Marroc and I had been walking for hours. My throat was parched, and my stomach grumbled. I tried to remember what I’d eaten today, but all I could recall was the apple in the Emperor’s chambers. What I would do for a bite of it now. There was water in the marsh beside the road—dark pools hidden behind bunches of gray reeds—but I was afraid to drink from them.
All around us, the dead shuffled forward, eyes dull and mouths hanging open.
At first, they’d had me completely on edge. Though their bodies looked intact, they moved like the draugr. But I quickly learned they had no interest in the living. Or anyone else, for that matter. They all walked north, toward what I could only assume was Helheim itself. The only sound was the soft shuffling of feet over ancient cobblestones.
Marroc kept close to me, watchful and silent. Wisps of smoke drifted off his skin. He was the one beacon of beauty in this parade of the dead.
I wished I could listen to the little device he had given me, but it was waterlogged and wouldn’t start. I’d tried humming a few bars of music, but it just didn’t feel right walking amongst the corpses.
Eventually, Marroc touched my arm, and I turned to see that in front of us, the dead were slowing. The dark form of a building rose from the mist. Something else was different, too. A new sound joined the noise of shuffling feet. The roar of rushing water.
The dead slowed nearly to a halt as they began to discard their clothes and belongings, dropping them in piles and heaps on the road. Marroc crossed to a pile and rummaged around until he found an old book, then kept searching, presumably for a pencil. While he did that, I sifted through the shirts and jeans until I found a bag.
Resupplied, we pushed forward among the dead. Eventually, the mist parted, and I saw that the dark shape was a narrow bridge that spanned a roaring river. The bridge was only large enough for one person, but opulent, made of crystals and gold.
We weren’t in Hel—not yet. Helheim was a walled realm. But we were getting close.
By the bridge’s entrance stood a towering woman, at least ten feet tall. Dressed in iron armor, she balanced a long sword in front of her and stared out onto the road. Not dead, but not really seeing, either. I realized I knew her name. This was Modgud, the furious battler, the giantess who guarded the river Gjoll. Her glimmering blond hair draped over her armor.
As we approached the bridge, the dead funneled into a narrow path so that only one could cross at a time. Slowly, they shambled over the bridge, and we moved behind them.
When we got to the entrance, Marroc started to cross, and I wondered if the giantess would notice. But she didn’t move a muscle. Her eyes remained straight ahead.
As soon as I took a step onto the bridge, however, her sword shattered stones at my feet.
“What brings the living to my bridge?” she growled, fixing me with black eyes. “Why do you wish to cross these waters?”
“I—” My mouth opened and closed. I couldn’t explain to her that I wanted to steal Loki’s wand, could I? I’d keep it simple. “I am traveling to the Nastrand—the Shore of the Dead.”
The giantess didn’t move, and her sword continued to block my path. “You must pay the toll. The dead don’t need to pay. Only the living.”
I opened my palms. “You want money? Because I don’t have any.”
“What would I do with money?” growled the giantess. “Your kind pay the toll in blood. Wet my blade and you may pass.”
It took a moment for her intention to sink in. “You want me to cut myself on your sword?”
“Either you do it yourself or I’ll do it for you.” Her muscular forearm flexed, and the sword shifted toward me.
I looked at the blade, then at my hand and missing finger. Couldn’t be as bad as that. “All right.”
I gripped the sword, then slid my palm down fast, cutting into the skin—but not too deep. All the same, pain lanced up my arm. It hurt more than I’d expected.
“Is that enough?” I said, pointing to the smear of blood I’d left on the giantess’s blade.
Modgud raised her sword and licked it clean with a pale tongue. My lip curled.