The Rebels of Vanaheim: A Marvel Legends of Asgard Novel by Richard Lee Byers

Author:Richard Lee Byers [Byers, Richard Lee]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: epic fantasy, action and adventure, superheroes, Marvel
Publisher: Aconyte
Published: 2021-12-07T00:00:00+00:00

Eighteen

Heimdall awoke to darkness. His first muddled thought was that the sight of Mimir had forsaken him and in so doing left him with no vision at all.

Then he noticed how hard it was to breathe. A trace of stale, gritty air was present, but not enough. Inhaling it was a struggle and made him want to cough.

After that came the throb of pains all over his body and the realization of smothering weight atop and all around him. It pressed him down and hindered the movement of his limbs like fetters.

Struggling not to give way to panic, to think and remember, he gradually put together what had happened to him. Frey had cut him, and he’d jumped into the pit in the hope of escaping the duel he manifestly couldn’t win. Laevateinn had flown down after him to deliver the killing stroke, and in a final attempt at defense, he’d blown the Gjallarhorn. The blast had brought down earth and stone from the sides of the shaft. A rock had bashed him in the head and rendered him unconscious, and the downpouring had evidently buried him. That was the reason for his blindness, his difficulty breathing, the heavy mass binding him all around.

His best guess was that his interment had created a shield that kept the Sword of Destiny from reaching him, but it seemed all too likely that the ultimate result had merely been to trade a swift death for a slow one. For an instant, he felt a fear not far short of despair, but then he shoved those emotions down. He couldn’t give up, couldn’t let it end like this, couldn’t allow his duty to Asgard to go undone and Frey – that faithless traitor! – to defeat him. Not entirely sure he even knew which way was up but energized by anger at the god’s treachery, clinging to that fury to fuel his resolve, he began the struggle to dig himself out.

At first, he could only shift his limbs minutely. A finger curled or a foot pushed outward an iota. Even that effort made the pains in his body throb and flare worse. His head began to swim, a warning that he was using up what little air was left to him faster than before. But while it might bring death sooner if he continued, it would unquestionably be death to stop, and so he kept trying.

Gradually his struggles made hollows around his arms and legs, and he could dig to greater effect. Or at least he hoped it was to some useful effect, hoped there wasn’t such a thickness of dirt and rock covering him that extricating himself was impossible. He felt a tearing in his side, realized his efforts had reopened the wound there, and knew he couldn’t allow that to stop him either.

The moment came, however, when there simply wasn’t another breath to be had. On the brink of passing out, he scrabbled and then felt emptiness around his hands. Frantic, clutching and clawing, he dragged himself upward, and his head slowly emerged from dirt and rock into air.

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