at the same time, the closer you were to getting out of the current strata, the easier the first few fights were. That had little bearing on the later fights, but it prevented you from falling too far.

My opponent lunged forward in such a way that his feet made his plan obvious. I felt like I could see it happen hours before he even started to move. In my head, I heard Bjorn's voice. "Pivot and sidestep."

My blade came down on the exposed wrist. The hand still gripped the sword as it flew free of the wrist. The handle of my sword vibrated as it pulled free of the bone. A follow-up strike with my free hand to the throat sent the man to the ground.

As my fist came back from crushing his windpipe, I was already moving. I followed my opponent's body to the ground with my sword, giving swift mercy with a clean strike to the head. Losing a limb wasn't fun, and most of us were willing to end it quickly after that.

Looking down at the body and the loose hand gripping his blade several feet away, suddenly, I had an idea. Tugging the fingers free, I picked up a second blade. No one had told me there were any rules, and this just might work. Smiling to myself, I spun both blades and waited for the arena to reset.

Previous Next