Yanking his axe free of his latest victim, Zeke never even saw the blade coming for his neck. A second later, his head flew free and rolled down the hill. He remained aware for only a few moments before everything went black. Then, he awoke on a slab of stone, just like he always did. Mechanically, he dressed in the simple clothes folded at the foot of that stone bed, then left it behind.

  Though he did take a single glance back before he left the room.

  There were more than three hundred slabs there, though only half were occupied. Zeke just shook his head. He knew he should have lasted longer, but the battle lust had taken over. When that happened, he just had to ride the wave and hope for the best. Usually, it meant dying while he single-mindedly focused on killing one of his foes. However, every now and then, it gave him the strength to overcome the odds and emerge victorious.

  That had happened three times, and the memories of being the last remaining combatant was what drove him forward. That sense of elation and accomplishment – it was unlike anything he’d ever felt before, and he’d come to grave it so strongly that, at times, it was all he could think about.

  But clarity usually came just after his latest death. With that settling onto his mind, Zeke realized that he couldn’t count the number of times he’d fought and died. Hundreds, easily. Thousands, perhaps. And yet, his desire for more battle had not waned in the slightest. Already, he was looking forward to the next fight, to feeling his axe bite into another man’s flesh, to put it all on the line and perhaps emerge victorious.

  It was a potent drug, and one against which he had absolutely no defense.

  Those thoughts lasted right up until he reached the great hall, where he found the men who’d died before him. They were all eating and drinking while roaring about how they’d only gotten unlucky. One little slip, and they would have made it to the top.

  For some, it was an accurate description. However, there were more than a few warriors there who’d never won a single battle. They were the dregs, and everyone knew they didn’t belong.

  Zeke had been one of them for only three battles, but he’d won his fourth. That told anyone who cared to look that he was one of the elites. So, when he sat down and grabbed a mug of beer, he received a slap on the back as one of the men said, “Tough luck, eh? Lost your head, right?”

  Zeke glanced at the man, then nodded. “How’d you know?”

  “Can still see the wound,” the warrior stated. He was a large man with red hair and a great, bushy beard. More importantly, he wasn’t usually among the early deaths. In that respect, he was like Zeke. “He got me too. Massive bloke with a sword as big as my –”

  “Nobody wants to hear your boasting!” shouted another man, throwing his mug at the redhead. A second later, a roar erupted from his throat and he launched himself across the table. In moments, he had the offender pinned and was beating him to death with a bloody pewter mug.

  “Guess he’ll miss the next fight,” the redhead grunted, climbing to his feet. “I’m starving.”

  Then, he grabbed a giant haunch of meat and tore into with the fury of a starving man. For his part, Zeke just shrugged and helped himself to a turkey leg, which he dipped in gravy and washed down with frothy beer. It was, quite possibly, the best meal he’d ever had, though he’d though the same thing in the wake of the last battle. And the one after that. If he’d given it even a moment’s thought, he would expect that the pattern would continue for each subsequent post-fight meal.

  As he ate, more and more people came from the chamber with the stone slabs. Some looked a bit bewildered – sometimes, that happened – but for the most part, the others were in good spirits. Then, finally, a large, blonde man appeared. He hadn’t bothered with a shirt, though no one was going to call him on it.

  Because he was the man who usually won the battles.

  Sure, people like Zeke had taken a fight here and there, but the vast majority of them had been won by Ragnar. And it only took one look to see why. The man had the perfect warrior’s body. Big and strong, sure, but his slim hips promised a level of agility most men his size couldn’t mimic. And he had just enough fat on him to keep a flesh wound from hitting anything vital.

  By comparison, Zeke felt small and skinny, though he’d held his own in virtually every fight.

  “You did well, friend,” Ragnar said, laying his hand on Zeke’s shoulder. “The fiend who slew you stalked you from the very beginning. He waited until you were distracted, striking only when your back was turned. It was a despicable display of cowardice.”

  There was a roar of agreement.

  Ragnar continued, “We will not let one of our own fall to such a coward! So I say we stalk the stalker. The man who kills the small bald man will gain a favor from me! So it shall be!”

  The group of men shouted their affirmations, though Zeke remained silent. He clenched his fists, his every muscle tight. He didn’t need protection. He could fight his own battles.

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  But now that Ragnar had pointed it out, there was no way the bald man would survive more than a few moments. He would die in the first clash. And that wouldn’t end with their next battle, either. It would continue for hundreds of fights until Ragnar called off his dogs.

  Such was the respect afforded him.

  He was a veritable god amongst mortals, and the others knew it, too. Even Zeke had to acknowledge it, regardless of whether he wanted to do so or not. After a few more minutes – during which Zeke’s appetite fled – the drums began, signaling that the time for battle was at hand.

  Like the others, Zeke undressed, leaving his clothing on the bench and stepped outside to be painted by the old crone. This time, they were adorned with red paint, though Zeke had no idea how that choice had been made. After gathering his axe – he’d begun to prefer the weapon – the group of warriors set out across the rolling hills.

  Drums continued to beat, faster with every passing minute until, at last, they found themselves facing off against their rivals. Zeke recognized a few of them. How could he not, after fighting them hundreds of times? But there were also newcomers as well. A few missing faces, too.

  That was the way of it.

  No one knew where they went, but the missing were always the worst of the worst. Men who simply weren’t meant for Valhalla. They all dreaded it, and to a man, they would do anything possible to prevent such a fate.

  That, as much as the drive for victory, pushed them to fight.

  Then, they were all charging at one another. Predictably, the little, bald man went down within seconds. Even his own side didn’t try to stop the people gunning for him. It was like there was an unspoken rule, and he’d broken it. The warriors of Valhalla wouldn’t stand for that.

  For Zeke’s part, the battle started off well, and he hacked the leg off one warrior before shoulder-charging another. He took a small wound along his ribs, but it was easily ignored. A second later, the blade of his axe found a man’s head. It erupted into a shower of gore and bone that sprayed everyone in the area.

  Zeke spun around, swinging the axe in a wide arc that ended with its blade buried deep in another warrior’s side. He tried to yank it free, but it was lodged in the bone. That seemed to happen frequently, so he knew better than to keep tugging on it. Instead, he dove into a roll, narrowly dodging a hacking sword. When he found his feet, he had a small handaxe in his fist.

  Unfortunately, that’s where Zeke’s luck ran out.

  Before he could react, someone shoved a spear into his gut. He refused to give up, though. Instead, he shattered the shaft with his forearm, then rushed the wielder. With a scream of battle rage, he buried the smaller blade of his new axe in the man’s neck. Once again, blood sprayed everywhere, but Zeke paid it no heed.

  This time, he had no issues yanking the blade free. A man tried to stab him, but he stepped to the side, pinned the sword blade against his side, then brought the axe to bear in a vicious uppercut that sent the man’s intestines spilling across the reddening grass.

  After that, Zeke lost track of his actions. He fought. He hacked and stabbed, punched and kicked. He even bit a man’s ear off when his weapon got knocked away. At some point, he lost a hand, but he barely even noticed it. Instead, he simply adjusted his tactics and relied on his left hand from then on out.

  All the while, his wounds bled. But by that point, he was more than used to blood loss. He knew his body would eventually give out, but that didn’t matter. He wanted to take as many warriors with him before he inevitably succumbed to his injuries. With any luck, he would be the last man standing.

  Sure, he’d die soon after. That was inevitable. But with the battle lust gripping his mind, it was a trade he was more than willing to make. So, he fought, his movements growing more and more sluggish the entire time.

  Eventually, it became impossible to tell the different sides. Every remaining combatant was covered in so much blood that the painted glyphs on their bodies were entirely indiscernible.

  But it didn’t matter.

  There was only room for one victor. It didn’t matter if the men left were part of Zeke’s group or a member of another. They were all enemies.

  On he fought, the battle raging until, at last, there were only two people left. And Zeke was one of them.

  The other was, predictably, Ragnar.

  “Brother,” the big blonde man said, saluting. He was covered in blood, but very little of it was his. He had a gash across his face, as well as one on shoulder, but otherwise seemed in perfect health.

  By comparison, Zeke was a walking corpse.

  He didn’t feel the spear still stuck in his gut. Nor did he miss his hand. He didn’t acknowledge the dozens of other wounds he’d picked up along the way. Instead, he raised the handaxe in a returned salute.

  Then, he dashed forward.

  Or at least he tried to. His legs refused to accommodate that desire, though. The best he could manage was a stagger. Ragnar felt no such impairment as he stepped constantly toward Zeke, a club in hand.

  Zeke blinked.

  Memories came flooding back, and just before that club found its way to his head, he felt something in the other man. Something very familiar.

  Then, everything went dark, and he awoke atop the stone slab. He shot up, his breath coming in ragged gasps as sweat poured from his forehead. Immediately, he felt his stomach, then his hand. Everything was intact. Yet, he remembered it all so clearly. The pain, the fury, the…club.

  Once, he’d used a club, hadn’t he? No. Not a club. A mace that became a hammer. Voromir.

  The second the name came to mind, Zeke’s memories came flooding back. Moreover, he recognized that feeling he’d experienced just before Ragnar had killed him. It was the spark of the divine. Not much. Barely even there, in fact. But it was unmistakable.

  Zeke took a moment to reach for his own divine energy, and to his surprise, it came easily. It flowed through his body unobstructed, suffusing his every muscle.

  Then, he cut it off.

  Something told him he didn’t want to be caught – especially by Ragnar – with divine energy flowing through him. So, he snuffed it out, then clamped down on his core with every ounce of willpower within him. Once that was done, Zeke dressed and headed to the mead hall, where he partook of the feast.

  As he did, he acted how he knew he was supposed to act. He roared in agreement with the others. He ate and drank with gusto. But in the back of his mind, he planned. Clearly, overcoming the Circle of Violence went through Valhalla, but he wasn’t sure how it all fit together.

  Eventually, Ragnar returned and congratulated him on lasting so long. Then, he reiterated their quest to kill the bald man before settling in to enjoy the feast himself.

  And then, the drums sounded, and they all rose to return to their eternal battle. None of them even questioned it. Perhaps they didn’t want to. But with that brief touch of divine energy, Zeke had broken the first seal. Now, he just needed to figure out how to bypass the circle and continue his descent.