Michael: Last Angel of Earth
Vanhildr: the Queens Guard

Deep in the heart of Germany, in the former capital of Berlin, the Blacksoul Stadium was the epicenter for carnage and violent entertainment. Modeled after the Roman amphitheater and made entitled out of ice and stone, Hellspawn and other nightmarish creatures gathered in this hallowed stadium to watch with excitement and amazement at the entertainment they received. The owner of such a great stadium was an elder frost giant named Wrelmir. Wrelmir was one of many frost giants who left Jotunheimr for earth many years ago. After establishing his presence in Germany, he created the engineered marvel. Since that day, he has supplied the army of dark warriors with ample gore, blood, violence, and chaos. Today’s major fight was the reigning champion against another upland coming competitor. At the arena floor, two combatants faced each other, then at Wrelmir, awaiting his command. Seated high in the stadium, the mighty Giant gave his thumbs-up, signaling the commencement. The stadium erupted in roars and cheers as many yelled to support the champion while others shouted for the competitor.

The newest gladiator was a bull, Manticore. It starred down the reigning champion. Speaking of which, the gladiator champion wore her signature armor on the other side. This armor set has a squared helm with a faceguard shaped like the face of a raven. Attached to the top was a leather piece used to secure short, colored hairs which flew toward the back. The shoulders were somewhat oval, relatively short, and large. They’re decorated with intricate gilded design patterns, possibly in the shape of a sigil. The upper arms were protected by squared, layered metal bracers, which sat well under the shoulder plates. Vambraces covered the lower arms with curved spikes on the outer sides. The breastplate was made from many v-shaped layers of leather and fur with pointed edges and decoration pieces. It covered almost everything from the neck down, narrowing near the groin and exposing some sides. Squared, half-covering cuisses wrapped the upper legs. The lower legs were protected by leather shin guards, with chainmail covering the outer sides. Thin fur pants were worn beneath this all.

As for her weapon of choice, in her hand was a schiavona. A schiavona was a type of basket-hilted sword prominent during the Italian Renaissance. Characterized by its broad, double-edged blade, it was still a powerful choice of weapon as late as the French Revolution. Like all basket-hilted swords, the schiavona was distinguished by its elaborate guard of intricately twisting metal bars. Depending on the model in question, the guard may cover the hilt, providing adequate protection for the wielder’s hand. Basket-hilted swords are also occasionally known as broadswords. The schiavona, in particular, epitomizes this name; its double-edged blade is often far wider than other basket-hilted swords. These great blades tended to be especially deadly—the perfect weapon for a fight like this.

Wasting no time, as the Manticore charged full speed at its target, it was cut down mid-leap by the reigning champion, revealed to be none other than a Valkyrie. After striking down a “green” gladiator, the Valkyrie shouted.

“Are you not entertained?! Is this not what you wanted!?” she yelled. The crowd roars with applause. She then looked up to an observation canopy, pointing her sword at the Giant.

“You’re running out of executioners, Jotnar.” Wrelmir turned to his aide and requested they try the chimera twins for the next match. As the aide left to fulfill the command, the front Giant scowled at the female warrior yet smiled for the millions of viewers watching the matches. Leaving the grounds until the next game, the Valkyrie rested in her private chambers underneath the stadium with the other gladiators. Once inside, she went to the mirror to look at herself. Looking at the reflection, her armor still held up despite the numerous matches she had to fight. Moving away from the mirror, she sat down on her bed. Removing her helmet, ginger, straight hair, tight in a ponytail, revealing a chiseled, tense face. Narrow brown eyes, set high within their sockets, stared into oblivion.

A birthmark reaching from the bottom of the left cheekbone, running toward the left side of her lips and ending on her right cheekbone, left a bittersweet memory of redeeming love. This was the face of Vanhildr, one of the last of the Queen’s guard of Asgard. She stood tall above others, despite her rugged frame. Something was enticing about her, perhaps her sympathy, or maybe it was simply her tenderness. Nonetheless, other gladiators tended to take pride in knowing her as a friend, while jealousy consumed them. She was also calm, coarse, and impatient. But there’s more than this to somebody with her ugly past.

She was born and grew up amongst the Valkyries. There, she honed her skills to become one of the Queen’s royal guards, but at that point, everything changed when she became a young woman. She lost her home when it was destroyed after a takeover by Loki and his allies. Odin and his warriors fought bravely against them, but alas, the mighty All-Father fell, along with his son Thor and Queen Frigg. As for the others, those not killed were imprisoned while the Valkyries showed their alliance with their new king. She did not and was shunned. Exiled from Asgard and banished to Midgard, she had to survive in a bizarre world. But with her strength and persistence, she overcame all odds and kept ahead of the curve. This had turned her into the woman she was today. With the past lessons, she now worked on making it in as a gladiator. By doing so, he hoped to one day buy her freedom, start life over on a good note, and maybe start a family of her own.

“Lady Frigg, let þessi munu minn final striith” (Lady Frigg, let this be my last battle), she said, looking down at her hands. Just as she was about to lie on her bed, a knock was on her door.

“Get ready, Vandhildr, you have another contender. Be ready in five minutes,” said a voice from the other side. Groaning in annoyance, she grabbed her helmet and got up.

“Nei rest fyrir wickeðrinn.” (No rest for the wicked.)

“So, how do we get into the colosseum?” said Margret. After escaping the showdown at the cathedral through the hidden tunnel Barjon and others embarked on a long journey to penetrate the heart of Germany and rescue the last person to help them on their quest. Upon arriving in Berlin, it was a far cry from the previous towns and cities they had visited. Berlin looked precisely as it did during the second world war when the Russians invaded. Toppled buildings, destroyed neighborhoods, very few people, and with the added ice, snow, and numerous Jottnar patrols, it was a wonder anyone would call this place home. Yet surprisingly, this cesspool of crime and villainy had attracted some of the worst creatures imaginable; even humans decided to live here. As they walked through the city, they realized they would find no aid there; thus, they were on their own.

“This place gives me the creeps,” said Fiona. Taking refuge in an abandoned building, the company crawled up the rubble to the second floor to discuss its next plan.

“Alright, we know Vanhildr is in the Stadium. We saw the posters when we entered the city. It seems she is the reigning champion here,” said Barjon.

“The only way into the area is an invitation,” finished Horus.

“So where do we find this invitation?” asked Margret.

“We can help with that,” said a voice. The copay grabbed their weapons and looked around for where the voice came from.

“Easy, gents, we mean you no harm,” said another voice. This one sounded feminine. Turning their heads, Barjon and the others saw two shadows emerge from the rubble downstairs. They could get a good look at them as they entered into view. One was a young male Half-orc. They were usually the offspring of humans and orcs, but they could just as well be the offspring of orcs and other beings. They were also traditionally shunned from the societies of their parents as a result of being neither fully one nor the other, thus inferior in the eyes of both. They usually shared some of the better traits, which, in the case of human and orc offspring, was usually increased strength compared to humans and intelligence compared to orcs. Standing next to Half-Orc was a young female Dark elf. Dark elves came in many different forms. From corrupted versions of regular elves to elves living underground and from elves with darker skins to elves dabbling in the darker arts. What was the same was their expertise in ranged combat and master knife fighters.

As the others aimed their weapons at the two strangers, Barjon told them to wait.

“How did you find us?” he asked them.

“We followed you as soon as you and your troop entered our fair city,” said the Half-orc.

“Why?”

“You are not the normal crowd we get in Berlin. Plus, you were obvious from the get-go,” said the Dark elf. Barjon palmed his face.

“That bad, huh?” asked Margret.

“If we could spot you, no telling what those Jotnarrs would do if they found you,” replied the elf. Barjon and the others looked at each other and then at the strangers.

“Why should we trust you?” he questioned.

“Because you don’t have a choice,” replied the Half-orc. Horus aimed his shotgun at him.

“Is that a threat?” he seethed. The Half-orc shook his head.

“No, a promise. And I promise you that if you don’t take our offer, you all won’t last an hour in Berlin,” he replied. Barjon let out a sigh. It seemed like they did not have a choice.

“Alright, we’ll take you up on your offer.” Guesting the two to come over, the Half-orc and dark elf explained to the company how to enter the stadium.

“To get into the stadium, you need an invite. The only way to get an invite is to partake in the underground circuits. They are found all over the city. However, only one has close ties to the Stadium owner, Iarr Goldteeth,” said the half-orc.

“Iarr Goldteeth?” exclaimed Ruzla.

“A Gnoll, otherwise known as a werehyena. Crafty Devils are dangerous, especially if you cheat them,” the dark elf replied.

“How do we find this, Iarr?”

“He runs tryouts at Iron Keep Asylum in the Wrowan District. The worst part of Berlin, making it a perfect hub for the worst kinds of people,” said the Half-orc.

“What can we expect when we go there?” asked Colum.

“Everything,” replied the dark elf. The company was quiet. Margret soon spoke up, breaking the silence.

“How do we earn this invite?” she asked. The Half-orc explained that they needed to win ten rounds against some of the most dangerous and vile beings to receive an invite to the stadium. It’s that simple.

“Alright, it seems we know everything. Shall we go?” asked Fiona.

“Not quite,” stated Horus. He was not hooked on this plan. It seemed fishy to him.

“What do you two get out of this? Why help us? You don’t even know who we are?” exclaimed the Egyptian prince. The half-orc let out a sigh.

“Two years ago, our parents were part of his entourage when he came to Germany. Together, they helped the front Giant conquer their country and establish Berlin as his new kingdom. After the fighting, the frost Giant began working on his next project, the stadium. It was a massive success, earning the stadium numerous forms of revenue,” said the Half-orc.

“Then what was the problem?”

“None of that money went to the army, and our parents demanded the frost giant share that wealth equally. He said he would if they beat them. Thus a match was set in the stadium open to the entire army,” replied the Dark elf.

“Our parents thought the match was fair, but the frost giant cheated and killed them in front of everyone. ” No one dares to speak out against him for fear of meeting the same fate,” finished the Half-Orc.

“And that is why you are helping us? For revenge?” said Colum. The Half-orc and Dark elf nodded their heads.

“Ok, let’s meet this Iarr Goldteeth and get that invite, shall we?” stated Barjon. Grabbing their supplies, Barjon and company and the Dark Elf and Half-orc left the wrecked building and made the five-block trip to the Wrowan District. Arriving in the vicinity, Barjon noticed that the District was much worse than the rest of Berlin. Pestilence and plague ravaged the streets. The stench reminded many of the black death that had plagued Europe. Walking through the District, they noticed a crowd was following them from behind.

“Who are they?” whispered Margret.

“People, the lowest of the low living in Berlin,” replied the Half-orc. Barjon could not stand the sight of it all. The suffering of these people and fellow mythical people was disheartening. He clutched his sword hilt every so tightly the more they walked. After walking for a few minutes, the company arrived at a massive moat, with the asylum directly in the center. The trench was filled with bog and bile, creating a disgusting smell with only a wooden bridge connecting the asylum and the rest of Wrowan.

“Is this bridge even safe to cross?” asked Horus. Taking the first step, the Half-orc and Dark elf walked across the creaky bridge.

“It’s safe now,” replied Margret sarcastically. Following behind, the company slowly crossed the decaying bridge until they reached dry land. Arriving on the other side, Barjon got a good view of the asylum. Resembling more of a castle, nine narrow, square towers dominated the skyline of this massive castle and were connected by large, vast walls made of bluestone.

Small windows were scattered generously around the walls in pretty symmetrical patterns and symmetric holes for archers and artillery. A moderate gate with colossal metal doors, a regular bridge, and large crenelations offered a “safe” home to all those in need, and it was the only easy way in. Any other side would be futile. Remnants of broken siege engines, swords, and shields litter the fields surrounding the asylum, a painful reminder of a past war. The asylum stood the test of time, it stood it well, but cracks began to show here and there.

“Impressive place; how do we get inside?” asked Fiona. The Half-orc pushed open the metal doors. The creaking of the metal echoed throughout the District. Barjon and the others noticed a lack of people inside the asylum. The Dark elf explained.

“Everyone lives underneath the asylum. They have become adapted to the darkness of the earth. Follow us,” she replied. The Dark took the company to a large fallen tower at the far end of the asylum. It marked the entrance to the dungeon. Beyond the collapsed building, the company discovered a modest, putrid room. It was covered in ash, puddles of water, and remains. The Half-orc grabbed one of the lit torches illuminating the room. In the center was an altar, destroyed and wiped out by time itself.

Further ahead were three paths before them. Following the half-orc and Dark elf down the left one, they noticed the twisted trail led past collapsed rooms and pillaged treasuries, and soon they all entered a worn area. It was filled with hanging cages that still held skeletal remains.

“What happened in this place?” whispered Fiona. Slowly marching onwards, deeper into the dungeon’s secret passages, they eventually made it to what was likely the final room. A vast granite door blocked their path. Countless odd symbols were all over it, somehow untouched by time and the elements. Margret saw a shadow under the door’s cracks as she approached to inspect it.

“We’re here,” said the Half-orc. Pushing open the door, the company witnessed the brutal world of underground gladiatorial fighting. All around them, asylum residents booed and jeered at the combatants below, who fought viciously in hopes of obtaining the invitation to fight in the stadium. Moving through the spectators, Barjon and the others made it to Iarr’s private room at the far end of the room. The Half-orc and Dark elf went first before Barjon. Knocking on the door, there was a nasal response on the other end.

“Who is it?” said the voice.

“It’s us, Iarr,” the half-orc replied.

“Do I owe you money?” the voice responded.

“You know it’s us, you Hyena bastard; open up,” retorted the dark elf. Hearing the door unlock from the other side, Barjon, and the others got their first glimpse of a werehyena. In truth, his appearance and stature were similar to that of other lycanthropes, with the additional difference that he was a hyena and not a wolf. He was also covered in gold chains and precious jewels, telling others he liked flushing his wealth. Showing a toothy smile, the Gnoll greeted everyone to come in. He grabbed a bottle of his favorite apple schnapps over to his desk and poured himself a glass.

“Nascalo Pholzaebur and her half-orc friend Thrialulkrich, what a pleasant surprise. What brings you two here to my humble abode?” Iarr said.

“We have new tryouts for the stadium,” replied Nascalo. Iarr took a sip from his glass before setting it down.

“Always direct. I like it,” he said. Turning to Barjon, he inspects the newcomers.

“You. You, and you,” Iarr said, pointing to Barjon, Horus, and Ruzla. The three beings approached the Gnoll. The Gnoll got up from his chair and inspected the three as if he were inspecting heads of beef at a cattle auction. The inspection was beginning to make the three uncomfortable, but thankful the Gnoll finished his assessment of them,

“You three seem to be in perfect health. Equally strong and clear, all fighters, each of you. You may yet survive the trials and, if you survive, be able to enter the stadium. Follow me.” Barjon and others followed the Gnoll out of his office and back into the room of the area. Margret and the others followed closely behind. Making way, Iarr opened the dirty area door and asked the three to enter. Going down the stairs, the three warriors entered the octagonal stage floor. It was a decent size arena, large enough to hold up to several fighters. Looking up, they saw the heads of the asylum residents shouting at them. They turned to Iarr, who began revving up the crowd.

“Ladies and Gentlemen of Iron Keep, we have a special for today’s extravaganza! These three wish to fight for glory in the stadium, but as customary, they must endure ten rounds of hell! Shall we indulge ourselves!?” he announced at the top of his lungs. The crowd’s intoxicating chanting was answer enough.

“Bring out our first contender. Hailing from the mazes and weighing over 5 tons of pure bovine power! Residents of Iron Keep, I present the bull of Crete, the master of Labyrinth. The Minotaur!” Suddenly the ground began to shake from the rafters, and a towering brute emerged. He grunted loudly and jumped into the area with a mighty thud. His presence shadowed Barjon and the others. A large creature possessing the body of a man and the head and fur of a bull, Minotaurs displayed massive amounts of mindless rage and anger, unable to differentiate friend from foe. It had a behavior almost similar to that of a bull, following an animal routine. The creature displayed superhuman strength, muscle mass, mobility, and durability. The beast had large bullhead with mighty bull horns and wielded a giant battle ax.

“Before we commence the match, remember the only rule in the Iron Keep. Survive!” shouted Iarr. With a snap of his fingers, the battle commenced. The Minotaur charged at the three heroes in a blaze of animalistic fury. They could barely move out of the way before being gored by those imposing horns. Unsheathing their weapons, the three heroes plotted to defeat such a powerful monster. Ruzla decided to use her powerful wigs and propel herself in the air. However, before she barely made it midway up the sides of the area, the Minotaur grabbed her foot and slammed her back down on the stone floor. Ruzla, stunned by the pain, dropped her war scye and was defenseless. Just as the Minotaur was about to claim its first victim, Horus rushed in and blocked with his mace-ax, allowing Rulza to move away. While Horus contended with the beast, Barjon took the opportunity to attack the creature’s unprotected flanks.

He cut deep into the Minotaur’s sides using his sword, causing the beast to bellow in pain. In retaliation, the Minotaur kicked Barjon in the chest, sending him flying toward the stone wall. The blow knocked the wind out of him, and Barjon felt several ribs broken.

“Barjon!” shouted Horus. The concern for his friend caused him to lose focus for a moment, allowing the Minotaur to knock the weapon out of his hand and land a solid punch to the prince’s face. Blow and teeth spilled out of his mouth. Dazed and defenseless, the Minotaur then body-slammed Horus against the wall. The prince’s armor took some of the blow, but he still felt the pain of being crushed. Coughing up blood, the prince fell to the ground in agony. Thinking he had won, the Minotaur arrogantly raised his ax in the air, asking the crowd to cheer for him. Margret, Fiona, and Colum sweated bullets back up above as they prayed for their friends to get up. Even Nascalo Pholzaebur and Thrialulkrich were concerned. As for Iarr, he was slightly disappointed. He had hoped these three would have put up more of a fight.

Back in the area, Barjon and Hours were down, leaving Ruzla alone. The female gargoyle knew she was at a clear disadvantage. Feeling the sweat drip from her hands, she tightly grasped her war scythe. Bellowing deeply, the Minotaur circled its last victim. Feeling pushed into a corner, she braced herself for whatever came next. Then, before either had a chance to react, there was a loud yell. The crowd and the combats all turned their attention to Barjon, who used his sword to prop himself up and back onto his feet despite being in terrible pain. Breathing heavily, he pointed his sword at the bovine brawler.

“Hey Torro, we ain’t done yet,” he said sharply. Exhaling through his nose, the Minotaur turned away from the gargoyle and back at the former angel. As the Minotaur fired himself up with a series of dazzling displays of authority and power, Barjon, on the other hand, was composed, centered, and balanced. It was an unfamiliar sight to many, including Margret. While the Minotaur continued his displays, Barjon took a deep stance and arched his sword slightly forward in the Minotaur’s.

Growing bored, the Minotaur charged at the former angel, who remained motionless. Everyone shouted, jeered, and booed, but their sounds fell deaf ears for Barjon. He was in another place in mind. As he closed his eyes, he recited one of many prayers he learned as a young angel trained to become an archangel.

“Nolite timere eos pugnatum est creatoris tui.” (Do not fear them, for The Creator is fighting for you.) Then, opening his eyes with such speed, Barjon thrust his sword deep into the Minotaur’s chest, stopping the monster in its tracks. The strike was so quick that no one was able to see it. Even the Minotaur was shocked. As it looked down and saw the in its chest, it grunted in pain as it tried to raise its strike arm. Suddenly, Ruzla swung her war scye down onto the Minotaur, slicing its arm clean off. The monster roared in pain and was quickly silenced with a shotgun to the back of the head, courtesy of Horus, who also managed to get up. Bits of brain, skull, and fur splattered over Baron’s face. As he drew his weapon out of the creature, he wiped the gunk away with his arm. Gurgling its last breath, the Minotaur fell backward onto the arena floor, dead. The crowd was silent, still shocked at what they had just witnessed.

Panting and still in pain, Barjon looked at Ruzla and Horus. Each of them was battered and bruised, yet still alive somehow. Horus then cleared his throat and shouted at the crowd.

“Are you ready for more!!!” An eruption of cheers gave them their answers. Margret and the others sighed in relief, and Iarr smiled and snapped his fingers for the next contestant.

“I must say, you three have turned violence into an art form,” said Iarr, counting all the winnings he made. After nine agonizing and near-death door rounds, Barjon, Horus, and Ruzla finally accepted the stadium invitation. All three were covered in bruises, suffered severe injuries and broken bones, and, in some instances, nearly died. Yet, by some miracle, they lived. Before handing them their well-deserved prize, Iarr told them not to lose it. Handing it over it, Barjon grabbed the invite and gave it to Margret for safekeeping.

“This had better be worth it?” slurred Barjon. Iarr gave a hyena laugh and smile.

“That is for you to know, my friends. Now you are on your own.” Unable to walk independently, the three warriors must be assisted out of the area room and out of Iron Keep. Once they made it outside, the half-orc led to a black market hospital where Barjon and his friends could get treatment. Following the Half-orc, they arrived at a small local bakery, a front for the hospital. It was run by Dr. Crow, Berlin’s resident mad scientist, and his wife, black magic user Necromi. They were the city’s best in ensuring the residents received the best care, giving or taking a few setbacks in the healing process. Since Barjon, Horus, and Ruzla needed to be in their best condition if they were going to face Vanhildr, Thrialulkrich asked the Dr. to give them his best elixirs.

This was both good and bad. Good in the sense that the Dr. elixirs had the highest chance of increasing one’s vitality and health, yet bad because, unfortunately for them, the Dr. only had one vile left, and it was his most potent concoction. The company had to decide who should take the elixir.

Many thought Horus should take the elixir since he was the son of a god and a god himself. However, Horus was a bounty who fought mostly against giant monsters and beats, not a fully trained warrior despite his skills with a weapon. With that in mind, they turned to Ruzla, who could fly and keep the Valkyrie away with her polearm. Sadly, just like Horus, Ruzla had primarily fought against wanders and humans hunting her down, and she had minimal experience fighting in armor that would impair his flying skills. Thus, the last choice was Barjon, the former angel-turned-Nephilim-made human. Though he was human, Barjon still had his archangel martial skill and, in his former life, fought against hordes of demons and other skilled warriors during his heyday. He was the best choice in the end. Slowly getting up from the bench, he asked for the elixir. Popping off the cork head, he slowly drank the green liquid. It had a bitter taste to it once he finished the bottle. However, he soon began to feel the elixir’s effects as his wounds rapidly healed. He was energized and ready for battle. Thanking the doctor for help, the Half-orc gave him a small gold coin with an emblem. Grabbing their gear, the company left the hospital and continued to the stadium. Arriving at the entrance, they were greeted by two armored trolls.

“Business?” said one troll.

“We have a competitor here who wishes to fight against the champion,” said the Dark Elf.

“Invite?” replied the other. Margret reached into her bag and handed the invite to him. Unscrolling the small parchment, the two guards examined the note before rolling it back up. The two guards moved away from the entrance and allowed the company to enter the coliseum.

“You shall wait in the main room, down the hall. An elevator will take you to your final resting place,” said one of the trolls. Ignoring the comment, they entered the coliseum and proceeded to their destination. Making their way to the door, it opened on its own and was met by the other gladiators. They welcomed them inside and showed them their room. Passing by, Horus glanced at Vanhildr, who was bandaging herself up from a previous fight. Finally arriving at the room, the rest of the company was told they could not stay with the other fighters. Margret wanted to protest, but Fiona said this was not the place. Before leaving Barjon to his devices, Margret gave Barjon one last hug and told him to be careful. The former angel smiled, saying that he would be fine. As his friends left, his smile quickly faded away.

Going into his room, he saw the armor that he would be wearing. It was a mix-match of various pieces. The helmet was derived from the Gallowglass mercenary warriors of the Norse-Gaelic clans of Ireland. Sturdy and solid, this mercenary’s helmet came from over the Irish Sea. Going down to the chest, the chest piece was from a Brigandine set. This armor was made from boiled leather and common metals and offered essential but reliable protection. As for the gauntlet, they were a pair of golden-stained bracers that covered the entire arm up to the elbow. A simple pair of leather pants and boots protected his lower half, and last, but not least, a decorative hood made from green silk and outline with gold trims rested neatly on the chest pieces shoulders. With a sigh, he began putting on his gladiator armor and waited until it was time to come.

After a few minutes, he gets a knock on his door, telling him it is time. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the doorknob and pushed open the door. A veteran gladiator escorted him to the elevator, where he would be taken to the main gate. Stepping on the platform, it soon began to ascend. As it made his slow ascent, he heard the muffled suns of the announcer, the owner of the stadium, welcoming all to another match. He heard brief mentions of the champion Vandhildr as well as other things. A few minutes passed, and the platform stopped before an iron gate. Stepping off, Barjon calmly walked toward the entrance. As he waited, he felt slight uneasiness in his stomach. He knew the effects of the elixir would wear off soon. Just then, he saw the iron gates open up. Walking through, he saw millions of spectators in the stadium stands. Their booming cheers and applause ran all across the area.

In the stands, Margret and the others found some empty seats and could only pray and watch as their friend made his way to the center of the area. Back on the ground, Barjon stopped directly before the Frost Giants and glanced over on his left shoulder. He saw her; he saw Vanhildr. It would be a lie to say that Barjon was not worried, even with the help of the elixir. Barjon had faced raiders, ghouls, and mercenaries up to this point, but it had been many years since he fought a warrior of this caliber. This was going to be a tough fight.

“Ghouls and Succubuses. Hellspawn and witches. We have a special fight for you all today,” said the announcer. “Today, our champion fights not just any regular competitor but a fellow warrior.” Barjon noticed the crowd’s attitude was beginning to change.

“Yes, good citizens of berlin, you know it to be true. Our newest contender is an archangel!” shouted the announcer. Barjon’s heart stopped. How the hell did they figure it out? Turning to face Vanhildr, he saw her worried expression through her helmet. Everyone awaited the Frost Giants’ command as they got into their fighting stances. Up in the stands, the Frost Giant raised his hand and commenced the fight with a loud bellow.

“BEGIN!” The two warriors clashed their swords against each other as soon as he finished. Both warriors began testing their martial skills against each other. Barjon, with the aid of the elixir, was able to perform movements and strikes he would have been able to do as an angel while Vanhildr was still in her prime. Through their duel, they studied each other, trying to uncover a weakness. Breakin’ away, the two swordsmen stared at each other.

“Not bad for an angel,” said Vanhildr.

“Same to you, Valkyrie,” he replied. They then continued their duel, which grew more vicious as it went on. Barjon and Vanhildr each traded blow for blow, wound for wound. When Vanhildr punched him in the face with her basket hilt, followed by a slash across the arm, he retaliated with a kick to her midsection after blocking a horizontal strike. It pushed her back a bit, and the fighting continued once more. The two fight furiously, breaking each other’s armor. Amid the fight, Barjon begins to feel the after-effects of the toxin. His movements began to slow, and his strikes were missing. Vanhildr exploited this, causing the former angel to trip on an embedded stone.

“Get up, Angel!” she shouted. “I won’t have a stone take my glory.” As he got to his feet, his body was even more sluggish. Fiona held Margret’s hand tightly as the young woman felt helpless. Unformatuly for the company, things worsened as Vanhildr overpowered Barjon by driving her sword into his chest.

Barjon could get an “urk” sound before being brought to his knees. The crowd then erupted in cheers as their champion was victorious yet again. Margret jerked up in her seat with tears in her eyes. She wanted to scream, but words came out. The others were also horrified as they believed it was all over. As for Vanhilder, she removed the blade from his chest, lifted Barjons chin with her sword, and received a nod from the Frost Giant to end the duel and the angel’s life. This seemed to be the end of the quest for the heroes. Barjon was losing blood fast, and the elixir which had healed his precious wounds wore off, thus increasing his pain. As he felt his life fleeing, he saw images from his past. In those images, he saw his brothers and sisters, his career as an angel, his friends at the abbey, and his promise to Amborss and Uriel. He promised to keep Margret safe.

As he returned to reality, his eyes locked with Vanhildr, who had a slight smile on her lips. Suddenly, Barjon grasped Vanhildr’s blade with his bare hand at his neck. He then grabbed his sword and swiftly cut the Valkyrie deeply from her shoulder to her sternum, opening a vast wound.

Gasps soon replaced the cheers coming from the stadium. Even the Frost Giant emerged from his seat, taken aback at what he saw. Vanhildr was shocked. Her eyes were wide, and her mouth was gasping. Taking her last breath, blood spilled from her mouth, stumbling, and she fell dead. Silence took over the arena until a massive wave of cheers filled the stadium, louder than ever. The attendees soon chanted “Angel!” over and over.

Satisfied with the result, the first Giant arose from his chair and proclaimed the Archangel the winner and new stadium champion. Placing a hand over the wound, the former angel slowly began to get up. He raised his sword high in the air upon his feet, urging the crowd more and more. Back in the stands, his friends were speechless and amazed.

“I’ll say this much. Barjon is one tough bastard,” said Horus.

“Agreed,” replied Ruzla.

“We need to get down there now,” replied the half-orc. Moving past the others, the company walked quickly down the long flight of stairs to reach the arena floor. Making their way to one of the tower entrances, they entered the area and rushed to Barjon and Vanhildr. Margret and the others tended to Barjon while Nascalo Pholzaebur and Thrialulkrich went to the lifeless body of Vanhildr.

“I feel sick, and like I’m gonna die simultaneously,” said Barjon.

“The after-effects of the elixir will do that, even worse if your human,” replied Thrialulkrich. Colum turned to the Half-orc.

“You knew this would happen?”

“You all knew the risks. Now let us get out of here,”

“What about Vanhildr? Is she dead?” exclaimed Fiona. Nascalo shook her head. She was alive, barely. She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a small bag of beans. These were no ordinary beans. These beans were capable of burning back anyone from the dead. They had to crush them and place them into her mouth. Once eaten, she will be like new. Grabbing her body, they all turned to the nearest exit.

“Where do you think you’re going!?” came from above. Looking up, a being of ice and snow descended upon the arena. As the ice dissipated, the Frost Giant held his mighty war hammer. The group did not like where this was going.

“Let us go, Wrelmir,” said the Half-Orc.

“I don’t think so. Your fighter killed my best champion, and now I require another. He is staying here,” stated the Frost Giant. Nascalo handed Vanhildrs body over to Horus and Ruzla along with the beans.

“Let them pass, or else,” said the Dark elf. The Frost giant let out a loud, bellowing laugh.

“Or else what, girl?” Nascalo removed a wooden pendant from her necklace and placed it on the ground. She then began reciting a spell of sorts. As she did so, the half-orc turned to the company.

“Once she has finished the spell, run like hell out of Berlin. Once you are safe, give Vanhildr the beans and be on your way,” he whispered.

“What are you saying?” questioned Fiona.

“No time to explain; just be ready to run,” he replied. Before she got out another worse, the crowd above erupted into shrieks and wails. The dark elf had finished reciting her spell; with it, the small token had transformed into a mighty dragon from Norse myth, not just any dragon. The female elf bore the solid and dangerous Fafnir, the dragon of greed. Iron-hard leather scales covered its robust body, and its wings were leathery, ribbed, and bat-like. The beast’s tail was armed with heavy spikes, and its mouth was full of dagger-like sharp teeth. Bright angry eyes glared fearsomely at the Frost Giant. Wrelmir was taken aback by the transformation that he was unprepared for what came next. Suddenly, the beast spewed fire from its mouth, and the flames stuck to the Giant’s body like glue, causing him to scream in pain.

“Now!” yelled the Half-orc. Heeding his words, the company ran to the nearest exit as all around them, guards of the stadium, began descending upon Nascalo and her friend. Pushing and shoving their way through the other attendees, they made a beeline exit, running through city blocks and avoiding all patrols. Barjon struggled to keep up. Luckily for him, Maret and Colum helped carry their friend as they escaped. Finding a tunnel underneath a nearby bridge near the city’s borders, the party decided to stop there momentarily.

“I think this is far enough,” said Horus. Laying Vandhilr down on the ground, the rest of the company settled down to plan the next stop.

“Do you think we are safe here?” asked Ruzla. Hours shook his head. It was hard to say. Margret tended to Barjon’s wounds as the warrior angel winced as she banged him as best as possible.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“Like I got rammed through the stomach with a sword,” he breathly replied. He tried to chuckle, but it hurt every time he tried. His gaze then turned to Vanhildr.

“We need her alive again. Somebody get the beans.” Margret went to her bag and retired them. Pouring out a handful, she crushed the beans per Nascalo’s instructions. After grinding them to near powder form, she asked Colum to cup the Valkyries head as she poured the magical powder down the woman’s throat. Closing her mouth, Marget then attempted to help her swallow, but before she could, Vanhildr yelled at the top of her lungs and shot back up. The female warrior gasped heavily and turned her head all over the place. She felt her heart pounding in her chest like a bass drum.

“What the hell happened? Who killed me!” she yelled. The others shushed her, telling her to keep her voice down. Her eyes locked onto Barjon, who rested against the side of the tunnel. She wanted to lung at him but was stopped by Horus. The female Valkyrie was shocked to see him.

“Horus, what the hell are you doing here?” she exclaimed.

“Getting you, that’s what,” the prince replied. She had so many questions to ask, which Ruzla answered.

“We tracked you down because we need you,” she replied.

“Need me for what?” replied Vanhildr. Ruzla turned over to Barjon. The former angel leaned in as best he could to meet her.

“Vanhildr, we have much to discuss.”

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