The Wheel of Osheim

“Might have been a shadow.” I scan the horizon. It’s not inspiring. Low hills, scoured with deep gullies, march off into a gloomy haze. The huge boulder we’re next to is one of many scattering a broad plain of fractured rock, dark and jagged pieces of basalt bedded in a dull reddish dust. “I’m thirsty.”

“Let’s go.” Snorri rests the haft of his axe on his shoulder and sets off, stepping from one sharp rock to the next.

“Where?” I follow him, concentrating on my footing, feeling the uncomfortable angles through the soles of my boots.

“The river.”

“And you know it’s in this direction . . . how?” I struggle to keep up. It’s not hot or cold, just dry. There’s a wind, not enough to pick up the dust, but it blows through me, not around, but through, like an ache deep in the bones.

“These are the deadlands, Jal. Everyone’s lost. Any direction will take you where you’re going. You just have to hope that’s where you want to be.”

I don’t comment. Barbarians are immune to logic. Instead I glance back at the rock where the door lay, trying to fix it in my memory. It’s crooked over to the right, almost like the letter “r.” I should be able to open a door out anywhere I choose, but I don’t much want to put that to the test. It took a mage like Kelem to show us a door in and the chances are he’s in the deadlands now. I’d rather not have to ask him to show me the exit.

We press on, stepping from rock to rock on sore feet, trudging through the dust where the rocks grow sparse. There’s no sound but us. Nothing grows. Just a dry and endless wilderness. I had expected screaming, torn bodies, torture and demons.

“Is this what you expected?” I lengthen my stride and catch up with Snorri again.

“Yes.”

“I’d always thought Hell would be more . . . lively. Pitchforks, wailing souls, lakes of fire.”

“The völvas say the goddess makes a Hel for each man.”

“Goddess?” I stub my toe on a rock hidden in the dust and stumble on, cursing.

“You spent a winter in Trond, Jal! Didn’t you learn anything?”

“Fuckit.” I hobble on. The pain from my foot almost unmans me. It’s as if I’ve stepped in acid and it’s eating its way up my leg. If just banging my toe hurts this much in the deadlands I’m terrified of being on the wrong end of any significant injury. “I learned plenty.” Just not about their damned sagas. Most of them seemed to be about Thor hitting things with his hammer. More interesting than the stories Roma tries to feed us, true, but not much of a code to live by.

Snorri stops and I hobble two paces past him before realizing. He spreads his arms as I turn. “Hel rules here. She watches the dead—”

“No, wait. I do remember this one.” Kara had told me. Hel, ice-hearted, split nose to crotch by a line dividing a left side of pure jet from a right side of alabaster. “She watches the souls of men, her bright eye sees the good in them, her dark eye sees the evil, and she cares not for either . . . did I get it right?” I hop on one leg, massaging my toe.

Snorri shrugs. “Close enough. She sees the courage in men. Ragnarok is coming. Not the Thousand Suns of the Builders, but a true end when the world cracks and burns and the giants rise. Courage is all that will matter then.”

I look around at the rocks, the dust, the barren hills. “So where’s mine? If this is your hell where’s mine?” I don’t want to see mine. At all. But even so, to be wandering around in a barbarian’s hell seems . . . wrong. Or perhaps a key ingredient in my personal hell is that nobody recognizes the precedence of nobility over commoners.

“You don’t believe in it,” Snorri says. “Why would Hel build it for you if you don’t believe in it?”

“I do!” Protesting my faithfulness in all things is a reflex with me.

“Your father is a priest, yes?”

“A cardinal! He’s a cardinal, not some damn village priest.”

Snorri shrugs as if these are just words. “Priests’ children seldom believe. No man is a prophet in his own land.”

“That sort of pagan nonsense might—”

“It’s from the bible.” Snorri stops again.

“Oh.” I stop too. He’s right, I guess. I’ve never had much use for religion, except when it comes to swearing or begging for mercy. “Why have we stopped?”

Snorri says nothing, so I look where he’s looking. Ahead of us the air is splintering and through the fractures I see glimpses of a sky that already looks impossibly blue, too full of the vital stuff of life to have any place in the drylands of death. The tears grow larger—I see the arc of a sword—a spray of crimson, and a man tumbles out of nowhere, the fractures sealing themselves behind him. I say a man, but really it’s a memory of him, sketched in pale lines, occupying the space where he should be. He stands, not disturbing so much as a mote of dust, and I see the bloodless wound that killed him, a gash across his forehead that skips down to his broken collarbone and through it into the meat of him.