Prologue

"I'll give you my life. That's what you want, isn't it? My soul. Take it. I'll be your slave warrior. I'll fight with you at Ragnarök, if you release him…"

Hela's single black eye stared at her, unblinking. "In order to receive, one must sacrifice." Her hollow voice seemed to come from every direction and nowhere at once. It resonated within Senua's mind and awakened her subdued Furies. "Your sacrifice is not enough to save your lover's soul. He was sacrificed to me. It takes more to bargain for his life."

A cold chill ran through Senua and her grip on Dillion's head tightened. "What more do you want?"

"You've proven yourself worthy of the gift of Odin. Not even immortals can deny their desire to lay their hands on Gramr." The hand on her rotten side caressed the shimmering blue blade. "An offering from both a mortal and the all-father himself. That is what I want."

Dillion had led her to the sword. She had gone through such pains to earn it and it had served her well on her quest to the deepest reaches of Hel. But even the strongest of weapons was mere dust at her feet when weighed against the value of Dillion's life and love.

Standing up to her full height, Senua offered Dillion's head and with the most commanding and self-confident tone she could muster, demanded: "Release him."

Suddenly a dozen undead Northmen materialised in front of her. Jumping back on instinct, Senua reached for the sword that was no longer in its sheath. But the slaves of the giantess did not move. Instead, they hung limply in the air like the many corpses that decorated Surt's throne room.

"You will need a vessel for his soul. These are men you've defeated during your short stay. Choose whichever pleases you the most."

Hesitant, Senua approached the corpses. She couldn't see any of their faces beneath the masks they wore. How was she to choose the most suitable body for Dillion? Pacing in front of the defiled men, her eye was caught by a corpse that seemed no different from the others at a glance. Taking a closer look, his mask reminded her of Valravn's bird skull-shaped face, and from the scarred skin of his shoulders and upper arms protruded feathers of a giant raven. Beneath the plumage Senua could make out a splatter of blue. But what had caught her eye was the long gash that extended from his right breast to the left side of his chin.

Senua had given the laceration when fighting him down in the Sea of Corpses. In the seemingly endless army of undead, this man had been the last one standing. At first he had appeared to be just another grunt with a longsword, but as the fight dragged on and on, he proved himself a cunning opponent. Had it not been for Gramr and its divine properties, she might've lost the battle.

"I choose him."

The skin on Hela's normally expressionless face cracked like dry clay as displeasure twisted her features. "You are certain?"

She must have chosen correctly if the giantess wasn't happy about it. Of course she would want Senua to choose the weakest, which was probably why none of the hulking keep guards or dual-wielding berserkers were among the row of corpses. "Yes."

Grudgingly, Hela took the offered head and called for Dillion's soul. The fine hair on Senua's arms stood erect as she listened to the haunting song. The air around them seemed to drop in temperature when dark mist, similar to the one Senua had witnessed on the bridge to Helheim, surrounded the giantess and swirled up towards Dillion. It evoked a sudden, raspy intake of breath from the head. Once the mist dispersed, Hela walked to the chosen vessel and as effortlessly as a potter, fused Dillion's head with that of the corpse. The Northman collapsed as if released from invisible strings. Senua rushed to catch him, but the body slipped through her fingers and faded like ash scattered into the winds.

Eyes bloodshed with grief, desperation and rage, Senua turned to the frustratingly calm giantess, ready to challenge her with nothing but bare fists. "You lied to me!"

The half-rotten goddess merely cast a bored look towards the seething Pict. "I have kept my word. He will resurrect where he first died; in the cold embrace of the North Sea. Within three months' time he will find his way to you. But be warned: the man won't recognise you or have any memories from his previous lives. However, his soul will yearn for yours and he cannot find rest or comfort in the arms of another."

Absently, Hela stroked the blade of Gramr with the tenderness of a lover before turning to point it at Senua. "Now, pledge yourself to me."

Senua felt her legs give out as if by an invisible force. The blue glow of Gramr filled her vision.

If she wants to see Dillion, she has to pledge herself to Hela!

She can't die here, not now.

"I swear... I will become your slave warrior after I draw my last breath."

A devilish grin stretched the giantess' features. "Your oath shall not be forgotten, daughter of Zynbel and Galena. Now leave, return to the world of the living and await for your lover. None shall hinder you."

He woke up to the shrieking of seagulls ringing in his ears.

He had no concept of where he was or how he got there, but the sound of the seabirds comforted him. A vague, intangible memory told his hazy mind it meant a voyager had reached his destination.

Slowly his senses returned to him, similar to a bear waking from months of hibernating. Despite lacking the strength to move a single muscle, he could feel the wet sand move beneath his immobile fingers with each tide crashing against the shore. The midday sun was warm and pleasant against his soaked form. A light pressure on his shoulder announced the descent of a curious gull. It pecked at the mop of tangled locks, but flew off at the sound of a soft groan escaping his parted lips.

"Hey!" A gruff voice called, followed by sounds of heavy footsteps kicking sand. He felt something shake his shoulder roughly, but couldn't summon the willpower to react. The sand crunched next to him as the owner of the voice crouched and stuck two thick fingers against his pulse. A hot breath fanned his face.

"Still alive, at least."

Another firm shake was enough to force his eyes to crack open. Blearily he looked up at the blurry image of silver fur and cunning, golden eyes. Was it Geri or Freki, one of Odin's loyal wolf-servants, here to collect him to the halls of his master?

"Anybody home?" Fingers snapped in front of his vision to provoke a response. So not a wolf, then. A werewolf, perhaps?

His unintelligent grunt seemed to delight the creature immensely.

"That's it, lad. Here, let me help you."

The werewolf turned him on his side. Immediately his body reacted with a lurch, pouring out excess saltwater from his mouth with surprising force. He barely noticed his hair being pulled away from his face as he continued to empty his flooded lungs.

"That's it. Let it all out", the voice encouraged.

Once he had nothing left to heave, a heavy hand patted his back in approval before pulling him up on his feet. He staggered and leant against the werewolf's shaggy shoulder for support.

"Feeling better?"

Managing a weary nod, he squinted at the creature, but its features were shrouded as it stood back against the blinding sunlight.

"How about I take you home? You can stay there until you can stand on your own two feet."

"To Valhalla?" he mumbled in query.

"To Valhalla?" the werewolf repeated, confusion seeping into its tone before replaced by a deep, hearty laughter. "Afraid Odin doesn't have room for the living. No, son. Old Agmundr's house will have to do. It might not measure to the Great Halls, but there's a warm hearth and a bed covered with plenty of pelts."

As he was half-carried and half-dragged away from the shore and the glare of the sun, he saw the owner of the voice was a mere man. A wolfskin berserker. True to his kind, the man wore a wolf's head and a shaggy wolfskin. Strapped under his belt was a two-handed battle axe. A brooch embedded with precious stones with magical properties to increase strength and endurance hung low from his neck, gently swaying with each step.

"Just beyond that hill is our settlement. They'll welcome you as long as you're willing to lend your sword arm. You can use a sword, can't you? You have the calluses and scars of a warrior."

He grunted a confirmation. Despite having little to no tangible memory of, well, anything, the idea of a sword in his hand felt familiar. He wondered whether he had lost his weapon to the depths of the sea. Perhaps he could get a new one from the village. It was good to have a goal, something to drive him forward.

One step at a time.

Following the pointing finger of the berserker, he peered towards the seemingly endless, lush green horizon where the man's home was supposed to be. The colours seemed almost too bright, as if he was used to a muted, greyscale world and eternal overcast. It was too beautiful to be real.

"Where is this place?"

"Buckquoy, West Hrossey. Welcome to the Orkney Islands, lad."

A/N:

Hrossey = literally means 'Horse island'; what vikings called Orkney's mainland

Buckquoy = land east of Brough of Birsay