Fleeting spectral images taunted Sigurd’s memory. Opening a man’s throat. Striding through crimson spray. Quick slashes ending children’s caterwauling. A golden-haired beauty screaming Valkyrie threats. Laughing, swatting away her knife. Slinging her over his shoulder. And dying—her second blade embedded in his spine.
Sigurd’s hand still clasped his sword. A Viking’s death then—body and blade bathed in enemies’ blood.
“Lies,” a slithering voice hissed. Icy breath froze his blood-encrusted skin. “Not enemies. Your brother, your kin, while trying to steal his wife.”
Sigurd opened his eyes.
“The dishonourable are mine!” Lokisdottir crooned amidst the frigid glaciers of Hel.
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