Prologue
Travelling the thick-wooded forests in Asgard throughout the night alone was no small feat, but Balder knew these trails like the back of his hand.
He skidded to a stop, the only sounds to be heard were the huffing and puffing of his old horse, Lettfeti.
Asgardians had been fearful of wolves attacking their livestock, and Odin requested that he put those fears to reset. Always the loyal brother, Balder had been happy to oblige.
Strange, he thought as he stooped to examine the wolf prints he’d been following all night, tis too early for the pack to be on the move.
Somewhere in the woods behind him, a twig snapped.
Then silence.
Baldur looked up, the sudden silence unsettling. The normal crowing of Odin’s ravens had disappeared, and the full moon above had been clouded over, darkening the sky.
“Alright, Letty,” he said, patting his horse and brushing off his nerves, “Let’s get out of here.”
He swung up into the saddle just as an arrow whizzed past his cheek.
It shot into the ground a few feet away.
What?
Lettifeti spooked.
“Get!” Baldur shouted, and pushed him into a gallop.
Behind him, the sound of dozens of hooves thundered after him.
Hundreds of arrows sped past them.
How many were there?
Lettifeti let out a shrill cry and stumbled as an arrow embedded in his front leg.
Baldur didn’t have time to gasp before another arrow hit him in the side.
He tumbled to the ground as the group of assassins surrounded him.
They rode circles around him, save for one person. A man dressed in a dark cloak, though Baldur would recognize those wide shoulders anywhere.
Tyr?
He stopped in front of Baldur, who had started gasping for air.
How? He touched the arrow, still embedded in his side. His hands came away warm and sticky with blood. This isn’t supposed to be possible.
Tyr hummed from atop his horse, feigning an expression of remorse.
“It really is too bad. You truly were a good mentor, Baldur. See you in Valhalla.”