32. Give Me Strength I
After so much time trapped in that damned place, how it worked had become clear. It was simple, truth be told, but, at the same time, insidious, deadly, and impossible to manipulate.
First, the medium chambers, he thought, stirring the logs in the fire with a stick. It was in those that hordes of monsters appeared so the challenger could face them and prove he was worthy of moving forward.
The more hordes were defeated — the greater the number of enemies and the more different and dangerous they were — the harder the next challenge became, whether by number or by lethality.
Next come the smaller ones. Those in which the labyrinth, clever as it was, measured the strength of its challenger and, with that, calculated and created its next test, all while keeping him trapped and altering the arrangements of its rooms and corridors full of traps.
Of course, that did not always happen. Sometimes, when one reached a smaller room, the doors did not close and no change happened, probably because the next challenge would already test the challenger enough.
Maybe someone is watching me right now, playing with me... he thought, clenching his fists, breaking the stick in his hand. He shook his head. Imagining there was a sentient being controlling all of that was too terrifying, even for him.
Now, how exactly did the labyrinth decide how and when to change? Well, I'm not exactly sure, he concluded, throwing the remains of the stick into the fire. In the beginning, he had thought the time it took him to eliminate the hordes of monsters was the parameter. He had even tested that theory a few times, leaving one last weak enemy alive and simply keeping his distance and avoiding its obvious attacks. But he had not gotten conclusive results.
Now and then, his theory proved true and the complex did not change, or changed and presented a similar test. Other times, he was thrown into a harder room than the previous one anyway.
Finally, there are the larger chambers. After a few weeks of incessant fighting — rarely after only a few days — when he found himself in one of the smaller rooms, the doors closed, all but one, and the walls compelled him to follow the only path left into a vast chamber, swallowed by mist.
When he reached it, the doors would close, and the mist would begin to vanish, revealing what was always a monster different from all the ones that had appeared until then.
He had already faced fire and ice Trolls, who used colossal columns as weapons and were even larger than ogres; Wulvers, humanoid creatures with wolf-like traits, fur and claws as hard as steel; Bergsra, grotesque monsters that spat flammable gases and slippery little lizards; elemental Golems called Ancients, who could only be killed after their hearts, protected by tons of stone, were pierced; lesser dragons called Drakes, with thick hides and about four times his height; and more, much more.
But the worst part was not the creatures he faced in these larger chambers. The worst part was that, later, those creatures became common in the medium rooms. He needed to analyze those unknown monsters, fight them, learn each of their peculiarities, and almost die doing so, only for those same enemies to be used again and again in the next challenges, as if they were as simple to defeat as Revenants.
And to complete all the misery he had been enduring for months, there was no way to bypass the labyrinth. Believe him, he had tried. After exercising his body so much, he had become capable of leaping over the walls and taking a look at the complex.
The infinite corridors and rooms were, to his misfortune, completely covered in mist no matter where he looked, making any conclusion impossible. There was no way to know where one was going, nor where the end or the beginning were. He had even tried walking along the tops of the walls, but found nothing new. And the moment he dropped back into one of the rooms, the labyrinth adapted to him again, as it always did.
So, Tryg abandoned his habit of marking rooms, of trying to find some new pattern or shortcut, and focused on doing the only thing he could as efficiently as possible.
Train, analyze, fight, and move forward.
That was the only thing he had done for weeks, for months.
He had already faced so many different enemies that he had almost lost count. Fortunately, his new mental capabilities allowed him to store much more information than before and reason at a surprising speed. Because of that, he had not lost any relevant data. Because of that, too, he had managed to keep the count he had been keeping since he entered the labyrinth...
"1 year... 3 months... and 12 days..." he said and sighed, rubbing his face.
It was night, and a beautiful aurora borealis painted the dark skies with shades of green, blue, and purple. He was sitting in the snow in one of the medium chambers, near the fire he had made. Opening his eyes, he picked up his canteen near the flames and took a sip. Then he turned his face and stared at the fox sleeping deeply, snoring, at his side, pressed against his leg.
For months, he had been exhausted. Not physically; the fatigue he felt after a day of training and fighting no longer affected him. No, his exhaustion was mental.
Walking back and forth through exactly identical rooms, dodging exactly identical traps, facing exactly identical enemies, eating and drinking exactly identical things, only to, days later, fight a different enemy, almost die, and advance to a new place where the cycle would repeat itself again and again and again.
Train, analyze, fight, and move forward...
It was not something he liked to admit, but Tryg had already wondered whether that would ever end. Whether what he was doing truly had a purpose. Whether he should leave that place and seek other ways to reach his goals. But there probably were none. Sinmara would not have brought him there and accompanied him for so long if she knew another way to help him.
There was only one thing he could do...
Train, analyze, fight, and—
Tryg slapped his own face. Stop. He shook his head again and slid his eyes over part of the blue tattoos climbing up his arms — the magical gifts Sinmara had given him throughout their journey — remembering with a fond smile the birthday "cake" she had made for him months ago. If not for his teacher, he certainly would have lost his mind.
I need to sleep, he thought, his lips wilting. Tomorrow will be a long day...
Tryg stared at the white swords resting to his right. He slid his fingers over one of them and, upon touching its hilt, feeling the cold magic now running through his skin, closed his eyes and recited what he had been reciting to himself every night since his birthday. The mantra that always brought him back to himself:
"Give me strength, Old Jorg," he whispered to himself, squeezing the hilt with one hand and touching the fox with the other. "Give me strength, Queen Sinmara. And give me strength, Mother. Please, give me strength..."
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At last, Tryg lay down near his teacher and slept. He did not dream that night.
***
Surtr attacked his opponent with a crosswise blow, brutal and obvious. Sinmara dodged the attack, sliding her blade along his, redirecting it to the side. But the force with which he attacked was tremendous, too great even for Sinmara not to feel anything, and she lost her footing.
Noticing her stumble, Surtr attacked again, delivering a downward cut so strong that Tryg was certain it could split his teacher in half.
"Stop," he ordered.
The scene froze. Crossing his arms, he walked around the two giants fighting, analyzing specifically his teacher's position — the way her feet and hands were placed, how she held her sword. In that way, he did not even need to interpret her emotions to understand that Sinmara had, in truth, stumbled on purpose, to draw Surtr into a trap.
Tryg sketched a faint smile. That way of fighting was becoming as familiar to him as the customary smell of chamomile his mother had. He did not know if he would ever become that familiar with Surtr's style, but he hoped so too.
"And she calls my eyes treacherous... Advance."
Time began moving again. Then Sinmara did exactly what Tryg imagined she would: she gave a half-turn to the side and quickly raised her blade in an upward attack, smiling maliciously. Surtr widened his eyes, surprised, and... defended the blow, batting her sword away with an overwhelming force.
For an instant, due to the thunderous metallic clang that reverberated across the flaming plains of Muspelheim, Tryg thought the queen's pale blade would shatter into thousands of pieces. However, her weapon merely flew from her hands.
"Stop."
Now it was Tryg's turn to be stunned. He had not expected Surtr to react in time to Sinmara's trap, much less answer it with such a powerful blow. How the Hel...? he thought, then rewound the memory back to the same point where he had frozen it before. He analyzed the scene for a few moments, then let it continue.
His eyebrows rose. "He noticed..."
Sinmara followed her sword spinning through the air until it buried itself in the scorched stones. Then she frowned at Surtr and clenched her fists.
"You noticed," she said.
He nodded. "Try to be less obvious next time."
She huffed, exasperated, and crossed her arms. "Easy for you to say, old man. How can I deceive a warrior who has centuries more experience than I do?"
"First, I am not that much older than you. I have, at most, forty or fifty centuries more. Second, I have already told you how. Just be less obvious; show smaller, more discreet openings. Do you truly think I would fall for that trick of yours when I know you have already experienced the difference between our physical strength?"
Sinmara stayed silent for a moment, sulking, then sighed and went to retrieve her sword. "I suppose you are right."
Surtr let out a faint laugh. "You know, we are together in this suicidal mission, Sinmara. We have been training with each other, learning from each other for years. At the very least, I thought you would be more open to my suggestions after so long. I am to yours."
She sheathed her sword and raised an eyebrow at the king. "Can you judge me?"
He paused. Then he shook his head. "No, I suppose not. But try, at least. Killing Odin and bringing down his kingdom will be much harder if we do not cooperate entirely with one another—"
Sinmara shot forward, covering the distance of ten steps between them in the blink of an eye. She drew her sword again and placed its edge beside Surtr's neck. He blinked and stared at her weapon, ready to decapitate him.
"Still too obvious for you?" she asked.
The king blinked again, then smiled, satisfied. "No. You were perfect, I must admit. But I do not think you will manage to gain Odin's trust to deceive him during a battle. That is all."
She huffed and moved away. A few steps later, she turned to him and set her guard. "Again."
Still smiling, Surtr nodded. "Whenever you wish."
In the next instant, Sinmara advanced, as fast as lightning, as deadly and precise as the tip of a spear, her gaze impassive, focused on learning and absorbing as much as she could from the fight against her opponent.
Surtr had the same gaze as he parried and answered the queen's storm of blows. But he also had a content smile on his face. Sinmara was not liking that smile at all, Tryg could feel it. She did not understand how the fire giant could so much as lift the corners of his lips after everything he had done and caused.
But, somehow, she felt drawn to his satisfaction. After so many years training together to invade Asgard, kill Odin, and destroy the reign of the Aesir, Sinmara seemed to be growing more and more comfortable near Surtr. Their past, the similarities in their suffering, and their common enemy were gradually bringing them together. Tryg could feel that in her too...
But it was not time for him to analyze his teacher's feelings. His objective there was to study not Sinmara's fighting style anymore, but Surtr's. That was what she had asked for, after all.
A few minutes later, Tryg reached the end of the memory, his mind overloaded with the dozens of mental notes he had made about the fighting style of the king of Muspelheim. Or rather, with the dozens of memories of the notes he had already made when he studied other memories of Sinmara's training with Surtr. He had not noticed anything new.
He returned to reality confused. Tryg stared into his teacher's cerulean, vulpine eyes with a raised eyebrow. Normally, she did not give answers directly and forced him to think for himself, to reach some conclusion, wrong or not. But, this time, there was nothing to conclude.
"What?" she asked. "Do not tell me you understood nothing."
"Well, I don't think you wanted to show me how your love for Surtr deve— Ow."
Sinmara swatted his head with a paw. "Of course not."
Tryg smiled. "Right, then I certainly didn't understand. But whatever you wanted to teach me, I'm sure it had nothing to do with your husband's swordsmanship. Apart from the fact that he noticed the trap you created, I didn't notice anything relevant."
She sighed. "You will understand. One day, you will understand. Now, start practicing. You still have a long way to go before mastering Surtr's style as well."
It was a habit of theirs now, analyzing her past memories, and Tryg had learned much from his teacher's past. But he felt he could have learned more if she had shown him real battles, not only the days she had spent practicing alone or with Surtr... and falling in love with him, for that matter.
Tryg nodded and then stood up and practiced each of the movements of the fire giant's style, from the most basic to the most complex. At first, he thought it would be simpler than Sinmara's style, which was focused on precise attacks and defenses. But his presumption had been wrong.
It turned out that, after becoming so familiar with a style as detailed and precise as the queen's, practicing another so violent and swift, which depended so much on the user's physical capabilities, was a complex challenge. Not only that; keeping his exhausted mind focused on what he needed to learn was also complicated.
In any case, however slow his progress was, Tryg was doing rather well. At least, that was what he thought. His teacher, however, thought a little differently.
"Work your feet. Do not relax your grip so much when the sword finishes the movement."
Why don't you relax a little?! he thought, slightly irritated, but soon took back what he had said internally. Control yourself, Trygve.
He had to admit, Sinmara's complaints were starting to make him a little stressed. But that had nothing to do with her exaggerating; his teacher was being as harsh as she had always been, only trying to help him.
No, that had to do with his own mental state. Fortunately, Tryg was aware of that. Therefore, however exasperated he became with Sinmara, he managed to control himself — he never retorted and only accepted her suggestions. He never wanted to be ungrateful to her again.
Later, the training ended, and Tryg gathered his things so they could move on. As he collected from the snow the Gulon meat he had prepared the day before and stored it in his bag, he counted again the number of flasks of Idunn Fruit juice he still had.
Three... Tryg confirmed, frowning at the containers in his gloved hand. To be honest, it was a miracle he still had any after 15 months. If he had not chosen to slow his journey down to grow more powerful and only then progress through the labyrinth, he certainly would have already been forced to return to the Idunn Tree and start all over again... or died.
Besides, even when he was injured, Tryg avoided using his healing supplies as much as possible and merely closed his wounds with fire. It was what he had done after facing that Stalker in one of the larger chambers — a warrior half woman, half deer — who managed to pierce him with two flaming arrows.
In any case, having only three flasks was worrying. Tryg would certainly get hurt again, and he could only hope the next wounds could be treated without using the juice. And that Ivaldi's Workshop was not so far away...
He sighed and finished organizing his things. Then he checked his swords and his armor, which he had cleaned and maintained the previous day. After finishing tightening the buckles of his bracer, he followed the next corridor beside the fox. Without difficulty, they passed through the spinning saws and reached another smaller chamber, which soon closed its doors... but left one of them open.