“The Keldara are not the Kildar,” Father Kulcyanov said cautiously. “If you choose to take the Keldara, if the Kildar approves, we will not stand in your way. They will, undoubtedly, win glory and those that fall will be lifted to the Halls. But do not mistake the Keldara for the Kildar. We do not.”

The Keldara had masked as Islamics and Christians over the years. They did not care what religion their masters wanted them to practice. But they had retained their true faith in the Old Gods of the Norse and traditions drawn from both Norse and Celts. Since the Kildar did not seem to care, they had, slowly, come “out of the closet” about their beliefs. One of those was that a person could not enter the Halls of Feasting, Valhalla, unless they had been proven in battle.

To Father Kulcyanov the last battle had been a mixed blessing. Far too many of the Keldara had entered the Halls, but for the first time in a generation Keldara were entering the Halls. The dun of the Keldara, their massive burial mound that most people mistook for a gigantic glacial hill, had been added to. The Keldara had added to their glory and had found favor before the Father of All. He would see his fallen children, nieces and nephews, in the Halls. His place was assured by the slaughtered crews of German Tiger tanks and broken units of the Wehrmacht and SS.

He had warned the Kildar, whom he had seen falling into soul-death, not to lose the path of the warrior. For the Kildar’s sake, who was warrior born, and for the Keldara. The Keldara were nothing without war.

But his words had, apparently, been insufficient.

“He’s got a point,” Vanner said. “Master Chief, you’re a good shooter and the Keldara will follow. And Colonel, you’re a good planner. And I can, as always, handle the intel and commo. But ain’t none of us the Kildar.”