Here’s a peek from the opening chapters of Twilight of the Gods (Grimnir #2):

Silence returned.

The dull echo of thunder rolled down from the north.

Úlfrún exhaled, then, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She staggered over to Heimdul’s body and grasped the butt of her axe with her good hand. Úlfrún worked it back and forth; then, placing one foot on the back of the slain man’s head, she wrenched the blade free.

Grunting with effort, she struck him again. And again. With each strike came the slaughter-house sound of butchery – the popping of gristle and snapping of tendons, the soft squelch of bloody tissue parting beneath the edge of her axe, the rasp of splintered bone on steel as she drew it forth again; on the third blow, Heimdul’s head came free from his corpse.

Úlfrún stooped and caught it up by its mane of blood-matted hair. “Odin!” she roared, brandishing her foe’s severed head toward the northern horizon. “Odin! Look here! Look . . .”

She reeled, a sudden sick weariness robbing her of strength. The clouds overhead boiled and throbbed; the evergreen trees around her swayed like supple maidens, dancing to a tune none could hear. On the field where slayer met slayer, only the slain remained . . . and they, too, soughed and sighed before her blurring vision – a sea of red and white, of flesh and blood and riven mail, whose steel-edged combers threatened to break above her.

“O-Odin!”

Úlfrún of the Iron Hand took a dozen steps before the sun’s pale light suddenly dimmed. She sank down onto the crust of snow, then toppled to the side with Heimdul’s hair yet caught in her fingers. She lay still, and like a soothing coverlet the darkness rolled over her . . .

Úlfrún Ironhand
Úlfrún of the Iron Hand

 

 

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