Chapter 1: Valhalla

Author's Note: This is a Frozen Fanfiction Sequel Series that is set about a month after the events of the movie, although there are multiple sections that are set in the past.

I'm taking a different approach to fanfiction compared to what I've seen in this community. There will be a major focus on original characters, but not to worry - you'll be seeing a lot of the movie's cast as well.

Feel free to stick around and share this experience with me. I'll be trying out a few different techniques, and I hope you guys like them. Please Review. All criticisms and comments are welcome.

Disclaimer: I do not own Frozen, any of its characters, settings, or songs.


"In all your blind folly you do not see. Those who would wield magic are the greatest threat to mankind. And they forever will be, unless we gather our men, gather our ships, gather our swords and gather our spears under one banner, and wipe them from the face of the world in one fell sweep."
- Emperor Atin Baelon, Commandant of the First Inquisiton


Valhalla - Outskirts - 21 Years Prior

It did not matter how brightly the sun shined; the day did not feel like summer. The first winds of an early autumn had already arrived, so strong that they made the forenoon as cold as wintry night. The endless sea of wild grass swirled to their lead, tossed like the waves of some far ocean.

Sir Isaac sat at the bottom of a hill, huddled in his deerskin cloak and warming his hands by the fire. Upon his breast was a silver heron, the proud sigil of House Pry. He was a young man, with coarse brown hair that hung down to his neck, and features that some would deem desirable.

Three pieces of roasted pork sizzled in the flames before him, and he licked his lips hungrily. They had not eaten for two days and a night.

The figure standing beside him was a giant of a man. Ritchie of Calloway's great single-headed axe hung loosely on his belt, rattling as the winds rocked it gently. Sir Isaac was a strong fellow, but nothing of comparison to Ritchie. The man had the muscles of an ox, and the frame of a bull; his arms were the size of barrels.

But an empty stomach could quell even the most formidable of men. Ritchie watched his breakfast intently with his jawline tight, and his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

Sir Isaac glanced over at their horses, making sure that they were accounted for. The two animals were tied to a stake at the base of the hillock, and they grazed silently, grateful for a brief respite.

"He's been gone too long," grunted Ritchie.

"Give him time," Isaac said, and they spoke no more.

They sat quietly around the fire, waiting, until the sound of galloping hooves began to surge over the moaning of the wind. Sir Isaac turned his head, just in time to see a rider appear from the top of the hill. It was the third of their party, a countryman from Arvadia, and their scout.

"We have little time!" Lucan shouted as he crested over the hill and slowed his garron to a trot. "They will be upon us within the hour."

"How many did you see?" Isaac asked, rising to his feet.

Lucan was panting heavily, exhausted from his ride. His mount had been driven so hard it wheezed with pain. "There were too many banners to count. Their vanguard must number more than a hundred thousand strong."

"It is a wonder their outriders did not chance upon us," Ritchie said, his voice deep and rumbling.

Sir Isaac turned to him. "It is a wonder we did not see their vanguard sooner," he replied. All thoughts of food had left him as he sifted through his mind, trying to make sense of the situation at hand. As the only one of noble blood, he had full authority over his companions. Their next step was his decision to make.

"We ride for Valhalla immediately," he finally said.

Ritchie looked at Lucan, who was gulping air desperately. "We will not make it. Lucan must rest. Better to move for the Northeastern Outpost, and inform the commander there."

"If we do, we shall lose half a day's journey. They will be at Catcher's Rock by then."

Ritchie's eyes were still on Lucan, whose breathing still had not slowed. "Our horses must be given respite," he argued. "They cannot run for an entire day."

Isaac dismissed his comment. "We are three, and they number by the thousands. Outdistancing them will be no problem." He unstrapped his sword and tossed it aside. "We will need to ride hard. And fast. Rid yourselves of anything that will slow you down. Valhalla is a day away."

He could see that there was disagreement on Ritchie's face, but the burly man relented. The great man moved toward his horse - a garron larger than Lucan's, and shed the huge axe from his belt. Sir Isaac doused the fire before mounting his own steed as well, a black destrier that dwarfed his companions' garrons. "Are you fit to ride, Lucan?" He asked the man.

The scout was tired, but he gave a confident nod. "I can go as far as we need to." Ritchie regarded him in disbelief, but said nothing. Sir Isaac ignored the big man's doubtful looks, and slapped the reins of his horse.

"Ride!" He commanded them, and they were on their way.

The riders moved as swiftly as they could, thundering between the hills with Lucan at their lead. The cold winds bit into the faces of each of them, and clusters of grass kicked up by their horses harried their vision, but for a few hours they did not slow, until Sir Isaac's warhorse began to give. Unaccustomed to sprinting long distances, the destrier had started to tire even sooner than Lucan's overworked mount. No matter how much Sir Isaac urged it on, its powerful legs lost their quick and long stride.

Lucan slowed his steed to meet that of Isaac's, and brushed the long, dark hair from his eyes. "Shall we continue on, Sir Isaac?"

The knight shook his head. At two and twenty years of age, he was not a veteran rider, but he knew that his mount could not travel further at this pace. "My horse will not keep up. We will have to be delayed."

"And what of Valhalla?" Lucan asked. "We may be too late."

Sir Isaac examined Lucan's garron. The horse's chest was heaving frantically. It would falter soon as well. In front of them, Ritchie stopped his horse and waited.

"Ritchie," Isaac called out to him, "our horses cannot continue much further. You will have to go alone to Valhalla and warn them."

But the large man had seen something. He shook his head. "It matters not. We have been discovered." He pointed to the horizon. A group of figures were descending upon them quickly, riding over and down a hill nearly a hundred yards away.

Sir Isaac cursed. "Outriders?"

Ritchie nodded. "Carrying the banners of Stonehill."

"We should flee," Lucan suggested.

"Their horses will overrun us before long,"said Ritchie grimly. Isaac saw the truth in his words. The outriders would have the fastest and most resilient steeds possible.

"Their main is large enough," he said. "It will be difficult for them to judge friend from foe. Perhaps we may pass off as one of them." Isaac wheeled his horse slowly to face the incoming riders, as did Lucan and Ritchie.

The outriders, numbering two dozen men, approached and halted a small distance away. Half of them had fitted arrows to their bows and eyed the three men warily.

"Greeting, friends!" Sir Isaac called, hoping that he sounded friendly enough. "We hail from Whitecastle!"

The leader of the band trotted forward. "I did not receive word of any further expeditions other than our own," the man said curtly. "My men have no time to waste. What is today's word?"

Isaac glanced at his companions, his heart pounding. Lucan was staring at the ground, all hope lost from his eyes. And Ritchie, Ritchie the Robust, Ritchie the Brave, Ritchie the Fighter, was shaking with fright.

I am a fool. Such a fool. We should have made for the Outpost. Isaac smiled nervously and tried again. "Surely there is no need for-"

"What is the word?" The outrider asked again sharply. He raised his hand, and the other riders leveled their bows threateningly.

Ritchie spoke up frantically, his voice trembling. "My lord, there is no cause for concern. We are on your side. Perhaps-"

The outrider swung his arm down, and an arrow punched into Ritchie's chest, sending the man sprawling onto the grass. Two riders placed their shafts into Lucan's belly, felling him as his horse screamed frantically. Sir Isaac shied his steed to the side, but his destrier was pierced by an arrow and the wailing beast threw him to the ground. It cried in anguish and stumbled away, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. Isaac felt his left elbow shatter as he landed with a crunch.

He struggled to rise, but his body felt too weak, and too cold. There was another cry as the leader of the outriders drove his spear into Ritchie's back, and the strongman's body went lifelessly limp. Isaac watched as an archer shot a third arrow into moaning Lucan's torso, silencing him.

A fool. I am nothing but a fool. An arrow slammed into his side, and he saw no more.


Valhalla - The Council of Five - 21 Years Prior

Gareth could not believe what he was hearing. "The armies of the Inquisition are outside our gates, hurling fire upon the city! How can we stand by and watch?"

The Council of Valhalla sat in their places of arrangement, on chairs crafted from ruby and sapphire. They were chosen to be protectors of Valhalla, to rule with wisdom, and to judge prudently. Yet now Gareth doubted if they were of any use.

Councilor Dagon was a decrepit man of seventy years or more, with a set of long, white whiskers and a voice that sounded like grinding steel. "Valhalla is impenetrable," he rasped. "No army has broken its walls for a thousand years. They cannot touch us."

"They are destroying the outer rings as we speak," Gareth said incredulously, his voice echoing loudly off the grand marble walls of the Council Chamber. "We must sally forth to meet them!"

"They must have hundreds of thousands of men," Councilor Zahar boomed. "We cannot hope to quell this invasion by an outward attack."

Gareth stepped forward, his robes flowing. "Does the Council not have faith in its Sentinels?"

An elderly woman dressed in a golden gown, her graying hair tied behind her head, rose from her seat. "The Council does not deny that your talents are worthy, Gareth. But the Inner City is much too important to risk sending our Sentinels for a counter-strike."

The other councilors murmured in agreement. Gareth was astounded. "They are your people! The Council swore to protect them!"

"The Council has made its decision, Gareth," Councilor Dagon said forcibly. "We will not allow you nor any Sentinel to leave the Inner City. Return to your post."

"Valhalla is disgraced," Gareth said angrily.

"Enough!" Councilor Zahar roared. "You will speak no more of this matter, or be exiled from the city. Now leave!"

Gareth clenched his fists defiantly, but said nothing. He would not upset the order of Valhalla's law, no matter how absurd this Council had become. With fury in his eyes, he turned quickly and strode away.


Valhalla - The Peak - 21 Years Prior

For a thousand years, Valhalla had been a haven for all . Gareth stood atop the Watcher's Cliff, surveying the city. The sun hung high, embracing the land with its golden glow. But its beauty was for nothing.

The invading armies had destroyed everything in their path. The inner city had remained relatively untouched, but the outer rings and the Merchant's Quarter were ravaged. Gareth gazed upon the ruins far below him. Piles of corpses dotted the landscape.

So much loss. He wondered how many lives would have been saved had the Council listened to him. When the Eight Armies arrived at the borders of Valhalla, declaring war, Gareth had called for a sally. To strike first, hard and fast, he had reasoned. But the Council members dismissed his request, believing Valhalla to be impregnable.

They had proven to be fools. After fourteen short weeks of siege, the invading hordes broke through the Southern Gate and began to pillage the Merchant's Quarter. It was only when the Eight Armies arrived at the Inner Wall that the Council invoked upon Gareth the Right of Justice, but it had been too late.

By the time Gareth and his Sentinels had driven off the enemy, half of the outer ring's populace had been slain, and the other half left homeless and hungry. Gareth worked day and night quenching the fires created by the siege weapons of the enemy, and his comrades had set about their own labors - repairing the walls, cleansing the rivers, and purifying the city of disease. In a few days, Valhalla would be restored once again.

But the hearts of the people would take years to win back. Valhalla had always been a beacon of peace, a comfort to the weak, and vindicator of the oppressed. And yet, when the Eight Armies rained death down upon its people, the Council had ruled that no force be sent to protect the outer rings. The inner city was too important for its defenses to be thinned. Gareth could do nothing but watch as thousands perished before his eyes.

How far we have fallen, Gareth thought sadly. There was a time when even the highest of Valhalla's Council would stoop down to help a beggar or orphaned child. Yet the Council of old was now forgotten, and they now bickered and squabbled over their incomes and trading powers. Valhalla has grown sluggish in its wealth, and in our slumber, our enemies descended upon us.

A spearman approached Gareth, his armor clanking softly, and saluted, breaking the latter from his thoughts. "Lord Gareth, one of the Sentinels has arrived to see you."

Gareth nodded, "Send him here."

The guard gave another salute and sauntered down the hill, where a short figure awaited. The guardsman addressed him and bowed. The small person proceeded to trundle upwards. He was a blue Northern Troll, two-and-a-half feet tall, with dark green hair and dressed in a Sentinel's robe. His stout body resembled that of a smoothed rock. His legs were hardly long enough for him to waddle forward.

"You wanted to speak with me?" the Troll said.

Gareth knelt down on one knee, as he often did when he spoke to his comrade. "Before the siege, you said that you intended to return to your tribe."

The Troll gave a sad nod. "My father died five moons ago. Just as he took up the mantle of leadership when his father passed, so must I. My people look to me now."

"You have been away for twelve years. Surely they would have found another?"

The Troll shook his head. "Such is not our custom. With every day that I am not there to protect them, I fear that they will suffer the same fate as Valhalla did."

"The Inquisition has been vanquished, their Eight Armies dispersed. Your people have nothing to fear."

The Sentinel looked imploringly at Gareth. "Would you not fear for this city if you were in a distant land elsewhere? Would you not wonder if there were wicked men and thieving brigands sneaking past its gates?"

Except that there are already snakes and brigands amongst us. Gareth was silent with thought. With the Inquisition quelled, there was no longer a need for the Sentinels to keep a close guard on Valhalla. Yet, he feared of what the Council might rule next. Should the need arise, Gareth would require all the Sentinels he could muster.

Sighing, he got to his feet. " You have served Valhalla well. I would never withhold this right from you. You are free to leave, and you shall have my blessing."

The Troll bowed thankfully. "I shall remain until the walls have been repaired fully. You have my gratitude, Gareth."

"And you have mine as well," Gareth said with a small smile. He turned back to his examination of the city.

The Troll ambled forward to share the view, his stubby feet shuffling across the precipice. The sight of the ruined city pained him. "Valhalla has lost much."

"We all have," Gareth said quietly.

They said nothing for a moment. The Troll looked sadly at his friend. "I am sorry. About Mara."

Gareth turned away. In the chaos of battle and restoring the peace, he had been given no time to mourn.

The Troll knew it was a subject best not pursued. He cleared his throat. "Well, I shall be sure not to depart before the boy's birthday. I will miss him dearly."

Gareth nodded. "And he shall miss you too. Arthur has become very fond of you. It is his second birthday in a week's time."

"Then I shall endeavor to visit you and him as much as possible, before I set off. But first, I must aid the builders in completing the repairs. With your leave?"

"Until later."

The Troll hefted his robes and made his way down.