When Blake decided to study archaeology, he didn't expect it to cause his death.

He was just a history nerd from Houston who'd end up following in the footsteps of his grandfather, becoming an archaeologist. It didn't pay well; in fact, he was doing his Master's in Norse Studies and was painfully in debt. But life wasn't that bad; he was working on the discovery of the century. The excavation was sponsored by the Canadian government in the middle of Quebec. They scraped the ground for hours, collecting tiny pieces, cataloging them, and photographing every minuscule fragment.

This was the first actual Norse burial mound in the Western Hemisphere - a burial mound with well-preserved bones and textiles due to the type of terrain. This fellow had been important in the area. It was known that Leif Erickson and his gang of Norsemen had reached the tip of Newfoundland, but not so deep into the mainland, and no one had found such an established settlement and a burial mound with untold treasures. Just thinking about the implications would change history.

Here, Blake was all alone, using an advanced piece of archaeological equipment - a plastic spoon - sinking it into the ground around an armored skeleton, almost grain by grain.

He couldn't afford to damage any of the already broken pieces of pottery, nor the fragile textiles, nor whatever else was buried alongside that man. His job was to clear everything up while everyone else had lunch.

According to the sponsors, it had been hard to get the permit. Algonquin legends said that the place was haunted, and members of the team had reported nightmares and intrusive thoughts. That made it all the more fun to Blake.

Then, he stumbled upon something unusually shiny. It gleamed blindingly, almost like the sun, causing him to flinch. Weirdly, it wasn't dull nor completely covered in dust. He reached into his pocket and extracted another one of the archaeologist's favorite tools - a toothbrush. It was perfect for getting around the edges.

Blake blinked, and thought he saw an ugly face in his mind - like a ghost or an unusually pale guy. His mind was playing tricks on him again. He'd been paying too much attention to those stories. It shocked him for a second, but he gave it no more thought.

He focused on the gold piece. After all, it was made of metal; it wouldn't break, and he just couldn't resist. He reached his gloved hand and pulled it out from under the skeleton's cape.

That was when the earthquake began.

It seemed like the skeleton moved for an instant, and weirdly enough, that the burial mound was the epicenter. The iron beams around the excavation site shook, and dust and stone collapsed like an avalanche - all coming down toward him.

Shit.

The entire dig fell on top of Blake -stone, dust, and earth engulfing him like a tsunami. Pain seeped into his bones. He tried to scream, but a fistful of earth found its way into his mouth; he attempted to breathe, resulting in a horrifying sensation of drowning in earth and dust. His agony merged with fear until a sharp pain pressed into his chest, causing his ribs to collapse inward, as if they had been made of glass and shattered into a thousand pieces. The overwhelming pain in his lungs prevented him from screaming. His life flashed before his eyes. His childhood, the arguments between his parents, forceful pushes, anger, shattered plates and whiskey bottles, knives in angry hands... Tearful hugs... Grandpa Russell reading him ancient myths...

It was over in an instant.

He looked up. Was he going to heaven? Was he dreaming? What was that sound? Hooves?

A blinding light surrounded him, causing him to turn; a figure emerged from that light. A white horse with a well-groomed mane and silver adornments around its chest. Its rider was... A woman? An angel? No, it was a Valkyrie wearing plate and chainmail.

Her armor gleamed like mercury. Her hair flowed like liquid silver, catching the sunlight, and her face resembled something out of a fantasy painting, with a perfectly elegant nose and features that could have landed her a Victoria's Secret modeling contract. However, her eyes seemed both innocent and reassured, fixed intently on him.

And she smiled.

She reached down, extending her hand. Blake glanced down at his own body. The ground looked... wrong, as if covered by a fuzzy blur. His body looked much worse. There was no blood anywhere, but his rib cage had been shattered.

The woman looked down at him, dismounting from her horse and shaking her long, straight hair gracefully, reaching down to her hips.

Blake blinked, mesmerized. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Gazing at her was a pleasure, like staring at a beautiful painting, unable to look away. Her eyes radiated. She approached him, kneeling beside him.

"Come with me, brave warrior?" she said in what he could only describe as a Swedish accent.

Was she calling him brave? That was a strange dream indeed.

Blake thought he might be having a near-death experience.

She did not wait for a response. Instead, she ran an ivory hand through Blake's hair, parting it to the side, then gently placed that hand on his forehead.

"Son of Odin, may your soul be restored. Come, for your bravery, for you defied the undead, may you be rewarded in Valhalla and join us. Come, I shall use my gifts to heal you and resurrect you from among the dead."

What?

Then, Blake felt a pull in his body, as though a balloon were filling up with air, or rather, with life. It felt as though he had been scattered, and every fragment that had been separated, every broken piece of his rib cage and sternum, returned to its place. He looked up at the girl. She seemed pleased, even happy to see him. It seemed like he recognized her from somewhere.

"Eir?" he asked.

Her gray eyes shifted again toward his. Her smile widened.

"You even know my name! I knew you are versed in knowledge of the gods, but few have ever recognized me."

Blake pushed his own body upward, resting on his stretched arms and grunting. Even he was surprised at recognizing an obscure Norse deity.

"Well," he said. "I had to read about you for my bachelor's thesis. You're in the Poetic Edda, a goddess, or Valkyrie in charge of healing, aren't you?"

She smiled.

"A poem, you say? An old poem. You are as wise as you are brave, Blake Olson."

"Brave?" Blake shook his head. "And I don't think I'm wise either. But what do you mean you know about me? Are you sure you're not mistaking me for someone else?"

"No, Blake. We know you well. We have followed you from time to time, we do know who you are, and that you seek the gods, but no mortal had called my name in a thousand years."

Seek the gods? Well, if by that she meant reading the Eddas in their original language for his thesis, yes. And he had tried to be a pagan for a season when he was a teenager, but nowadays, he wouldn't have called himself a believer.

Anyway, he reminded himself, it had to be a dream.

Something echoed in the distance. Eir seemed surprised, she tensed her body and turned around. Her perfectly straight hair shook slightly.

"Blake Olson, join me now. Come with me, challenger of the undead."

"Undead?" Blake asked, taking her hand and getting to his feet, then looking around. The place where he was had a vague resemblance to the excavation site; there were mounds, there were floating lights. "What's all this? Where am I?"

"Come, you are in the world between that of the living and the dead. You must come with me quickly, we must reach Asgard."

"Sure, sure," he nodded absently. He was dreaming, he was sure, a lucid dream, he'd rather enjoy it before waking up. And what a woman, it was amazing just to look at her. Her figure was modest, most of it hidden under her armor, but she had an ethereal kind of beauty that made him just stare helplessly. He'd think the woman was out of his league, in the sense that only a legendary Valkyrie could be.

So she was Eir herself, huh? She grabbed the horn of her saddle and pulled herself up, mounting the horse, then stretching her hand toward him. He held the Valkyrie's hand and was surprised to be lifted like a child. Damn. He looked at the woman again; she looked fit but nothing outstanding, and she'd just bicep curled a 200-pound man. He took a seat behind her back, close to her.

"Hold on," she said. Her straight hair descended gracefully on her back, upon her slim figure, with tight and elegant curves. She was just perfect. Suddenly, she dug her heels into the flanks of the horse and the creature started trotting, rising up into the air. Blake gasped as they started to take flight and speed, leaning in to shyly grab her hips. The horse trotted on air as though it were the ground, flying upwards. He blinked, trying to assimilate the physics of it all.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

Something caught his eye from beneath. There were groups of lights that gathered close to each other; floating slowly, as if with a will of their own.

"Those are the living," she said, as a wave of vertigo overcame Blake's mind and he looked up again.

"Those... lights?"

"Yes," she said calmly.

That implied that he was dead. That was a dark thought. He could not help looking down again. No, it had to be a dream, maybe a near-death experience. He was sure he'd wake up in the hospital a few hours or days later.

But now he was on his way to Asgard. He looked up, curious to see what his own subconscious would conjure.

"So, I'm going to meet Odin," he said.

"Yes," she replied in that cute Swedish accent. "The Allfather is waiting for you."

Blake cleared his throat.

"Eir," he mumbled, suddenly finding it odd to be addressing a possible goddess so casually.

"Speak, fallen warrior."

"Valkyries are the choosers of the slain. Are you not? That means you chose me."

"I did," she answered, smiling with a fondness he didn't think he deserved.

He swallowed.

"Why?"

"For your bravery," she said happily.

"For my bravery? What, for digging a mound?"

"Indeed, you have been very brave. I saw your friends abandon you when you scavenged the mound of Tyrgve the Soulless."

"Who?"

"The chieftain who lies buried there. He was truly a coward and not worthy of Valhalla. His spirit wanders those lands, and even the skraeling were terrified of his curse. But you challenged him, you even dared to steal his most precious possession."

Skraeling was a name given to Native Americans in Norse sagas.

"Wait," he shook his head. Yes, he knew about the draugr, evil spirits that dwelled in burial mounds. They were not uniquely Norse, but they guarded treasures and ancient people were usually afraid to disturb their tombs.

He looked down at his hand, noticing the golden treasure he had taken from the place. The letters were in Arabic. There had been plenty of Arabic coins and treasures among the Norse, stolen or taken on their travels. But an Arabic pendant in pre-Columbian America, coming from a Norse burial, could change humanity's perception of history.

He shrugged.

"This was his treasure?" He asked himself.

He shrugged and slid it back into his pocket.

He hadn't been brave; he just didn't believe in protective spirits. He doubted any modern archaeologist did.

"There it is!" she shouted, as the clouds seemed to part into gleaming shades of gold. "Let's go, before they find us."

She pointed upward, her silvery hair gleaming. Blake stared intently at the sky, eyes wide open.

"Before who finds us?" He asked. Then, a rainbow burst into the sky—the Bifrost, bridge of legend. He was about to meet the Allfather.

"I'll tell you when we get there," she said.

Suddenly, the air seemed to drop ten degrees. Blake shivered in his saddle. His teeth started to clatter. Was it just the temperature dropping from reaching new heights?

He dared not look at the ground again.

"Allfather help us, not now," said Eir, clenching her teeth.

"Huh?" Blake mumbled, looking around.

Suddenly, white figures coalesced midair. The air seemed to freeze up, and suddenly, snowflakes started drifting in the air from all sides.

Eir slid her hand to the side and extracted a sword, stout and with a narrow crosshead of gleaming gold.

Blake asked himself why she was drawing a sword. Whatever it was, it wasn't good.

Then, the snow took shape. Blake gasped, his heart leaping as a white figure lurched at them midair. Eir pulled sharply at the reins, narrowly missing a massive sword.

Blake gasped, looking at the enormous figure falling toward the ground. In that very moment, from the corner of his eye, he noticed another giant figure leaping toward them.

"Allfather, guard me!" shouted the Valkyrie, readying her blade. "Hold tight, Blake Olson. The Jotnar have found us."

The figure looked human but paler in complexion and had an extremely muscular body, veins bulging, and fibrous sections of muscle clearly defined, like an anatomy model or a bodybuilder on a variety of substances. Both figures had long gray hair and gleaming eyes, resembling blue Christmas lights.

One of them reached a massive hand and clung to the horse's neck. In less than a second, blood exploded into the air, and Blake felt gravity pull both him and Eir toward the frozen ground.

He screamed, fear enveloping his mind once again, readying himself to die again. His back did crash against the rocks and mud, his brain rattled with the impact.

But he... He was still alive. Or was he? He got up? Eir had crash-landed near him, holding the sword in both hands.

"What happened?" he said, turning around, just as one of the Jotun glanced at him with strange blue eyes that glowed like haunted Christmas lights.

Eir jumped to her feet, taking a battle stance, sword forward. "Fight, Blake Olson, fight, for I’ve split part of my strength and healing with you."

"Fight?" he asked, just as the massive figure lurched toward him, preparing to crush him with a giant mace.

He screamed, leaping back and narrowly dodging. Now that was surprising. He had leapt almost six feet with one jump. The giant grunted, gritting icy white teeth and tensing his fists. It looked like he did not like that one bit.

Then, Blake noticed something in his own mind. He felt as though his awareness was ncreasing, along his confidence and a stream of energy he could draw upon.

"What's going on?" he asked, staring at his palms.

"It's the [Helm of Awe]. I have given you a [Blessing]. You will feel it when it's full, and when it's drained, use it wisely."

You have received the blessings:

Helm of Awe (increased reaction time and stamina +10)

Blake nodded, visualizing it like a green bar of energy. He had used a tiny bit of it, but he still felt it within him. It was like a buffer zone between his actual life force, which he visualized and quantified like an HP bar.

[Helm of Awe]: 100/100

HP: 30/35

The frost giant swung a gigantic mace at him. Blake gasped, noticing that even his reflexes seemed to become much faster. Still, he knew that the giant could easily pulverize him. And…Blake was not quick enough, he was thrown twenty feet, feeling the impact through his chest and arms, and sensing that reservoir of energy draining away from him. He crashed against the ground, rolling through the mud. When he finally came to a stop, the giant didn't give him any rest. He jumped at Blake faster than a leopard. Blake looked around. He felt he could summon another ounce of strength to escape, but then what? He looked around. Eir was fighting the Jotun, dodging, turning, leaping, and wielding her sword against that strange creature.

Blake stepped back, unsure of what to do. Was the dream going to end? Falling that hard and being thrown twenty feet away hurt like hell. He didn't want to experience that again, even if it was just a dream.

He felt something close to his leg. Looking back, he saw that he was standing on top of the excavation, which was now a collapsed mound of dust.

"You bloody coward, damn thief!" he heard a voice next to him. Blake turned in shock, finding a skeleton-like figure standing beside him, dressed in rusted chainmail and wearing a varafeld, a cape made of reindeer fur.

Blake jumped backward, suppressing a scream. "You…" Blake pointed at the figure.

"You stole my pendant!" shouted the skeletal figure, extending bony hands. He grabbed Blake by the forearm, but Blake pulled back. The skeleton collapsed to the ground with the noise of cracking knuckles. That ugly draugr was weaker than a child.

"I'm sorry, if you excuse me," Blake said, just as the frost giant jumped into the collapsed excavation site, swinging a massive fist toward Blake. He ducked.

"Now you're dead!" The draugr's voice echoed in his head. "I have killed you, trespasser, and this frost giant shall have your immortal soul."

A few feet ahead of him, the other giant was on top of Eir, massive hands pinning her to the ground, a crude sword pointing at her neck. She screamed for help.

"What the hell?" Blake shouted.

The draugr's voice echoed behind him. "And now, you won't even make it to Valhalla. You will be destroyed forever, and I will live on!"

What a damn horrible nightmare this was.

He looked at the skeletal figure in armor. The draugr was wearing a nasal helmet and… Was that a sword hanging from its waist? Blake walked toward the draugr, arms forward, deciding to use his year of Brazilian jiu jitsu training if necessary. The skeleton-like face stared at him in defiance. Blake rushed forward and slid his hand toward the hilt, pushing the draugr's hand, dragging the sword loose and holding it high.

The skeleton gasped, raising frail bones to stop Blake from releasing the blade.

It was, naturally, an old Norse sword, but well-preserved for what it was... not rusted at all. Blake had expected it to be damaged beyond repair. Well, it was a dream, anyway, anything could happen, and perhaps if he believed it enough, he could save Eir.

"Blake," Eir's voice echoed, pained and agonizing. "I will give you my last bit of health, please, please don't die, I need you." Blake gasped, looking at the Jotun, holding the sword tight and trying to control his tremors. Shit. Here we go again. At least in this dream, I won't be a coward anymore. For a dream, however, it felt all too real. The draugr kept shouting behind his back: "Give me back my blade, you damned coward, you thief. Your evil shall be cursed from here to the hell of Ice. May you be..."

The Jotun lurched at him, attacking with fists the size of puppies. Blake felt energy surge back, while in the distance, a woman cried in pain. Blake held the sword forward, forearms trembling, and the icy figure, eight feet tall, towered over him and leaned down with a powerful mace.

Whatever happened, he had to try to protect her. She was obviously stronger than him, but he should not let her be hurt like that. Blake swallowed, thinking of a strategy. Perhaps dodging and striking? Could he be fast enough?

In that moment, lightning cracked the sky.