Through the snowy peaks of Alfheim, echoing from valleys laced with ice, the Gjallar sounds its call.

Freyr stands on the snow beside his chariot. The boar Gullinbursti growls softly and stirs with impatience, eager to carry him away: he too has heard. But there is scarce eagerness for battle in Freyr's heart, even though he is ready to fight as ferociously as ever.

A force is at work that is quickly destroying all that he and his twin Freyja have created and nurtured and loved. Bitterness poisoning the sweetness of love, darkness swallowing the last twinkle of light, death crushing the tender stem of life. Two drops fall into the snow from Freyr's cheeks, and even those tears do not shine. Nothing can dispell that deathly gloom for him - not even the novelty of a bizarre team of warriors racing across the oceans with his Skidbladnir.

And Freyr will have to do battle without his weapon, his magical sword that can fight by itself. His mind returns to his wooing of Gerd the fair, of that same race of giants that is now threatening them, and how his sword was given to the giants as compensation for his wife. Maybe his sword is in the hands of the one who will kill him.

Armed only of a stag antler and with desperation in his heart, Freyr climbs on his chariot and races towards the call that seals his doom.