"Following Ragnarok Ch 1" by Angela Perry

Chapter 1: Bound

            The world burned. From horizon to horizon, flames licked against an immense darkness. Black against black, the great wolves that had devoured the sun and moon stalked across the sky, their fur limned red from leaping fire. The earth shook with the steps of the great fire giant Surt as he wielded his sword against dying Midgard.

            Wings torn and bloody, Mist hunched on the gore-soaked battlefield near the corpse of her own dire wolf. The distant inferno howled as it drew nearer, and the moans and cries of the dying floated through the air with the ash. She could not sense any of her sister valkyrie nearby; they were all fled or destroyed by now, she was certain. Their purpose—her purpose—was at an end. No human souls remained to be collected.

Queen Hel herself had led the armies of the unworthy dead against the humans in Midgard, tearing out their souls and casting them into the chaos beyond the World Tree. They were all extinct now, the humans. For all Mist knew, she alone remained alive and conscious in Midgard to watch its final destruction.

She struggled to her feet, wincing as she flexed her wings. Dozens of her midnight feathers lay scattered invisibly across the plain, and the gaps left by the missing pinions throbbed painfully. Mist flapped her wings, managed to struggle aloft for a moment, then collapsed back to the earth. She moaned and struggled back to her hands and knees.

Unfamiliar fear fluttered in her chest. Dying in the oncoming flames would hardly be the glorious death in battle she had imagined for herself. The eternity in Hel that awaited such an ignominious death flashed before her eyes, and she forced herself to extend her wings again. This time, they refused to do so much as support her in the air, and Mist cried out at the shooting pain.

Taking deep breaths, Mist forced herself to drive the fear from her mind as she blinked the tears from her eyes. This was not hopeless; she need not give up. She had learned that much from the great heroes and warriors she had collected over the eternities. Always, one could find a sword willing to kill, an axe willing to strike.

The fire giants. They rampaged in the distance, calling to each other in their guttural language, reveling in the final destruction of the beautiful world they had been denied. Mist would seek them out, perhaps even Surt himself, and die in fruitless but holy battle.

Groping in the blackness, Mist searched the ground until she found a discarded sword. She held it up, silhouetting it against the distant firelight. The metal edges were notched and the blade so stained with blood that only fragments reflected the light. But it was serviceable. It was not as if she expected to win this battle.

Mist hefted the blade and strode toward the nearest fire giant, its hulking form appearing to flicker as it passed between blazes. So focused was she on reaching it that when the faint blue light appeared to her right, she did not see it at first. It was her spirit instinct, which enabled her to locate dying warriors on the battlefield, that alerted her to its presence.

The spirit light wavered in the darkness, casting no illumination around it. Mist squinted toward it, confused. She had thought all souls long gone by now. But if it was a stray human soul, lost in battle and overlooked until now by the ravening creatures that preyed upon them, it was her duty to escort it to Asgard. Her heart sank. She could not fly, and her wolf companion was dead. Bringing the soul to a paradise soon to be destroyed seemed not only pointless but impossible.

Yet…she could not abandon a heroic soul. Just the thought of such an act of cowardice physically sickened her. So, with no thought in her mind other than reaching the lone spirit, she turned to her right and limped toward it.

It was not long before Mist noticed that the soul was acting strangely. The light neither hovered above the ground near a body, as many newly dead often do, nor approached her as it sensed her mental call. Rather, it moved away from her, matching her speed so she never drew any closer. When she stepped more rapidly, the light increased its speed as well; when she stumbled over a body in the darkness, it paused and waited for her to regain her footing.

Mist’s legs were beginning to tire when a nearby groan drew her attention. Some other unlucky creature was still alive nearby. It was not human; she would have sensed that. She paused, undecided whether to approach the source of the sound. It was just as likely to be an enemy as a friend, and the soul she followed was her primary concern. She shrugged, dismissing the idea of seeking out the survivor. Glancing back toward the light, Mist felt a jolt of surprise. It had vanished.

She reached out with her senses, searching for the errant spirit, but all she felt was a dark void. Frustration and anger rose within her. In all her millennia as a valkyrie, she had never lost a soul before. The sword pommel abraded her hand as she hammered the sword’s tip into the ground. The horrors of the past battle crashed over her. The heroic souls she had gathered, counted as friends, had been destroyed by Loki’s and Hel’s merciless armies. The gods who led her and gave her purpose were dead. Her sisters had vanished. Sulfr, her dire wolf companion since time began, slaughtered beneath her. And now, the last soul on Midgard was lost. She shrieked her anger and despair to the heavens, tears coursing down her cheeks to sprinkle the unheeding earth.

Another moan from nearby cut through Mist’s fury. Cold anger and a feeling of helplessness settled into her chest. It was time to end this. Her pursuit of the lost soul had taken her far away from the giants, and the flames howled toward her, threatening to damn her soul. Yanking the sword from the ground, Mist stalked toward the dying creature, praying that it was an enemy, one strong enough to provide an honorable fight.

The nearing flames revealed a contorted figure laying on the ground, struggling to rise. Orange light glinted off curving horns, bared claws, and teeth snarling in a rictus of pain. Black leather trousers swathed its legs, but a bare chest covered in black fur revealed the creature to be male, strong and well-muscled. A tendril of hope rose in Mist’s chest. He was an enemy, a dark elf. If only he were strong enough to do battle. He might even thank her for the chance—unlike the soulless giants, dark elves must save themselves through a heroic death as well.

“You, dark elf. How fare you?” Mist called out, approaching him cautiously. A snarl from the creature stopped her.

“Stay away, carrion bird,” the dark elf replied, rolling to face her. “I am not one of those filthy humans whose souls you devour. My soul is my own.”

“For how long?” Mist demanded through gritted teeth, holding herself back despite his insults. She had to first discover if he could fight. “The fire will destroy you as well, and your soul will be claimed by Hel.”

“You speak truth,” the dark elf grunted. He was silent for a moment, then he sighed. “Move along, valkyrie, and find another to battle.” He held up his right arm, and Mist saw that it had been severed at the elbow. “A small skirmish with a cursed light elf took much of my blood strength. I collapsed unconscious, but my soul refused to leave. A fire giant saw me lying helpless and cut off my fighting arm, burning the flesh so the last of my blood could not leave my body. The same sword took my left eye. I would fight you if I could, but my strength is gone. I am resigned to Hel, until the fire giants destroy my soul there as well.”

Despair crashed down on Mist. She sank to her knees, the sword falling from her grasp.

“We shall travel to Hel together, then,” Mist whispered hoarsely. “The fire is too close. I shall not find a worthy opponent before it reaches me, and I refuse to die running from it, like a rabbit.”

“Why do you not fly away on your raven’s wings?” the elf demanded, eyes narrowed. “You still have them.”

“Spare me foolish questions before I die,” Mist snorted. “Do you not think I would have, if I could? The accursed spirits, who died ignobly and could not travel to Asgard, exacted their revenge. They shredded my wings and killed my wolf, but refused to grant me an honorable death. And now I shall join them, as they intended.”

“Hel will be pleased,” the dark elf mused. “She has long wished for the soul of a valkyrie.”

“Then I hope she enjoys my company in the days before the giants reach her fortress,” Mist growled, inwardly wincing. She was not looking forward to discovering what Hel had planned for her first valkyrie soul, but she refused to show weakness before this deformed creature. Covering her fear, she snapped, “Just…be silent. I do not wish to spend my last moments listening to your prattling.”

To her surprise, the dark elf did as she demanded. Silence descended between them, broken only by the elf’s labored breathing and the buzz of flies over nearby carcasses. The roar of the flames had become so loud that Mist could barely hear it anymore. Heat washed over them, making Mist’s vision wavy and unclear. Thus, when the dark elf’s body appeared to writhe and change, she paid no attention. Instead, she closed her eyes and waited for death to claim her.

A low growl forced her to open her eyes again. The dark elf had transformed into a huge wolf, larger even than Sulfr had been, with great horns curving around its face. It limped toward her, tongue lolling from heat and exertion. Mist scrambled for her sword and lurched to her feet.

“I was right.” The dark elf’s voice was distorted coming from the wolf’s mouth. “My wolf form has more strength.”

“Then we battle?” Mist asked, trying to maintain her footing with the heat sucking the strength from her body.

The wolf shook its massive head. “I will fight you if you choose, though I expect you to kill me before I could kill you. That would save me, not you.”

“Why do you care? Your soul would be safe. Besides, what other choice do we have?”

“I have no love for Hel. Before Ragnarok, she invaded our halls, using guile to take many lives of dark elves. She set traps for us, then stole our souls as we died from disease or accident. Our army was greatly depleted and hers much strengthened for the great battle. I despise her and her cowardly wraiths. She desires a valkyrie soul; I wish to rob her of that.

“I have heard that you, not the gods, give your wolf mounts the power of flight. Is it true?”

The heat was assaulting Mist now, making it hard for her to think, to breathe. Nearby corpses were beginning to smolder. “Yes, that is true,” she gasped.

“If you use your skill to make me fly, I will carry you from here,” the wolf pledged, his one silver eye meeting hers.

“You do not understand,” Mist protested. “We would be bound for eternity, or at least until one of us dies. I can only grant flight to my companion.”

“Ah.” The dark elf was silent for a moment before he asked, “Would you be willing to bind yourself to an enemy, to escape Hel? I am willing to do so.”

“The ritual takes much strength. I am not certain….”

“Uncertainty is for cowards,” growled the wolf, his teeth bared. “Will you do it, carrion bird? Or are you to weak to try to escape Hel’s clutches?”

Mist recognized the elf’s attempt to goad her into action. She could not muster the anger she knew she should feel, but her resolve grew firm.

“You are right. Though you are a deformed creature of evil, I will bind myself for a chance to fight again. I must know your true name, though, and you must know mine.”

“My true name?” It was the wolf this time who hesitated.

“Yes,” Mist answered softly. “You would be irrevocably sworn to protect me, and I you. We could not kill each other in battle later on, if that is what you planned.”

A rain of sparks settled onto the wolf’s muzzle, and he yelped and shook his head sharply.

“Very well. Though I doubt that spiting Hel is worth this. I am known as Kolbyr among my people. My true name is Kolbyr Bradulf Gunnhvatr.”

“I am Mist Hrafnbera Grima, known as Mist. Repeat what I say, except switch the names.” Mist jerked her wings and bit her lip as a flaming brand caught in the feathers. “And hurry. I, Mist Hrafnbera Grima…”

“I, Kolbyr Bradulf Gunnhvatr…”

“…bind myself to Kolbyr Bradulf Gunnhvatr for all eternity…”

“…bind myself to Mist Hrafnbera Grima for all eternity…”

“…and swear a blood oath to become as a sister, to protect and guard against all, even the very gods, my blood brother forever, Kolbyr Bradulf Gunnhvatr.”

Kolbyr repeated the final words to bind them, then extended his paw. Mist used the sword to slice deep into her hand and his paw, allowing their blood to mingle. As she felt their life-forces combine, she began chanting under her breath, forcing the ability to fly—along with her remaining strength—into his body. The heat was nearly unbearable, and Mist could feel her blond hair beginning to shrivel.

With a final cry, her strength gone, she collapsed into darkness.

~*~

Cool air blowing past her face coaxed awareness into Mist’s mind. She became aware of rough fur beneath her cheek and a golden glow penetrating her eyelids. Disoriented, she moaned and rolled over. The fur slipped beneath her, and a sensation of falling brought her to sudden alertness.

Mist found herself tumbling through the black void above the World Tree. It’s leaves and branches radiated a white-gold luminosity that shone over the nine worlds. Instinctively, she snapped her wings open, and shooting pain assaulted her. Heart pounding, she fought to stabilize her descent, but her wings refused to support her.

Abruptly, she jerked to a halt in midair. Strong jaws clamped around her shoulder, teeth digging into her thick leather armor. Mist glanced behind her to see a great horned wolf glaring at her, his single eye snapping, and she realized that Kolbyr—her new companion, she shuddered—had lifted her unconscious form from Midgard into the void. She must have had enough strength; the binding spell had worked.

“Remove your wings from my face,” Kolbyr growled, his voice muffled and barely discernable, “and climb back on before I drop you.”

Grunting with effort, Mist did as the wolf bid, using handfuls of his thick fur to hoist herself back astride. Once he was certain she was balanced, Kolbyr released his hold on her and ran his tongue over his teeth.

“You weigh more than you look,” the dark elf complained. “I probably lost teeth catching you like that. Not to mention the handfuls of fur you yanked out climbing back on me.”

Mist found herself shaking from reaction. “Thank you for saving me,” she gasped reluctantly, running her hands through her hair.

 “Like I had a choice,” Kolbyr muttered, struggling to turn himself in the air. “I could feel the binding between us tearing my soul. You failed to mention that I would be forced to protect you to save my own sanity.”

“I warned you,” Mist retorted. “And the bond will only get stronger, the longer it is in place. Do you think I like the idea of being linked to a filthy….”

Her words trailed off as she noticed the view around her. The destruction was overwhelming. Bifrost had shattered, remnants of its rainbowed arch glittering and winking as they floated in the darkness. The great branches of the World Tree drooped, and golden leaves fell shimmering from the branches, to be swept away in the great rivers at its base. The flames of the battle spread from the worlds at its roots, slowly draining its life.

Midgard lay in ashes, the entire world blackened and glowing with coals. The fire had spread to Jotunheim, empty now of the giants who had lived there. They had foolishly joined their cousins, the fire giants, against the gods in battle, and now their world was burning in recompense.

“Surt will turn his flaming sword against Svartalfheim next,” Kolbyr said stonily, his eyes locked on the burning worlds. “It is good that most of my brothers and sisters lay dead on the battlefield.”

The two survivors continued to stare at the culmination of existence for uncounted moments, until Mist felt Kolbyr faltering in the air.

“We must rest and recover,” she said, tearing her eyes from the spreading death below. “I had little strength to lend you, and it must be nearly exhausted by now.”

“And where shall we go, little carrion feeder?” Kolbyr demanded condescendingly. “This is the end of all worlds. Look how fast Surt spreads the fires. How can we possibly regain our strength before he reaches us? My wish to die in battle was a foolish one. We only prolonged the inevitable.”

“So you choose to surrender now?” Mist snorted. “Very well. At least fulfill your vow and take me to Asgard, before you curl into a ball and cry yourself to death.”

Kolbyr snarled in anger and jerked his head around, snapping at Mist’s unprotected leg. His teeth froze a hair’s breadth from her skin.

“You can do me no harm,” reminded Mist, scowling. “Though I see you would rather break your oath than return me to safety.”

“An oath made to one such as you is no promise at all!” Kolbyr thundered, furious at the magic thwarting him. “Perhaps I will deliver you to Hel right now!”

Mist opened her mouth, but stopped. She could do nothing to prevent him. Full realization of what she had done by binding herself to her enemy struck her. Just as he was prevented from harming her, she could not harm him, even to save her own life. And with her wings torn and unusable, she was at his mercy.

Her silence told Kolbyr the truth as well, and he opened his mouth wide in wolf laughter. “So, you see the truth of the matter. Perhaps you will think twice before accusing me of forswearing myself. Luckily for you, I am not the oathbreaker you take me for. I simply see no purpose in taking you Asgard, or any world, in preparation for your destruction. But I will take you to your gods’ world, and we shall count my oath fulfilled. Agreed?”

Mist swallowed. “Agreed.”

Kolbyr turned his head toward the highest world, still serene and glowing with white light above the carnage below. Mist smiled slightly at Kolbyr’s unschooled struggling in the air. He swished his tail and worked his legs, trying to maintain his course and move forward. Angry with him for threatening and mocking her, she refrained from mentioning that all he needed for flight was thought.

Thus their progress toward Asgard was slow, lit by the flaming worlds and spreading fires below them. Eventually, though, they drew close enough to Asgard for Mist to see the great halls rising from the plains, shields making up the ceiling and the hundreds of doors stretching all around. But where before, thousands of great warriors had gathered to fight, game, and tell stories of their heroism, in the company of gods and demi-gods, now all was silent.

Kolbyr touched down on the green plain outside of the greatest hall, Valhalla, where until Ragnarok Mist had made her own home. It seemed a different place. No laughter echoed to greet her home. The great hero Sigurd, of whom she had grown very fond, did not rush out to greet her with open arms, as he had often done when she returned from the battlefield with the soul of a new warrior worthy of joining them. He lay dead, with all the others, in the great inferno on Midgard. The call of the great eagle was the only sound across the desolate paradise, his voice mournful and lonely in the silence.

Mist slid from Kolbyr’s back, fighting back tears. So none of her sisters had returned, either. She had not really expected it, but deep within her she had held onto the hope that she was not the only surviving valkyrie. Now the hope was crushed, gone.

As she walked toward the great hall, she stumbled over something buried in the grass. Looking down, she saw a hint of gold at her feet. Mist reached down and plucked a chess piece from where it nestled on the plain, tears spilling over her cheeks. It was the Viking queen, belonging to Odin’s favorite set of pieces. Owned by a god, it was large, almost as big as her forearm, and set with precious gems. The stylized hair was cut into strands of gold that flowed in twin braids over the shoulders and down to the knees of the model. Odin had once told Mist fondly that the piece reminded him of her, with her flowing golden braids—now loosened and hanging in disarray around her shoulders—and the sweet red lips set with rubies.

“So this is Asgard.” Kolbyr’s voice was tinged with awe, his remaining eye wide as he looked around. “I never thought to set foot here.”

Mist clutched the chess piece to her chest and closed her eyes, breathing in the familiar scents of home. Her voice was broken as she replied, “I count your oath fulfilled, dark elf. I am in your debt for allowing me one last visit to my home before it is destroyed.”

A hand on her shoulder made her turn. Kolbyr had reverted to his elfin form, and now stood behind her, his expression solemn. Despite the absence of the stars, sun, and moon, Mist could see Kolbyr quite well in the light that emanated from the proximate world tree and from Asgard itself. Thick muscles rippled over his humanoid chest and arms, though his wolf-tail remained, along with clawed hands and feet. His blue-black fur glistened, where it was not matted with blood, and his horns and fangs shone silver like his eye. Never having seen a dark elf up close, except during the heat of battle, when her mind was occupied only by blood and fury, Mist caught her breath at his beauty. She knew, of course, that the light elves were a beautiful race; she had visited Alfheim many times before, in celebration of battles won, or to study in the great libraries. Yet she had not realized that denizens of Svartalfheim, like their counterparts, were as exquisitely handsome in a dark and dangerous way.

Perhaps because of his near perfection, the wounds he had sustained during the battle seemed even more grisly. The stump of his arm hung burned and useless at his side, and only glints of silver remained around the blood and burned flesh of his ruined eye. Exhaustion pinched his lips and tugged at his posture.

“It is a peaceful place,” he said quietly, looking over her head toward the great mountains in the distance. “Though it was the home to my enemies, I count it a shame that it will destroyed.” He glanced down at her and glimpsed the golden piece she held. “And what is this you hold?” he wondered, eyes resting on the rich colors.

“A remnant of a happy memory,” Mist said, holding it out for him to see. “It belonged to Odin.”

Kolbyr seemed quite taken with the piece. He reached out, pausing for her nod of permission before he took it in his own clawed hands. “Beautiful workmanship,” he marveled, turning the piece to catch the light. “It reminds me of a carved mask I once saw, created by Eitri, the greatest of the dark elf craftsman.”

“Perhaps it was created by him,” Mist acknowledged. She had forgotten how, in more peaceful time, both humans and gods had sought out the dark elves to create works of metal and precious stone.

A thin smile touched Kolbyr’s lips as he handed the piece back to Mist, “It resembles you, valkyrie, though without the blood and burns.”

At his words, Mist’s hands faltered and the piece tumbled into the grass. Kolbyr bent to pick it up, but Mist stopped him.

“Leave it,” she said, turning away from where it lay. “It belongs to another place and time.”

Kolbyr hesitated, but finally stood upright again and turned to follow Mist as she walked toward the World Tree.