Not an hour later, Bjorn and I once again approached the gates, though this time we were dressed in the hooded robes of gothar, the deep cowls serving the double purpose of warmth
and deception.
It had not been difficult to get the clothing, for as Bjorn had anticipated, the gothi and one of his fellows had immediately ventured into the tunnels in search of the stolen wealth. After extinguishing their lantern, Bjorn had then informed them he’d leave them alone in the dark unless they gave up their clothing, which had them stripping faster than men on their wedding nights.
Bjorn left them in the dark anyway, loosely trussed so that they could get free and find their way out.
Eventually.
I’d felt guilty walking away with the echoes of weeping pleas filling my ears, and had muttered, “Leaving them down there in the dark was cruel.”
“It was not cruel. The bastards planned to pocket some of the wealth before anyone else knew of it, which might well have seen them turned to draug by the gods they claim to serve. We saved both men from themselves. Now walk faster, we’re running short on time.”
Bjorn led me down the path at a trot until we were nearly in sight of the gates, then slowed to a sedate stride.
I mimicked him, keeping my head lowered as we approached the waiting warriors.
Never suspecting that their target might be coming from this direction, none of them paid us any attention. Neither did they make room for us to pass, forcing Bjorn and me to weave among them. My heart thundered, my stomach twisting into knots, and I feared one of them would notice my rapid breathing. Would know that it was Bjorn and me, not a pair of hapless gothar.
But they only grumbled about the cold, half of them seeming to believe this was a fool’s errand and the other half seeming to believe I’d come striding across the bridge, shield ablaze. Not a one suspecting that I stood right next to them, which meant that in a few paces, we’d reached the gates. An elderly gothi with tufts of white hair on his head waited, and I dropped to my knees in front of him, Bjorn following suit. The old man blinked at us in confusion, and I lifted my face to meet his gaze, saying
softly, “The draug are vanquished.”
His eyes, clouded with cataracts, widened, then skipped to the warriors standing only a few feet behind me. I tensed, watching as he pieced together my identity, praying to every god that he’d not sell me out to those who’d see me dead. Instead, the old gothi smiled, then intoned, “Do you submit to Odin, Thor, Frigg, Freyr, and”—he winked—“Freyja?”
“Yes,” I croaked, curbing the urge to look behind me, the sensation of having my enemies at my back while I was defenseless on my knees infinitely worse than meeting them head-on.
“To Tyr, Hlin, Njord, and Loki?”
“Yes,” Bjorn answered, even as I willed the old man to speak faster. There were dozens and dozens of gods left, and each passing second risked discovery.
I barely heard the names of the gods, only mumbled my assent with each pause, every part of me certain that the warriors behind us would hear the hammering of my heart. Would smell the sweat of nerves and fear rising to my skin, or notice that Bjorn’s scarred hands, visible where they pressed against the ground, were not the hands of the gothi. Or worse, would question why gothar of the temple were on their knees performing a submission to the gods at all.
It wasn’t until shouts filled the air that I realized my fears were misplaced.
I twitched, lifting my face to look through the gates. Beyond, two men stripped to their undergarments strode toward us. As I stared, horror filling my guts, one of them pointed. “It was them! They vanquished the draug, then accosted us so they might sneak into Fjalltindr!”
Those people lingering just inside the gates heard, whispers of interest racing like wildfire among them, several turning to see who the men were pointing at.
“I should have killed them.” Bjorn sighed. “This is Tyr punishing me for abandoning my better instincts.”
If I weren’t about to drown in a flood of panic, I’d have smacked him, but the warriors behind us were stirring at the commotion, which meant that we had a matter of seconds. A crowd was gathering inside the gates, the pair of gothar pointing at me as they repeated their story.
The old man rattled off the names of the gods faster now, Bjorn and I muttering our assent, and my brain scrambled to remember how many were left. Too many was the number I came up with a heartbeat before a hand closed on my hood and ripped it backward.
“It’s her!” a male voice snarled.
Bjorn was already on his feet, robes cast off and axe burning in his hand. “Is this a fight you truly wish to pick?” he asked the warriors. “Are you so certain a child of a minor god is worth your lives?”
I wasn’t worth it. None of this made sense. Yet everyone seemed ready to slaughter one another over me anyway.
“Girl,” the old man hissed, drawing my attention back to him. “Do you submit?”
I had no notion which gods he’d just named, and I prayed those in question wouldn’t feel disrespected as I blurted out, “Yes, I submit!”
“We’ve heard of the seer’s prophecy, Firehand,” one of the warriors retorted. “And no one wishes to swear oaths to Jarl Snorri.”
I didn’t blame them, but I doubted saying so would help my cause.
The old gothi was glaring at me, which meant I’d missed another set of names in my distraction. “Yes!” I snapped, lifting my hands to check if the barrier had lifted, but it remained implacable. “Faster!”
“You know how seers are,” Bjorn answered. “They speak in riddles, nothing of what they say of the future clear until the moment to do anything about it has passed.”
“Except when it comes to the children of the gods,” the warrior retorted. “The shield maiden’s fate is uncertain. As is yours, Firehand.”
Bjorn laughed. “Then how this fight ends may be a surprise to you and the gods alike. Although I think not.”
A scream filled my ears, and I twisted in time to watch a warrior clutching a charred hole in his chest topple backward off the cliff, Bjorn’s axe already clashing with the weapon of the next. His axe locked with the sword, and Bjorn punched the warrior in the face before slicing the man’s leg from his body, the shrieks deafening. Men falling one after another to Bjorn’s skill. Except Jarl Sten was already halfway across the bridge with more men. Twenty against one.
Hands closed on my shoulders, and I jerked around to see the old man was clutching my stolen robes. “If you wish to live, you must focus,” he snapped. “Do you submit to Sigyn and Snotra?”
Why were there so many gods? Why were there so many names? “Yes!” More shrieks, the stink of burning flesh turning the air acrid. My skin crawled with the need to turn and face the danger, but the old man was
shouting more names.
“Yes!” I waited for him to ramble off more gods, but the old man only said, “That’s it, girl! Drop your weapons and step through!”
Not a fucking chance.
Twisting, I pulled my sword, “Bjorn—”
Bjorn’s hand struck me in the chest. I toppled through the barrier, the magic wrenching the sword from my hand as I landed on my arse next to the gathered gothar. Bjorn kicked my weapon out of reach, shouting at the gothi, “Restrain her!”
“You idiot!” I screamed as hands closed on my arms, hauling me backward. “You cursed fool of a man!”
If Bjorn heard, he didn’t react.
Sten and the rest of his men were across the bridge, converging on Bjorn with their shields locked in a wall, spears protruding through the gaps. “Yield, Firehand,” the jarl shouted. “Yield and we will let you live.”
“Why would I yield when I’m winning?” Bjorn nudged a dying man with his boot. “You and yours should yield. Retreat from this place with your lives, if not your honor.”
“Not with the shield maiden still alive,” Sten snarled. “Without her, Snorri is nothing. Without her, the future Saga foresaw is no more.”
Bjorn laughed. “You have not the power to change her fate.” Then he threw his axe into one of the shields, bits of burning wood flying into the air as the man who held it staggered into those behind him.
“Attack,” Sten roared. Men pushed forward, Bjorn’s axe still embedded in the man’s shield, the wood nearly engulfed.
Bjorn bent to retrieve my fallen sword as one of the men stabbed at him over his shield rim, the spear tip slicing at his face. Bjorn only sidestepped it and thrust my sword through the same gap, the man screaming as the blade punctured his chest.
Bjorn’s axe appeared in his hand again as he dodged yet another stabbing spear, and he reached out to hook a woman’s shield, jerking her forward. She stumbled and swung her own axe at Bjorn’s head, but he ducked even as he chopped at her side, fiery axe slicing into her torso, rings from her chain mail exploding outward as she screamed.
Blood sprayed as he stepped over her corpse to press into the gap she’d left in the shield wall, men and women falling as he carved into them before retreating, his face splattered with crimson.
“Hold the wall,” Sten shouted, taking the woman’s place, and the shields locked again. There was no mistaking the fear in the eyes of Sten’s warriors, but they held their line. One threw his spear at Bjorn, and I gasped, but Bjorn knocked the weapon from the air with his axe. Yet more followed the man’s lead, throwing their spears one after another.
I screamed, struggling against the half dozen gothar keeping me from going to Bjorn’s aid as he fell, his back slamming against the barrier.
“No!” I screamed, certain that he’d been mortally wounded. Certain that I was going to lose him.
But instead of collapsing dead, Bjorn pulled a fallen shield in front of him.
A heartbeat later, two of the attacking warriors screamed and fell, arrows in their backs.
What was happening?
Dropping low, I peered past Bjorn and through the legs of the mass of men. Beyond, a group of warriors gathered on the far side of the bridge, bows in hand.
Snorri was at their head.
“Loose!” he roared, and a rain of arrows fell upon Sten and his men. And they had nowhere to go.
Several tried to pass through the gate, only to rebound off the barrier, arrows finding their backs. Others, seeing there was no escape, threw themselves at Bjorn, desperate to use him to block the barrage.
Bjorn slashed at one with his axe. The man howled as he clutched a charred wound on his arm, but the others grabbed at Bjorn’s shield and dragged it away from him. More arrows fell, one slicing so close to his arm that I gasped as it bounced off the barrier.
Wrenching free of the gothar, I threw myself forward but someone grabbed my legs. I fell against Bjorn, and knowing I’d get no further, I reached around him. The heat of his axe singed the fabric of my sleeve as I
closed my fingers over his, digging in my nails lest I lose my grip. “Hlin,” I hissed. “Protect me.”
Protect him.
Magic flowed from my hands, covering Bjorn in a silvery glow right as a warrior swung at him with a sword. I screamed a warning, but Bjorn calmly lifted one arm.
The sword rebounded off my magic with enough force that it spun over the warrior’s head and into the chasm. Arrows fell all around us, yet while I braced for the inevitable bite of pain if one struck true, Bjorn didn’t so much as flinch. All around us warriors fell, filling my ears with shrieks of pain and wet gasps as they breathed their last.
And then there was silence.
I drew in ragged breath after ragged breath. My nails dug into Bjorn’s hand, my other arm was wrapped around his waist, and my face was pressed into his thigh. The group of gothar had ceased trying to haul me back through the barrier. My legs stung where their fingers had dug in, my skin likely to be covered with bruises tomorrow. If I lived that long.
“It’s over,” Bjorn said softly. “They’re dead.”
I believed him, but I couldn’t let go of my magic. Couldn’t lower my defenses with blood roaring hot in my veins, fueled by anger and fear. Couldn’t let go of him when I’d come so close to losing him entirely.
“Freya, my father’s coming.” His father. My husband.
Snorri had been our salvation, yet I’d almost have rather faced another clan trying to kill me than face him.
“Freya.” Snorri’s deep voice cut the silence. “Lower your shield.”
A flash of bitterness filled me, but I complied and released my magic, then my grip on Bjorn’s hand. There were five crimson crescents on his skin from where my nails had scored his flesh, and a droplet of blood trickled from one of them to splash to the ground. A shiver ran through me, but I sat back on my haunches and lifted my face to meet Snorri’s gaze.
Ylva stood at his elbow, the rest of the warriors of his party beyond.
“You defeated the draug and passed the test.” Snorri’s mouth broke into a wide smile. “I knew you would. The gods have plans for you.”
I wasn’t sure why, but his words sent a flush of anger through me. He’d risked my life and Bjorn’s based on blind faith in riddles whispered by a specter, and yet stood here as though all had gone according to his well- mapped plan.
“So I keep hearing.” My voice was raspy, which was just as well because it concealed the frigidness of my tone. “You appear to have made it up the mountain unscathed.”
Snorri shrugged. “Involved a bit of trickery, but the gods reward the clever and the sacrifices made were worth us reaching you in time.”
I looked over the warriors again, all the faces I’d expected to be there present, none appearing worse for wear. “What losses?”
Snorri didn’t so much as blink. “The thralls. We passed them off as you. Three times it worked, those who’d been sent to ambush us chasing after a blond woman dressed as a warrior who’d escaped us.”
Dead. All three women were dead.
My stomach heaved. Twisting away, I vomited its few contents onto the dirt, because sacrifices implied they had the choice. Implied they’d wanted to die, when the reality was that Snorri had probably threatened them with a worse death if they’d refused.
Cruel, heartless prick. I remained on my hands and knees, spitting foulness on the ground, because if I turned back around, it would be to kill him.
Or at least, I’d try.
And when I inevitably failed, because far better warriors than me were close at hand, my family would be punished in some way.
Bite your tongue, Freya, I ordered myself. The dead are beyond your help but you’ve yet the power to curse the living.
“I think it not wise to linger here, given that more will come,” Bjorn said. Turning to the old gothi, he added, “Shall we pick up where I left off?” The old man was gaping at the carnage, but at Bjorn’s words he blinked,
then nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course, child of Tyr.”
Bjorn dropped to his knees to finish the rite, and as he did, Snorri’s warriors moved to strip the dead of valuables before dragging the bodies to one side, where, I presumed, they’d eventually be burned. Enemy or not, they were Skalanders and would be honored in death.
“We’ll await you at the Hall of the Gods.” Bjorn cast the words over his shoulder at his father as he stepped through the barrier. Grasping my shoulders, he steered me through the masses of onlookers, all of whom gave us a wide berth, whispers of “they vanquished the draug” repeating over and over.
“Shouldn’t we wait?” I muttered as we moved into the sea of tents and cookfires, dozens upon dozens of men, women, and a few children moving about them. There had to be hundreds here from places near and far.
“Given you appeared ready to murder my father with your bare hands, I thought distance a prudent choice. Will give you a chance to calm down.” He squeezed my shoulders, then let go, the heat left behind from his hands fading too quickly. “I’m hungry. And thirsty—fighting always makes me crave strong drink.”
As if hearing his words, a man sitting next to a fire shouted, “Bjorn!” then filled a cup from the jug at his feet. He handed it to Bjorn after they pounded each other vigorously on the back, promising to find each other later, before carrying on.
“Distance isn’t going to calm me down,” I informed him as he drained his cup. Another man at another fire laughed and refilled it, only for the process to be repeated at the next fire. Bjorn was apparently well known, and well liked, even outside of his father’s territories.
“There is nothing to be done,” he answered. “Seeking vengeance for those women will cost you more than you’re willing to pay. You know this; that is why you didn’t shove Snorri off the cliff. Here, drink, it’s going to my head too quickly and I don’t like to get drunk alone.”
I took a few swallows from the cup he gave me before handing it back. Mead made my tongue work faster and my head slower, and my high temper wouldn’t help. “Snorri should be wary lest he push me too far. There is a limit.”
“Is there?” Bjorn’s gaze met mine and I stared into his green eyes, finding curiosity rather than condemnation as he added, “My father holds your family hostage, and you’ve proven time and again that there is nothing you won’t do to protect them, no sacrifice you won’t make. Even though, if I might add, they don’t deserve it. Which means he can do whatever he wants, and you will abide.”
“That’s not true!” My protest felt weak in my own ears, the verity of his words piling onto my shoulders like leaden weights, dragging me down. “What would you have me do? What would you do?”
He shrugged. “For me to be in such a situation would require there being someone among the living who might be used as leverage against me.”
A pang struck me in the stomach that there wasn’t anyone he cared so much for, but I shoved away the sensation. “If there is nothing in your life worth dying for, then what is there worth living for?”
“Reputation. Battle fame.”
Bjorn’s response should have disgusted me in its selfishness, but…there was a hollowness beneath the flippancy that made me wonder if some part of him wished it were otherwise. “Well, you have that,” I said and drained the cup in my hand.
In silence, we approached the entrance to an enormous hall, the carved wooden doors flung wide. Stepping inside, I paused to allow my eyes to adjust to the dimness, and when they did, focused on the enormous wooden likenesses of the gods set about the hall.
I started to walk toward them, but Bjorn froze.
My skin prickled and my attention shot to that which I hadn’t noticed— the man standing in our path, a broad woman with her blond hair in war braids standing slightly behind him.
The man, who was perhaps of an age with Snorri, smiled, his lips curling up to reveal white teeth. “It has been a long time, Bjorn.”
Bjorn was quiet for a heartbeat, and a sideways glance showed me that he was rigid with tension when he finally said, “It has, King Harald.”
King Harald.
My heart skittered in my chest. This was the king of Nordeland. This was the man who’d kept Bjorn hostage all those long years. Which meant this was the man who’d killed Bjorn’s mother.
