Chapter 19:

Saladin looked at me with no recognition in his eyes, but I remembered him. He was the one who beat me on my second day in the Lesser Hall. The first time I had made it to the seventh round. Then he had fought with Bjorn, his friends, against mine in the hall that night.

I only knew his name because Bjorn had used it to insult him. Called him a coward, though I didn’t think that was true. Superior, smug for sure, but I didn't think there were many cowards in Valhalla. Maybe a coward was just a different standard here, but I wouldn't consider them such. But man, this guy rubbed me the wrong way.

Neither of us moved to start. I think he was trying to place my face and remember me, but I was waiting, counting a few seconds to make sure I wasn't about to do anything stupid. As I let my emotions come back under control,

"Bjorn advanced before you did," I called.

He blinked, "Oh, that's who you are. I had forgotten about you. Someone so insignificant. What trick have you used to get so far this time? I still remember your dishonorable two-sword approach when we last crossed paths. It didn't help you then, and whatever you have won't help you now."

I thought about the dagger tucked behind my belt. I think it would help me, but I'm also pretty sure I didn't need it.

"I don't need anything special to beat you. You just got me on a bad day last time. I think you'll find that this is much better," I said as I spun my halberd in a fancy arc, showing off my newfound control, balance, and poise.

He looked but didn't seem so surprised, judging based on how he was holding his halberd. He wasn't a specialist with it, but he managed to make it into the 12th round. It was impressive, and I honestly wasn't sure why he hadn't moved on with the sword. Perhaps the level of skill with the sword, on average, was higher in Valhalla than with a halberd. That would explain why Jonas, who was regularly in the 8 to 10-round range, had managed to make it out with the halberd with little to no problem. Still, I wasn't going to underestimate Saladin.

His speed was about equal to mine, which, without any sort of assistance from the divine, was very impressive. But I guess I couldn't rule out the fact that he, too, was favored by a god. I highly doubted it was Loki, though. But what other god would support someone wearing the fine silks he was? I'd be curious, but now wasn't the time to ask. Now was the time to show that smug prick that I wasn't going to just lie down and let him beat me. Not this time.

I walked forward at a casual pace, not particularly concerned or holding my weapon in a guard position. I found this sort of approach was the best way to mock someone like Saladin, to not even take him seriously. It wouldn't bother him at first, but once I started to win, it would bother him even more. And that would be even better.

He approached slowly. It was cocky, but he didn't approach me as casually as I did him. He held a solid guard position and moved his feet in a practiced rhythm.

When we got close, he opened with a fluid strike. It looked graceful to someone who didn’t know what they were doing, but I could see that it wasn't perfect. The elbow was a little out of place, and he hadn't put enough momentum into it. The power was not even a threat.

With the low speed, I casually deflected it in the flashiest way I knew how. I let go of the halberd with one hand, put my palm against his blade's side as it went by, and pushed it off into the sand. Stepping back, I gripped my halberd and held it up into a high guard.

"You're gonna have to do better than that," I taunted. He looked at me and just snarled and came at me again, this time with a thrust much more measured and controlled rather than weak. But he still didn't overextend. It was fine. I didn't let go this time and simply slipped to the side and smacked his wrist with the haft of my weapon.

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"That could have been the blade," I told him. He would have been down a hand already. "Man... Pathetic . That's what you said, right? What a disgrace."

He backed up and circled warily, now fairly sure that he was at least outmatched in skill. When he opened his mouth to speak, I attacked. A simple thrust that I had been practicing all day, perfectly executed and timed. He tried to knock it aside, but that left him open, and I, with a quick turn of my wrists, turned the movement into a downward slash that cut open his quad.

He howled as he stumbled back, blood running down through his silks. "I don't understand," he hissed, finishing the thought he'd been about to say. "Why were you using two swords? If you can fight like this? Why bother?"

I shrugged, not feeling the need to explain myself at all. When I came in, he tried to counterattack, but with his bad leg and poor balance, he again fell short of the force needed to be able to push me out of my rhythm as I batted to the side a couple of times. A few more times, I rapped his joints with the haft and put another cut in his other leg.

He stumbled forward, no longer having steady footing to thrust with all his might. I let go of my halberd with one hand and gripped the haft of his weapon, pulling it past me and slamming his face into my shoulder. I jumped up and checked him in the chin, knocking him backward and ripping his halberd out of his grasp.

Looking at it, I realized it was a bit of a different style than mine. I'd never really considered the fact that weapons had differentiations inside the challenges. I thought they were always the same, but like his clothes, this was more elegant and engraved. I looked at it carefully but wasn't able to determine anything special about it. Shrugging, I tossed it behind me. I doubted he would tell me anyway. But I was about to finally move on.

My unarmed opponent sank to his knees and rolled onto his back to take pressure off of the torn muscles in his legs. He looked up at me, challenge in his eyes.

"What are you waiting for?" he asked.

"I'm just savoring the moment," I said in a calm voice, my anger at him dissipating. I had gotten my revenge, and this was taking it a bit far. Now, I was going to be out of Lesser Hall, and I no longer even had to care about this. I looked up and breathed out, the tension leaving my shoulders and a smile forming on my face. For the first time in a long time, it felt genuine.

Was Valhalla proper going to be any better? No, probably not, but it would be my ticket to learning more and maybe finding a way out. But looking down at my defeated opponent, I couldn't lie to myself. Not anymore. While I still really didn't want to be here, I wouldn't choose to be here, it was starting to grow on me. The life-and-death struggle. The power, the skill, the training. I wasn't a huge fan of the feasting and the boisterousness, but getting stronger and crushing my enemies? Well, that was fun.

Walking forward, I raised my halberd high and brought it down, ending the final challenge of my time in the Lesser Hall. The second my blow finished and my opponent was defeated, the blackness of the arena around me faded.

Looking around, my gaze traveled up into the stands of a massive arena built of white stone. It was filled with cheering people of all types. They were an even mix of men and women. Most were of some sort of Nordic heritage with the markings, but no more than a plurality. Others looked to be Greek or African, as they all seemed to welcome me into the proper halls of Valhalla.

I looked around, stunned, and was shocked at the fanfare where all the final bouts were watched with such fervor. How many people were in Valhalla such that so many people came to watch me, the least proven of all of them, fight? And how many people moved on each day? Were they really here watching my bout, or were they just skeptical of all the bouts? Looking around, I saw that I wasn't alone. A couple dozen other people were in the arena in their own circles around me.

Huh? I guessed these were the other people who made it into Valhalla today. My cohort. Looking up at the stands, I realized what a good thing it was that Loki had managed to get me not to use my dagger in the final fight. If everyone was watching, if it was recorded, someone would notice that, and I would be starting off Valhalla with a reputation that was not useful.

Looking around, I saw a portcullis on the side of the arena floor open, and a man with long hair and a blond beard strode out carrying a heavy Warhammer. The strain made the muscles on his arms bulge, and lightning crackled from his eyes.

"Welcome. Welcome to Valhalla, my faithful friends," Thor roared as the crowd noise drowned everything out. All I could do was stare as the god gave us a performative flourish.