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Escaping Valhalla
🕑 Added 2024-02-17 22:18:02 +0000 UTCEscaping Valhalla
/// A little bit ago I mentioned that there were two stories I was working on. This is the more serious one, the dumb one isn’t quite ready yet but I’m making progress. I’m going to dump the first three chapters here and I hope to hear what you think.
Blurb:
Miles is in Valhalla, and it sucks.
Every day, he fights to the death with 8th-century barbarians before getting blackout drunk, waking with a pounding hangover to just go die again. All of his 45 years in an office job did not prepare him for this.
Fortunately, a god has opportunities ready to trade. He just has to decide if they are worth the price. Maybe with enough effort, trickery, and bloody violence, he can find a way out of this most hallowed hall before he too lives for the thrill of the fight.
Chapter 1: A Good Day to Die
My time as a pit fighter started when I turned 65. It was a bit late for a career change, I know, but I didn't have a choice. Well, I didn't have much of a choice.
When the stranger ripped the knife out of my neck, the last bit of strength left my legs, and I collapsed to the floor. It was all I could do to keep my fingers curled around the broken beer bottle I had in my hand. With satisfaction, I watched my assailant fall to the ground next to me, a shard of glass in his jugular.
When he had touched my daughter that way, I had snapped a little bit. I hadn't drunk in nearly a decade, ever since my wife had died. Now, my tolerances were shot, and things had gotten a little away from me. Honestly, I hadn't been to a bar for even longer, and I wouldn't have been here if I hadn't made a brief appearance for my daughter's birthday.
Now I could hear her screaming faintly, as if down a long hallway. The sirens outside stopped as the ambulance arrived. Even as my beautiful daughter knelt at my side, face contorted in grief, it all faded away.
As I lay there, I found myself excited to move on and join my wife wherever we went next. I hoped it was heaven.
My last thoughts were interrupted by an angel appearing before me, a heartbreaking, beautiful woman with long blond hair tied back in a braid. Ethereal light glinted off her armor and the sword at her side. The only thing missing was her halo.
She reached down, and I reached up and took her hand, and she pulled my soul away from my body and took me in her arms. Looking down at me, she spoke. The perfection of her voice registered before her words did. "Hello, my warrior. Hello, Miles. You have been chosen to feast in Valhalla among your fellow warriors. Will you accept?"
When I was able to process what she said, I blinked in shock. "Uh, do I have to? Can't I go to heaven instead?"
"I'm sorry that path is closed to you. But you do have a choice." She said this with a comforting tone that soothed all my worries away. I might not get to go to heaven, but at least I had a choice.
"Let's see… You can go to Valhalla or Hell." The Valkyrie said.
That was not much of a choice.
"I'll go to Valhalla," I told the Valkyrie. "Better than Hell, right?"
"Good choice, Miles." She said as she flapped her wings and carried me up into the sky.
"What's your name? I asked.
"You can call me Mary," she said in her perfect melodic voice. Earth was receding before my eyes but we were not heading into space. A glowing light enveloped us and I blinked.
When the light went away we were flying over a mountain with a bonfire on its summit. The height of the peak was unbelievable. It must have been several times taller than Mount Everest. The whole way down was covered in buildings, halls, towers, and ships half buried in the mountain. The ones at the top were made of beautiful black glass; the further down, the lower the material quality. After the glass, it was a stunning marble, then granite.
People milled about all over, doing various things. But they were far enough away that I couldn't make out any details. They all looked like ants as we flew to the bottom of the mountain. At the base, I saw a feasting hall made of rough-cut timber. It was so long that I couldn't see the end as it curved around out of sight.
At first, I thought she would set me down there and put me out in front of that building. It made sense. I was new, and I needed to start at the bottom. It was just like any office job; the intern fetches the coffee. That made sense to me.
But no, we soared over that building and kept going. Briefly, we flashed over a courtyard with feasting tables set up in a foot of snow, and I thought we would land there.
Still, we kept going, but she was slowing down. We flew over a wall with spear points on the top, interspersed with wrought iron gates.
Mary set me down in a snowbank outside of a gate. Through the entrance, I saw people feasting at a table, drinking while shivering. Beyond them was the hall. I could hear laughter spilling out from the inside with the light.
"Good luck," Mary said as she waved to me before disappearing.
"Good luck?" What does she mean?
Suddenly, the scene changed. A spear was in my hands, and I was standing in a pit of sand with nothing but blackness all around me.
I looked down at my spear and saw my unwrinkled hands. Surprised, I blinked and moved my body, expecting to feel my stiff back, arthritic knees, and aching feet. But no. It was as if I had returned to the body I had when I was 25. I even regained the inches of height stolen from me by age. Running one hand over my scalp, I realized I had a full head of hair again. I bet it was even brown.
At the sound of yelling, I looked up. Only to find a running, burly man only a few feet away from me, also holding a spear.
I only had time for a questioning look before I was run-through the chest. My breath exploded, and I struggled to draw in a breath. Fluid filled my lungs like I was trying to breathe water.
For the second time that day, I found myself bleeding out on the floor.
As the burning agony from the hole in my chest flooded my mind, it washed away all my thoughts. After all my worries about my past life were cleared out, it was strangely easy to think. It dawned on me what Valhalla was. A paradise for warriors to fight and train endlessly. I was no warrior. I wheezed, trying to say one last thing, to get up and do one more thing before I died again.
Mary's hand pulled me out of my body again a few moments later. "Not a bad first attempt. I'm sure you will do better next time."
Next time? The realization I would have to die yet again settled on me like manacles fastened around my spirit. I was going to die a lot, wasn't I?
We soared off into the distance toward the light of the mountain just now visible in the distance. After a few moments of processing, I couldn't help but mutter to her. "I should have chosen hell."
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. "I get to take you to the Lesser Hall now."
"Thanks, Mary." I wheezed, and I let her pull me to 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, but progressing further had been much more difficult.
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 small 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, and 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, and the barbarians carved into them with their belt knives and shoved handfuls of meat down their gulets.
The Lesser Hall of Valhalla. It had taken me nearly six months of trying to make it in here from the cold outside, and as awful and crowded as it was, at least it was warm. A meaty hand clapped me on the back and broke me out of my distraction as its force sent me stumbling forward.
"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 nearby.
Thrusting one in my hand, he held the other out to me, forcing me to take it. "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 drinks 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 with 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 wasn't sure the hall was worth the beating. 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 training, and some had been at 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, and 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 had asked around about the switch, everyone had just 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 cool and mostly 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 towards a weapons rack, fighting the press of people ready to go train.
I reached the weapon's rack and picked up a two-and-a-half-foot sword. It was similar to the one-handed blades we used in the last 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.
Finding people was weird here. As far as I could tell, there were endless millions of warriors in Valhalla, but it was never too crowded. It was a headache to figure out. There was some sort of magic, but no one questioned it.
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. "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 for 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 strikes. 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 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.
Chapter 3:
In the few moments of reprieve I had between the first and second challenge, I spun my new weapon in my offhand and tried to get a feel for the balance. I could already tell that wielding two swords wouldn't be as easy as I had first assumed. Fighting with one one-handed sword was one thing, but a second sword required a whole new approach. I'd have to work with different balances and timings. I didn't realize how much I used my offhand for balance when fighting with one hand.
Despite the challenges, I wasn't ready to give up on the idea just yet. It would at least be a surprise for someone. I kept one blade behind me so my opponent wouldn't see it. They'd probably see that I was acting a little weird. It was almost like a fencer, but with a short one-handed sword, which didn't make any sense. But if I was lucky, it would be one of the meatheads who didn't think and got only as far as they did on brawn.
My opponent stepped into the arena at the same time I appeared at the edge of the new fighting pit, and we charged at each other. Normally, I would play it slow and cautious, trying to make my opponent make a mistake, as I sat just out of reach, hoping for a lucky shot. But I didn't want my opponent to register what was going on. So I roared in my best Bjorn impression as I slashed down with all my might. My opponent raised his blade, bracing it with his offhand to block.
He caught my sword in a textbook parry. We froze for a split second, and I felt him shift his balance slightly. He looked to be ready to slip to the side and counter my aggressive opening attack.
However, I didn't give him a chance. Quick as lightning, I whipped my left hand into his completely open side. I felt the resistance as my extra blade passed through his innards. Then the man sagged before limply collapsing to the ground.
It was the shortest victory of my life. My opponent lay dead before me, and I was on to the third round. I fully expected to meet someone like Bjorn again. It would have been just my luck. But the gods must have been having mercy on me as someone I didn't think would give me too much trouble appeared when the arena reset.
I was vaguely aware of the man. I hadn't caught his name, but he had fought in the brawl last night. I imagined he probably made it through 4 or 5 people before, a bit better than me. If I managed to pull off a similar trick, there was no reason why I couldn't win here, too.
Swinging wildly, I tried the same opening move, but the man danced back. Without the resistance, I stumbled forward, off balance. I tried to slash with my left hand as my momentum carried me forward. Somehow, he managed to get his sword in the way, deflecting my second strike. But the surprise was evident on his face as he stared at my left hand.
He was slow to react, and I figured my overly committed first strike had paid off. I attempted to follow up, but he stumbled out of the way. The tip of my sword parted the woven cloth of his tunic as it just avoided drawing blood.
Continuing my onslaught, I spun. I was doing my best to bring my other sword into play, as slowly I overwhelmed him. It wasn't graceful. I was just flailing at him with both swords. My strikes fell into a steady rhythm that kept him on his toes as he tried to get used to fighting with someone with two blades. The delicate balance could only last so long.
A lucky slash took him just above the knee, and he stumbled into my graceless hacking blades. I decimated his guard and cut through his face, ending the fight. I stood panting over my third downed opponent. My sword tips almost rested in the sand as I gathered the breath to yell in victory. I might not have been a warrior, but I would be damned if I didn't go down without a fight.
This hell would not keep me for too much longer. I rolled my shoulders and practiced a few moves I imagined might work with two blades. I felt silly doing it, having really no idea what I was doing. I would have been better off with a dagger in the offhand, something light and flexible that I could work into my style better. But this was still better than what was originally given.
By the time I appeared in the next arena, I realized something was different. This place was almost double the size of the previous battleground, and more than one opponent appeared equidistant around the circle. Four other opponents showed up, and I could tell by the looks on their faces that they were not surprised. They sized each other and me up at the same time.
They seemed to dismiss me as not much of a threat. And I couldn't blame them. Now, how could I use this to my advantage? As if someone had shot a starting gun out of a race, they charged into the center of the ring.
Ah, this was a general melee free-for-all. If I were to guess, I would say that the last one standing moved on. But you only get credits for kills you did yourself. It seemed to be the way of the place. But I would fight however I saw fit. I didn't really care about getting 12 kills. I really, really doubted that I would be able to get out of the Lesser Hall on my second attempt. But I wasn't eager to die, so I would go as far as I could in this tournament.
I was several steps behind, but I also headed to the center. The person directly to my right veered off to come at me. He must have thought that I was an easier target. While I was attacked, the other three clashed in the center. I didn't really have a chance to hide my second sword, as it was all I could do to deflect his blade. It came at me with a series of blinding flashes, making it feel like I was the fighter with one blade and my opponent had two.
Every time I deflected his blade, I was unable to counter. When I sought to follow up with either of my swords, his blade was somehow already coming at me. Each move I made felt as if it was already part of his plan.
As the encounter continued, I took several cuts across my forearms and one deep into my chest. As steel passed through part of my pectoral muscle, I felt the strength leave my grip. Only through sheer bitterness was I able to keep my sword in hand. Stumbling backward, I landed on my rear and then immediately rolled out of the way of a downward strike.
Just as I thought I was about to be finished off, my attacker had to turn and guard himself as a roaring man charged at his side. Had the trio's fight concluded?
I looked over and saw that, no, they were almost fighting a duel. Each of them had their blades flashing as they took turns attacking and defending. I could see how the third might have felt left out and gone to fight their own battle.
Rolling to my feet, I left specks of blood in the sand as I scrambled away from my interrupted fight. For my health, I was unwilling to engage with my previous opponent, who was clearly more than my match. For now, I would watch for an opportunity as I recovered.
I did my best to not make too much noise as I circled over to the dueling pair. As their swords locked, I saw an opportunity. The fools were so focused on each other and their dule they forgot they weren't alone. With a few careful steps, I was within reach of them both. I slashed out with both my blades. By the time they even realized I was there, I had both of their throats laid open. As if their strings were cut, they both fell and quickly bleed out in the sand.
Not wanting to fall into the same trap those two just had, I kept looking around myself. My previous opponent and the newcomer were still locked in a ferocious battle. This one was not nearly as graceful or chivalrous as the one I had just interrupted.
They hacked, slashed, kicked, punched, and generally battered each other in a circle. I moved to position myself, but I saw that they were well aware that I was the only other one left. But neither of them could spare enough attention to come at me, though judging based off of their brief glances, I would not be able to pull off the same trick again.
I wasn't sure if that was because they were aware of my underhanded tactics or just that they were more situationally aware than the two nimrods I had just skewered. So I stayed close, trying to maintain the grip on my blade with my injured arm. As I stilled, the soreness in my muscles started to creep in, and I was really worried that blood loss would do me in before one of these did. Moments passed, but slowly, the tide turned.
My initial opponent was being pressed back and took a few slight wounds right as I thought it was over. In desperation, he dove forward, tackling his opponent to the floor. They transitioned to pummeling and grappling on the ground in moments.
Eventually, I saw that one sword was lost, and then quickly, the other was as well. My opponent crawled onto the back of the interloper and locked in some sort of chokehold. As the man on his back slowly strangled him, he clawed at the arm, gripping his throat, slowly turning purple as he bit and punched over his shoulder, connecting with the face several times, but not enough to loosen the grip.
Seizing my chance, I strode over with a few quick steps and dropped one sword. With both arms, I positioned the sword point down. Throwing all my weight into the act, I pushed on the pommel. In a single motion, I drove it into the exposed back. My sword continued through both of them, pinning them to the ground.
Rolling to the side, I collapsed to my knees, looking up at the pitch-black nothing that surrounded us. I could swear I heard a faint chuckle from above, but I couldn't be sure of anything over the sound of my labored breathing.
I grabbed my sword and another one that was lying nearby and forced myself up to my feet, my injuries burning like hell. Standing there, I waited as everything faded black and the arena reset for the fourth time. I appeared again in another sandy ring with one man casually walking towards me.
This man was different from anyone I had seen here so far. He didn't wear the leathers and furs that the previous opponents had but instead was dressed in what looked to be fine silk. He moved with a grace that was even beyond Bjorn.
He was smaller than me, several inches shorter and a little wiry. But I could tell by the look in his eyes that we were not the same. His eyes flicked down to the two swords, and his lip curled up in a sneer. Already, I couldn't help but hate this guy. What a prick. Thinking that because he was so much better than me, I should just lay down and die with one blade in my hand and not take every advantage I could. Well, we would see.
I spurred my legs into a half-hearted charge, blades raised to meet him. I slashed with both my swords, but he ducked under one and, not even bothering to raise his own sword, slammed his fist into my gut, sending me to my knees. As I struggled to pull in a breath, I felt cold steel plunge into my back.
With a small splash, a glob of spit landed in the sand in front of me. I heard him hiss. "What a disgrace."
A boot between my shoulder blades shoved me to the ground. Face first into the dirty sand. As everything went black. I couldn't roll myself over and meet my Valkyrie face-to-face as I had done before. All I could do was wait for Mary to come and carry me off to the feasting hall and soothe my wounds. There, I could fill my belly with food and ale and sleep in the warmth of a hearth again. It was just so cold.
But it wasn't Mary's voice that found me. Instead, it was a man's alto, a relatively high voice compared to the gruff barbarians I'd been used to hearing around here. It echoed from the blackness that completely enveloped me. "My, my, you are rather interesting. I'll be keeping my eye on you. If you ever want to chat, take the bow and go to the third ring. I'm sure we could strike some sort of bargain."
~~~ Next chapters - Cult Members or above
/// If you want to read more I’ll be adding chapters to the Cult Member tier as I get them ready. If you don’t want to spend the money I can’t encourage you enough not to. Don’t worry this will go on RR soonish and I will set up its own tiers so you won’t get spammed if you don’t want it.
And no matter what I would like to hear feedback from you in the comments. I hope you enjoyed!
Comments
James Thomas
I like the start but I have to agree with the others about the stat system. It doesn't seem to fit the story thus far.
frogogre1
Yea he does have a point I like the idea of a litrpg viking but as it is it feels added on. Your best bet would be to try to integrate it a bit more into your Norse setting by giving him something he could use such as a figurine or some type of mystical object from Norse mythology that would help him keep track of his progress. You also probably need the litrpg aspect to have an actually affect on how he fights in the matches to make it better fit in the world.
Veraenderer
The LitRPG part doesn't feel fitting.
