38. A Second Fire
Rist did not seem very pleased after Tryg asked her to recover the bag he had lost inside the dragon. However, after making sure the beast was dead, she helped him, returning a few minutes later even filthier than she had already been.
Rist was an experienced warrior, but apparently even she felt a little disgusted at being drenched in viscous dragon blood and drool. And, despite everything they had gone through that day, the sight was too comical for Tryg not to let a small chuckle escape.
Fortunately, the Valkyrie was too far away to hear him. She walked over to him, brushing off part of the filth with her hands, and took long enough for Tryg to clear his throat and recompose a serious, thoroughly unamused expression.
“Here,” she said, tossing the bag to him. “I recovered some of your things, but I didn’t find the flask you mentioned.”
“I see... Well, thank you anyway,” he said, rummaging through the damp leather bag. “It would be a pain to make fire without my flint.”
Rist stood still for a moment, silent. Until then, neither of them had mentioned what had happened a short while ago. Although part of the tension had been eased by her final decision, there was still a certain weight between them.
“How is she?” she asked.
Looking at Rist, Tryg saw that her attention was fixed on the fox sleeping beside him, without anger, without resentment. He followed her gaze and sighed.
“Better, thanks to the flask you gave me.” A smile. “You probably saved—”
“I know,” she interrupted him, crossing her arms and quickly turning her face away. It was no surprise that Rist still felt uncomfortable about having saved Sinmara. But, at least, she no longer seemed to look at them with that hateful stare. That was a start.
Rist turned her back and began walking toward the dragon again.
Tryg raised an eyebrow. “What are you going to do?”
She stopped and looked at him over her shoulder. “I’m going to get some meat. My food is almost gone. Why?”
“Hmm...” Tryg started rummaging through his bag again, remembering the farewell he planned to give The Pale One and its ward. “I could share my food with you.”
Rist looked at his bag, smeared with drool and blood, then lifted her head. “I’m not eating anything that’s inside that disgusting bag.”
Tryg gave a chuckle. “What’s wrong with a few drops of drool, Lady Rist?... Ah, forget it. Looks like the dragon also ate my food,” he concluded, closing the bag.
He had his other equipment, including his flint and canteen, but that would still be an inconvenience. He had no desire to desecrate The Pale One’s body. However, if the Valkyrie’s food was running out and his had vanished, there was no other viable choice.
“Never mind. Go ahead.”
Looking at The Pale One, Rist made a discreet grimace of disgust and left.
That isn’t the only option, actually, Tryg thought, turning toward the open corridor in the distance, shrouded in dense mist. He could also continue his journey through the labyrinth until he found enemies he could eat — some Tatzelwurms or Gulons, for example. But there would be no point in doing that, since he probably would not be able to return to cremate the bodies. Besides, and more importantly...
Sinmara was still unconscious. Yes, she had improved and would probably take a few days, perhaps weeks, to wake up this time. Tryg would have to move forward sooner or later. Even so, he wanted to wait until he was more certain that his relief would not be something fleeting.
Tryg exhaled and, resting his head against the wall behind him, raised his gaze to the misty midafternoon sky of Niflheim. The dull sun did not do a good job illuminating the realm’s frozen expanses, nor warming them. Thinking of that, an icy shiver suddenly ran through him from the nape of his neck to his feet.
But Niflheim’s cold had nothing to do with it. It was just that Tryg’s mind was crowded, processing several important things at the same time... and dark ones.
There was the fact that The Pale One and the Raven Keeper had died outside the labyrinth, and Sinmara’s suspicion that it meant something beyond a simple, dreadful fate. If that were true, the only explanation for someone going after them would be to gain access to the Raven Tree. But why would anyone want that?
Maybe to use the ravens...? he thought, crossing his arms. Well, whatever the reason, it’s useless for me to worry about it while I’m trapped in this place. I’ll leave that problem for future Tryg to handle.
For now, he set those conjectures aside and lowered his head, until he found the Valkyrie. Now she was skinning the dragon’s tail so she could cut some pieces of meat.
Despite the wear on her golden armor and her battered appearance, most of Rist’s wounds had been healed. However, the most serious ones still plagued her... including her injured wings. Even after drinking two flasks of Idunn Fruit juice, she herself had confirmed — without facing the pain of spreading her majestic wings — that she had not recovered her ability to travel between realms.
It was a shame Rist could not transport herself to Midgard or Vanaheim. And it was also a shame that Sinmara was unconscious and had worsened. If the queen were well enough, she could take them out of the labyrinth to the Idunn Tree and heal the Valkyrie with some of its fruit. Afterward, Rist could transport herself from there and seek help that could rescue him.
Not that Tryg would risk leaving the labyrinth merely because of a promise that Rist would help him. For better or worse, he did not trust her that much... at least, not yet.
And besides all those problems, there was one more worrying than the rest... the worst of them all. A dark fact that gnawed at his brain and squeezed his chest with the weight of a mountain. Tryg exhaled again and lowered his gaze until he found the white fox beside him.
Sinmara. The fallacy she had been telling him and insisting was true. She always repeated that she would be fine. She said nothing bad was happening or would happen to her, that Tryg did not need to worry about her well-being. All lies. Perhaps the cruelest lies anyone had ever told him in his life.
The increasing number of times she fainted. The growing amount of time she spent unconscious. And the fading rhythm and brightness of the flaming heart she had received from Surtr.
Sinmara did not merely feel pain when she performed her magic, nor did she have some simple illness... She was dying. He was certain of it.
And every time she transformed into a fox or returned to her giant form; every time she used one of her spells to help him; every time she transferred one of her magics into his body... Sinmara was choosing to trade her remaining days for him, risking her life for him.
Damn it all, Tryg thought, frowning. He was angry with himself... and with her. How could she have been so careless with her own life? How could she not have told him anything for so long? Sinmara already knew how important she was to him, that Tryg would not accept her risking her own life just to make his path safer and his journey faster. He would never make that trade, not in a million years...
And that was exactly why Sinmara had lied. She did not want Tryg to get hurt. She wanted to make him strong, powerful enough that he would not suffer or need so much time to fulfill his goals — returning to Midgard, finding his mother again, and saving her. But she knew he would not allow himself those luxuries if he knew the grave consequences they would have.
Tryg clenched his fists so tightly that he almost pierced the glove he wore and drew blood from his own hands. What a swindling teacher I ended up with... he thought, suppressing the tears that wanted to gather in his eyes, watching the slow but living rise and fall of her vulpine chest.
Love this novel? Read it on NovelFire to ensure the author gets credit.
“If you dare die,” he whispered, “I’ll make sure to haunt your soul for the rest of my days.”
Taking a deep breath, Tryg relaxed his fists. He would not allow Sinmara to worsen again. This time, he would not be so soft, and he would convince her one way or another to stop pushing herself so hard. He no longer needed her to transform into a giant to train him, nor to engrave magic onto his body. He no longer needed her help, not while her condition remained unresolved.
One more thing to think about... I just hope that damned workshop has the answers I’m looking for.
Now, besides his mother, his teacher also needed saving. Tryg felt that his time had grown much shorter, and that was somewhat overwhelming to think about. So he decided: the next day, his journey through the labyrinth would continue and, however long it might be, each of his goals would be fulfilled. He would not fail to keep his promises again.
Tryg stood, bracing himself on one knee. Then, at last, he noticed — or rather, remembered — just how filthy and foul-smelling he was. He urgently needed a bath. But for that, he first had to make a fire to heat water. Ah, and to prepare dinner. His stomach was growling louder than old Jorg while he slept, since he had not had lunch yet.
Hearing slow footsteps approaching, Tryg turned to find Rist returning with her Valkyrie helm and some pieces of dragon meat in her hands. Well, to be honest, “some” was too little for what he saw. She must have gathered enough for almost two weeks.
Tryg raised an eyebrow. “Why all this?”
Rist dropped the helm and the bloody pieces onto the snow. “You said you were out of food, didn’t you?”
He blinked, then smiled. “Yes, I did. Thank you.”
Now that he stopped to notice, Rist needed a bath too, and a very long one. She was filthier and smellier than he had ever been.
“I’m going to make a fire so we can roast the food,” he said, taking his flint from the bag. “I’ll also heat some water to take a... What is it?”
Rist was staring at him with a strange expression and... even a slightly eerie one. Were those stars in her eyes?
“Ah.” She cleared her throat. “Forgive me. It’s just been a long time since I’ve eaten anything roasted.”
That made sense. Rist had been eating raw meat to keep herself fed when they met. She had probably been eating it since the beginning. But, if everything went well, that was now in the past.
Having the Valkyrie with him from now on left him excitedly hopeful. Tryg had not yet asked if she would join him, and perhaps it was too early to assume anything. But what other option remained for either of them? They both needed each other to find their families again, especially now with Sinmara’s limitations and not a single drop of Idunn Fruit juice left.
Turning his back to Rist, but always keeping Sinmara in the corner of his vision, Tryg began collecting some roots, smiling, even as he tried not to let himself get too excited about the future.
Later, once the fire was ready, Tryg left some skewers of meat roasting near the flames, along with his canteen full of snow so he would have water to drink and wash himself. He could use the snow directly, as he sometimes did, but anyone would rather clean themselves with warm water.
There was only one problem...
“Hmm, Lady Rist...” he began, embarrassed, scratching the back of his neck. “Could you give me a little space? I need to clean myself.”
She blinked a few times, sitting on the ground, before nodding and turning her back to him. “Feel free.”
“Thank you,” he said, grabbing the canteen and standing. “Please make sure the meat doesn’t burn too.”
“Right.”
Tryg moved away and, a few steps from the sleepy fox, began removing the unnecessary parts of his armor until he was wearing only his leather pants. Even though he was resistant to changes in temperature, the freezing cold of Niflheim still made him shiver a little.
While Tryg was finishing washing himself, his ears suddenly caught something moving behind him, an almost imperceptible noise, and he turned quickly. But there was nothing; only Rist’s back as she sat cross-legged, her short blond hair lit, gleaming with the flickering flames.
“The meat, Lady Rist,” he warned.
“Ah. Yes, of course.”
Clean and more comfortable, he put on his wet shirt and settled near the embers, as did the rest of his clothes. Rist took advantage of the flames to heat water in her own canteen and asked Tryg to give her privacy as well so she could wash herself.
“Of course, go ahead,” he said, turning his back.
“Thank you.”
He stayed there watching the food and took a few gulps of water to quench his thirst... and to distract himself a little. It was rather difficult to concentrate on anything with all that noise.
A moment or two later, to the relief of Tryg’s mind, Rist returned, clean and with wet hair. The two sat facing each other and, as the last reddish hues of late afternoon faded away, enjoyed the roasted dragon meat they had prepared, without exchanging a single word.
She tried to hide it, but Tryg managed to notice her delight with the meal. It was, strangely enough, better than anything he had tasted inside the labyrinth... besides the Idunn Fruit juice, of course.
By the way, Tryg felt a little embarrassed by the decorum Rist displayed while eating her meal, nothing like his crooked peasant manners. So they teach table manners to a Shield Maiden, but not how to light a damned fire?! he thought, curious as always. Tryg even considered asking about the Valkyries’ training, but, again, he still thought it too early to bring up anything about the past.
Later, fed and with his thirst quenched, Tryg began his physical training sessions. His senses, attentive to the Valkyrie, noticed her visibly staring at him a few times. She seemed to be analyzing what he was doing, for some reason, while nibbling on a few more pieces of meat. She's not studying me so she can kill me later, right...? he thought, shuddering slightly.
After his last set of sit-ups, sweaty and panting, Tryg moved on to magic practice first, striking certain distant targets with ice stalactites, measuring the timing of each of his spells and growing even more accustomed to the tremendous pain each magic caused in his body.
Tryg stopped for a moment to rest and stretch his body, then, finally, went through each of the swordsmanship exercises Sinmara had taught him, including those of her own style, but mainly those of Surtr’s. In that moment, he even thought about inviting the watchful Rist to join him.
He had to admit that the prospect of her company was not the only thing that had made him excited. After all, she was a Valkyrie, trained by years of service and war in the name of the gods. Her experience would certainly help him hone his combat skills, especially now that Tryg would no longer allow Sinmara to transform into a giant.
However, he soon set the idea aside. Maybe further ahead...
When he finished everything, although he had overcome only the challenge of a single chamber, Tryg felt tired. That day certainly had demanded more from him than he had expected and placed new heavy burdens on his shoulders.
“Finished already?” asked Rist, sitting near the embers.
Twilight had passed, and night had already fallen upon them, bathing them in its brilliant moonlight.
Tryg narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean ‘already’? I’ve been training for hours.”
She shrugged. “You’re a god. You could spend the whole day training without getting tired.”
“Well...” He fell silent at once.
Rist would be correct, that is, if Tryg were in fact a complete god, so to speak. But while his mother’s lies hovered over him, his divine capabilities would remain restricted. Which, of course, he would not reveal to Rist. It was not a good idea for her to know his weaknesses, and that was a truth that, unlike the fall of Asgard, he could keep.
“That’s all I’m doing for today. A lot happened, and all I want now is a good night of sleep.”
Rist sighed. “Me too...”
She rose and began preparing a distant place to sleep, arranging her belongings and gathering a mound of snow that, a moment later, she used to support her head and lie down with her back to Tryg. His eyelids grew heavy. He wished that distance between them were not necessary, but they both knew that was not the case.
Tryg walked through the chamber, pulling out and cutting a few more pieces of root, and approached the Valkyrie. She looked at him while still lying with her back turned.
“Excuse me,” Tryg asked, dropping the wood near her to make a second fire.
“You don’t need to do that,” she said, watching him arrange the roots and then strike sparks.
“I want to do this. You gathered food for me; this is the least I can do.”
Rist straightened, sitting up, hugging her knees. She stayed silent, staring at the growing flames Tryg was blowing on, her honey-colored irises reflecting the burning light.
For an instant, he fondly remembered the nights he had shared with Sinmara around campfires, exchanging stories and memories. He missed those moments. The absence of his teacher made that recent past seem as if it had happened an eternity ago.
“Lady Rist,” he began, hesitant, “what do you think about joining me and my teacher?”
Rist did not answer, nor did she move.
“Maybe it’s too early for this, but... I intend to start moving through the labyrinth again tomorrow morning. And since both of us need to find a way out of here, I think it would be more advantageous if we joined forces.”
She remained silent for a while longer. Then she sighed and finally answered, “I still don’t know what I’d choose if I had another option... but I don’t. None of us do. We won’t be able to survive much longer without each other’s help.”
“I agree.” A hopeful smile. “And I think that, with your strength and prowess, and with my... well, my survival skills, I think we’ll manage.”
Rist managed a smile too. Small, restrained, but notable. “I think so.”
It was good to see her smile, even a little.
“Then it’s decided: early tomorrow, we'll move forward together.” Satisfied, Tryg stood and nodded. “Have a good night, Lady Rist.”
“Good night,” she replied, lying down.
He was lying, and Rist probably was too. Neither of them intended to sleep that night. In fact, Tryg would likely spend a few nights awake until Sinmara woke and could take turns keeping watch with him... or until his distrust faded enough.
It’s going to be a long night. Sighing, Tryg began walking away. However, halfway through, he stopped upon hearing a low voice, almost as imperceptible as the smile the owner of that whisper had gifted him earlier.
“...And thank you...”
Right after that, Tryg resumed walking, pretending he had not been completely stunned by what he had heard. Fortunately, his back was turned, and he did not need to contain the widening of his eyes... nor the smile that formed on his lips.
Perhaps it was a thank-you for the fire he had lit or the food he had cooked. But Tryg wanted to believe, decided to believe, that there was something more behind that simple thanks.
Rist clearly still did not know what to do. She had no idea what she would become. Probably, a part of her was still whispering in her ears that she was making a mistake. Yet, despite that, she had thanked him. An uncertain thanks, true. But thanks all the same.
Tryg stayed awake all night.
Rist, however, was overcome by sleep, and dreamed of her sisters.