Chapter 2.1:

Bjorn slid his sword out of my stomach and flicked it clean. My legs, no longer offering any support due to my severed spinal cord, dumped me onto the sands of the arena. I was able to control my fall just enough to land on my back, looking up into the stars.

A pretty face appeared above me with a slight smile. "Two this time. Congratulations, Miles, that was very well done." The Valkyrie said in a warm tone. "Now I get to take you to the Lesser Hall."

"Thanks, Mary." I wheezed, and I let her pull my spirit to its feet above my latest body. "It was closer than I would like, but I'm looking forward to eating inside finally."

"Yes, the mead in the Courtyard is awful," she agreed, her full black eyes twinkling. "The stuff tastes like it was made in a trash can."

The nearly six months I had spent out there haunted me as I grunted my agreement. Getting out of the Snowbank and in through the gates to the Courtyard had taken me a week. Progressing past that had eluded me though.

Her wings flapped twice as she lifted off and carried my ghostly form up into the sky. The journey passed in a blur of warped time before we reached our destination, and everything snapped back into reality.

Landing by a set of double doors flung wide, I got my first glance into the Lesser Hall of Valhalla. Sounds of revelry poured out with the warmth of the fires within. I could feel the chill that had taken up permanent residence in my bones, being slowly forced out. Mary gave me a gentle push forward before fading away. I stumbled through the doors and looked around.

Long tables ran the entire length of the hall, disappearing off into the distance beyond where I could see. Hearths pumped warmth into the room. On the benches was a great congregation of men, each one a mass of muscles and beard. They roared with laughter and drunken exuberance as toasts were made and ale downed. Various roast animals were placed every few feet along the table. Barbarians carved into them with their belt knives or tore parts off with their bare hands.

The Lesser Hall of Valhalla. It had taken me nearly six months of trying to make it in here from the cold outside. As loud and crowded as it was, at least it was warm. A meaty hand clapped me on the back broke me out of my distraction and sent me stumbling forward a step.

"Good fight! Good fight, Miles!" The volume of the congratulations in my ear left it ringing. I turned and had to look far up to meet Bjorn's eyes. Despite what the monster said, it had not been a good fight, not at all. He had soundly beaten me for the whole 15 seconds it had lasted, but I couldn't hold it against the man.

"You too, Bjorn, You too," I said, reaching up and thumping his shoulder as hard as I could in response. The dark wall of muscle didn't even flinch at the blow, his smile growing wider as he turned and grabbed two horns of mead from the hands of someone walking by.

Thrusting one in my hand, he held the other out to me, forcing me to take it. Once I had accepted the drink, he lifted his horn to the ceiling and roared. "To honor in death and the everlasting fight!"

Several others around him joined in yelling the toast before chugging the mead. He reached out and tipped my horn to my mouth, forcing me to drink as well. I gulped as fast as I could, but some still spilled out of the corners of my mouth to run down my patchy beard. About halfway through the drink, the man Bjorn had stolen the horns from realized what had happened and took offense.

A flurry of blows ensued, and surrounding revelers got pulled in. I did my best to defend myself, but eventually, a stray tankard smashed into the side of my head, and the rest of the night was rather blurry.

***

The next morning, my head pounded from the concussion I received in the brawl. Gods, I hated it here. I wasn't a real fighter, not like Bjorn or the others. My soft body had no place in these halls. I just wanted out. Waking to train for hours with bladed weapons, then going into the challenge to fight to the death, then drinking and feasting the night away 'til the next morning wasn't my idea of fun.

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I didn't know how to fight at all when I got here. The only reason I was here at all was because the broken bottle I had held in my hand as I died counted as a weapon. When I accepted the invitation to Valhalla, I had reverted to my 'prime' physique. But the lanky 25-year-old me wasn't more a fighter than the decrepit 67-year-old body I died was. Broken beer bottle or not.

My idea of fun was a nice book with a glass of fine wine, as far from bar fights and beer pong as possible. I wasn't a warrior. I was a marketing executive and grandfather, not some seventh-century barbarian who wanted to pillage and plunder.

Groaning, I rolled off the hearth I had passed out on last night and stretched. The warmth had kept the ache out of my bones, but with my head feeling the way it did, I reconsidered if the hall was worth the pain. To get back here, I would need to kill two more people tonight. Still, it was better than spending the night out in the Courtyard, drinking so as not to freeze to death before the next fights began.

Luckily, we weren't entirely static, and training would help us do better the next night. Unfortunately, everyone had access to the same training, and some had been at it much longer than I had.

Walking over to a table, I grabbed a discarded steak knife. Adjusting my grip, I started carving into the table. The rune was one of the first things I learned when I got into the Courtyard. After the rough carving was complete, I cut my palm open and let some blood drip on the table.

The blood tickled into the carving and filled it up. The cut on my hand healed as soon as it started spilling over. The blood kept welling up out of the carving and spilling onto the table. Slowly, it formed into runes that then changed to English. These numbers described me in the eyes of the gods. Or so that's what everyone said. I just thought of them as stats in a game.

Status: Tier 3: The Lesser Hall

Weapon Proficiencies:

Sword: F - 1

Spear: F - 2

Striking: F - 3

Stats:

Strength: 7

Speed: 8

Constitution: 5

My base strength had only increased by one since I got here. From what I could tell, I didn't have any way of increasing it outside of training. When the challenges switched from spears to swords, that had really set me back. When I asked around about the switch, everyone shrugged and said that the gods liked to mix it up every once in a while.

Apparently, I should expect massive shifts to the format and equipment in the challenge every few months. The last several years, it had been a single elimination tournament of some sort, but that wasn't always the case. It wasn't for us to know. As I climbed higher in Valhalla's pecking order, I might find out more.

Making my way out of the now cold and empty hall, I walked over to the training yard. It was an endless field with sandy patches used as training rings. I shoved my way toward a weapons rack, fighting the press of people ready to go train.

Reaching the weapon's rack, I picked up a two-and-a-half-foot sword. It was the most similar to the one-handed blades we used in the challenge that I could find. Ducking out of the scrum of people trying to get to the weapons, I carried it over to a free training dummy.

As I fell into the pattern of strikes and blocks that a generous, experienced warrior had shown me, the noise and people around me faded into the background. I pictured using the sword in the challenge against imaginary opponents, trying to visualize each move with detail and clarity.

The training was something that nearly everyone around here took seriously. Though not as seriously as they took fighting, drinking, and feasting, but more than anything else. The parts of life I enjoyed, like art or a nice wine, no one else seemed to care about those here.

Training seriously also meant everyone was willing to spar. I found asking a better warrior for a spar was the best way to learn. Everyone was surprisingly willing to give tips despite the fact that you might be fighting to the death later that night.

Only the ones stuck out in the snow with no food and no ale were in the mindset that telling others what was going on would hurt them. I supposed that might have something to do with why they were still starving every night. Once I got into the Courtyard and had some food. Things got better. If I survived the night's cold, I had people to train with, and I finally got some answers.

People like Bjorn were a lifesaver. Not many in the Lesser Hall would talk with those from the Courtyard on the training fields, but a few would. And they explained how things worked. Everything came down to one thing:

Do better in the challenge.