Freya nodded. “An hour, that’s almost nothing at all. I’ll go with you. Erik can follow the edge of the lake and we can meet up with him later this afternoon. Right?”
Wren stared up at her. “Right. I mean, if you were to, that is, to go, I mean come, with me, then it would only be an hour there, and less than that to come back to the road. I just need to see them for a minute, just a few minutes, just to tell them…”
“I know.” Freya gently squeezed the girl’s arm. So they agreed on a meeting place that Wren described, a crossroads marked by a broken stone pillar where Erik would wait for them. Moments later Freya sat down in the thin, rotting boat behind the girl in black and they pushed away from the reeds into the warm waters of the lake, and began paddling with their bare hands.
A thin green slime clung to the surface of the water and to their hands, and Freya winced at the muck coating her skin. “There isn’t anything dangerous in this lake, is there?”
“Just flies and frogs.”
Freya nodded.
They swept their hands through the warm scum, shoving the flimsy reed boat along the surface. The bottom of the boat rippled and wrinkled with the undulations of the lake as they headed due south, and Freya kept one eye on the western shore of the lake where Erik and Arfast were plodding along the dirt road, until the shore became a thin black line and her husband disappeared.
The gnats buzzed and the frogs croaked, and the lake steamed lazily in the afternoon sun. The blot on the southern edge of the world quickly grew into a wide mound of rock rising above the water and Freya stared intently at the island as they approached it, scanning for black clouds of flies, for dark mounds of bodies, and for any other signs of predators. But there were none.
Thick green grasses hid the edge of where the island met the lake, and as they pushed through them and emerged into a shallow lagoon, Freya looked up at the two great ridges to the east and west of them. The rock faces were gray and barren, but the center of the island sloped down to form a gently curving bowl where lush grasses and untended fields of barley and wheat waved in a riot of greens and golds.
Just ahead near the shore of the lagoon, Freya saw a smooth mound of mossy earth and stone, the telltale shape of two long houses built back to back, with several small gardens with low stone walls of their own nearby. And looming above the man-made earthworks was a single finger of stone, a tall gray spear of rock with ragged edges but a smooth face, and on that face Freya could already see, even at a distance, the long lines of runes carved into the stone.
Wren glanced back at her. “Have you heard the story of the rune stone of Delver Island?”
“No.”
“The Allfather himself carved it.” Wren nodded as she turned back to her paddling. “It was in the ancient days, long before Woden made war on the demons and the giants. The Allfather walked the earth in search of power and wisdom, speaking to serpents and birds. But he learned nothing, and he despaired. So when he came to this island and saw that rock spire, he climbed to the top of it and hurled himself upon it, impaling himself on it, sacrificing himself to the world in exchange for its secrets.”
Freya frowned, only half listening to the girl’s story. Her eyes kept straying to the open waters of the lake and the unseen shore where her husband and her sister were waiting for her. Somewhere.
“For nine days and nine nights, the Allfather cracked his spine and spilled his blood on the stone, hanging upside down. The ravens gathered to drink his blood and to whisper their secrets to each other. And Woden heard them speak of the runes, so he grabbed two of the ravens, one in each hand, and they screamed.” Wren spoke in a reverent whisper, her face turned up toward the rock spire. “The other ravens attacked him, tearing his flesh, even tearing out his eye. But he held the two ravens fast, crushing them until they revealed the secrets of the runes and the seidr-magics to him. And they made a pact, Woden and the ravens, to share their wisdom together and to never make war on each other again, and they swore in blood, and carved their oaths onto that stone there, for all time.”
“I don’t see anyone,” Freya said. “Your family, I mean. It looks deserted.”
The girl glanced around. “I hope so. I hope they left a long time ago.” Wren let the boat coast into the thick reeds and tall grasses at the shore before stepping out into the knee-deep muck and slogging up onto dry land.
Freya followed, and took her two knives from her belt. The sharpened bones felt strong and solid and certain in her bare hands. The blades were still fresh, still new, taken only a month ago from the legs of a mountain goat high in the hills above Logarven.
A month ago.
Freya squinted at the empty houses in the shadow of the rune stone.
A month ago everything was fine. And there were no reavers. At least, not in my world. My world was perfect a month ago.
Wren jogged into both houses and came out again just as quickly. “There’s no one here, and no sign of people living here anymore. My parents must have taken everything with them. Clothes, tools, food. A long time ago, I think. A year at least.” She nodded and heaved a sigh. “That’s good. They must have gone south. I just wish they’d told me.”
Freya nodded. “Sure.” She glanced around the small island again, but there was nothing to see or hear but the wind, the grass, and the stones. “We should get going.” She put one of her knives away.
A frog croaked.
Wren hesitated in the open doorway of the one of the houses. “I used to play here and watch my father come in with the day’s catch.”
Freya put her other knife away and waded into the reeds toward their boat. “Wren?”
The girl paused a moment, then turned back toward the lagoon with a glum nod.
Freya swatted a few flies away from her face and heard another frog croak. It was a very loud croak. She turned slowly to look down into the thick reeds and grasses. A few paces away in the shallows there was a round, wrinkled lump. Gray and green, it looked like any other slimy rock at the water’s edge. The lump shifted and she saw that it was indeed a very large frog, at least as large as her head, with stiff clumps of wiry black hair standing in a line down its spine. It swiveled its eyes.
Freya swallowed.
Those aren’t its eyes.
“That frog has ears,” the huntress said calmly. “Why does that frog have ears?”
Wren sloshed to a halt in the shallows and peered into the tall grasses at the green-gray mound with the wiry hair. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like that before.”
The frog waddled slowly around to face them, swiveling its bulbous black eyes and its triangular black ears toward the two women. It croaked again, very loudly, and a second croak answered it from a few paces farther down the shore, and a third one answered that. Soft, wet, sucking sounds echoed down the beach as the frogs shifted and crawled about in the shallows.
Freya reached down to the boat and turned the floppy thing around, replacing it on the green-scummed waters beside her leg. “Come on, let’s go.”
Wren nodded as she waded out the last few paces and took hold of the boat’s side.
“Ow!” Freya whirled around as a sharp pain invaded her thigh, and she saw the long pink tongue of the closest frog stretched out across the marshy waters and stuck fast to her soaked trouser leg. The tongue pulled on her gently, tugging on her clothes, and the frog began to float closer to her, dragging itself through the tall grasses as it folded its hideous tongue back into its head. But the tongue popped free with a soft squirting noise and then raced back to its mouth. Freya pulled a knife free as she glared at the frog.
The frog lifted its body up a bit higher in the water, focusing its gold, unblinking eyes on her and flicking its hairy ears free of the clinging algae. Its throat bubbled out and in, heaving another loud croak across the lagoon, and a dozen more answered it, and the answers sounded very close, and came from every side.
“Into the boat, move, move,” the huntress said softly.
>
Wren tumbled gracefully into the front half of the boat, which bent and flopped around her body as she folded her skinny legs in front of her. “Okay, your turn.”
But Freya didn’t move. She didn’t dare take her eyes off the huge amphibian squatting in the muck just a few paces away, and it stared straight back at her with its flat golden eyes. Its whole face was prickled and spined with wiry black and white hairs, there was something hideously wrong with the way it bent its long spotted legs as it rose up a little higher out of the water, standing so that its belly just barely broke the surface. The frog slowly parted its fleshy gray mouth, opening it wider and wider, until its lips curled back to reveal its red, bleeding gums and the rows of yellow fangs ringing its soft jaws.
Freya stumbled back and grabbed the side of the boat as the huge hairy frog leapt at her with its fangs dripping around its open mouth. It flew up out of the water toward her chest, and then its tongue burst out and flew at the huntress’s face.
“Don’t let it bite you!” Wren shrieked.
Freya ducked and slashed at the frog with both knives, one flashing up to skewer the creature’s mouth shut and the other slashing down to hack off one of its long, crooked legs. She whipped her arm back and hurled the frog off of her knife, throwing it over her shoulder into the water. Freya straightened up in time to see Wren let loose three small stones in quick succession from her sling, each one whipped from the woven strap with only a moment’s pause to reload and re-clasp before the next stone was whistling across the lagoon.
The frogs began croaking louder and faster, and clumsy splashes echoed all around them as the water churned with fat green and black bodies. They lurched through the muck, sometimes leaping and sometimes walking on their too-long legs toward the women.
Freya grabbed the back of the boat and shoved it toward the mouth of the lagoon and the wider lake beyond. The soft muddy bottom fell away beneath her feet, and Freya clutched the warping, sagging side of the reed boat as she kicked and paddled to push farther out from shore. Wren knelt in the bow, hurling stone after stone at the surging mass of bloated, hairy bodies swimming after them. The croaking became a roaring, unbroken drone as hundreds of cold-blooded throats joined the chorus. Freya felt something bump her leg and she nearly screamed, but she kicked and thrashed and when she looked over her shoulder she saw nothing near her.
“I’m running out of stones!” Wren shouted over the croaking.
Freya had no breath to answer. She’d pushed the boat out past the stone walls that marked the end of the lagoon and the island and she could feel the water growing a bit cooler now with every stroke. But her arms and legs were burning and aching, and the green algae slime coated her whole body, weighing her down, dragging her back.
The croaking grew a bit softer, a bit farther away. Still Freya kicked and paddled and gasped for breath, spitting the warm muck away from her lips as it trickled down her face. Wren grabbed her arms and Freya shook her off, but the girl said, “It’s all right, it’s over, they’re gone!”
Freya twisted left and right, only able to see a short distance with her eyes bobbing just above the waves, but she couldn’t see any frogs or splashes, and the sounds of the croaking had faded into a distant echo within the vast stone bowl of Delver Island.
They’re gone.
Freya kicked and jumped and crawled up into the floppy reed boat with Wren tugging at her slick, wet clothes. They fell into the boat together and lay still for a moment, chests heaving as they raced to catch their breath.
Freya grinned. “Don’t let it bite you?”
“Yes. So what?” Wren sat up and wiped her hands on her skirt. “It was perfectly sound advice.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
They both laughed, and after a moment Freya sat up and began paddling with her hands, steering them around the edge of the island toward the western shore of the lake.
Wren shifted around to help with the paddling. “They had teeth,” she said softly.
Freya nodded. “Yes, they did.”
“Why? Why did they have teeth, and ears, and hair?”
Freya looked back at the mouth of the lagoon, and saw only the dark waves lapping at the gray shore of a quiet island. “Maybe the whole world’s gone mad.”
Wren shivered. “We’re going to die, aren’t we?”
Freya laughed again, a tired and shaky laugh, and she wiped her wet slimy hand across her mouth. “Everyone dies, sooner or later. There’s no escaping that, so there’s no use worrying about it. No, what you’re really scared of is getting eaten by frogs with teeth and big hairy ears, aren’t you?”
Wren managed a tired smile. “Well, sure. After all, they can hear us coming better than the usual sort.”
“Well, don’t you worry,” Freya said as she felt her heart finally calming in her chest. “If a frog tries to eat you, I’ll be sure to give you some helpful advice.”
“Like what?”
“Like, don’t let it eat you.”
Chapter 5. Ghost town
They rejoined Erik and Arfast at the crossroads just above the lake’s shore, and after a little while on the road Freya felt her clothes and hair drying out, though the stench of rotting plants clung to her. An hour later on the westward road, Freya heard her sister whispering in her sleep. Katja’s ears felt even larger and more pointed than before, and tiny white hairs and red hairs stood up on the young vala’s cheeks and neck and hands.
“She’s getting worse,” Freya called out. “We should stop and rest, and try to break her fever.”
“Hush! Not so loud.” Wren trotted back to them. “There’s no help for your sister here.” She swept her arm out at the bleak yellow hills dusted with snow, which stretched on and on with only the bluish outlines of the mountains in the distance. “And it’s too dangerous to rest in the open, not with the reavers prowling about. They could be anywhere. We need to keep moving, and quietly at that, or we’ll all be dining with the good lord Woden this evening.”
“Well, how far is it to Hengavik now?”
“Not far. Just another hour or so, I think.”
“I don’t remember Hengavik at all,” Freya said. “Is it large? Well-defended?”
“I don’t know. Gudrun took me from my parents when I was tiny, barely walking. And I’ve never left Denveller except to gather herbs.”
“Then how do you know that Hengavik is only an hour away?”
Wren smiled brightly. “Vala’s intuition.”
Two hours later they paused at the crest of a low rise and looked out over a flat plain of grass rippling in the breeze. In the far north Freya saw a great mountain smoking against the pale afternoon sky, and to the south another, smaller volcano squatted at the edge of the world, a thin trail of black rising from its summit to the heavens. But down on the plain lay the town of Hengavik, a man-made warren of hundreds of stone houses and earth houses, most sunken into the plain or clustered back-to-back to form unnatural looking hills at regular intervals along the meandering lanes.
But none of the travelers were looking at the houses or the roads.
In the center of the city there rose an enormous skeleton, a vast sun-bleached ribcage resting at an angle, as though the Allfather himself had hurled a frost giant across Ysland and the demon had speared into the ground head-first, and been left to rot where he fell. There was no sign of limbs, no skull, no shoulder blades or horns or wings or fins to tell what gargantuan beast might have actually died there. Only the ribs remained, partially silhouetted by the late day sun.
“Ever seen anything like that before?” Freya asked.
Erik shook his head.
Wren shook her head and glanced skyward. “Lord, in all our little chats together, especially the ones that were all about you, you might have mentioned this. I’m not saying I deserve to know every little thing about you or me or Ysland, but this seems somewhat important.”
Freya stared at the ribs. They rose as tall as ten or twelve men above the
floor of the plain, many times taller than the tallest buildings in Hengavik, which were no larger than Gudrun’s tower. And the ribcage stretched four or five times as long as it was tall from the center of the town down toward its southern edge. She tried to guess how many pigs or sheep or elk or even men might fit in the giant’s belly, but the sheer size of the thing defeated her. It was too large to imagine, too large to believe. Her mouth worked, but no sound came out.
Erik’s hand began to move. “If this was ancient, wouldn’t we have heard of it?”
Freya nodded. “Wren, when you lived in Denveller, did you meet many travelers from Hengavik?”
The girl nodded. “Many, when I was younger. Not so many lately. And none at all in the last year.”
“And you’ve never heard of this… thing?”
The girl shook her head. “I think I would remember if a tinker had mentioned the bones of a giant lying in the center of the town.”
Visions swam through Freya’s imagination, visions of frost giants and white whales and Fenrir, the demon wolf. As a child she’d always thought of the god-king Woden as a man, a man with unfathomable knowledge and power, but a man nonetheless. And the frost giants had merely been taller men, and the demon Fenrir had merely been a large wolf.
But now, as she stared at the otherworldly remains of a creature that must have stood half as tall as a mountain, the ancient stories came alive for her as never before, the universe expanding into a playground for gods and monsters unlike anything she had ever known. And she, and her home, and her life, which had all seemed so solid and real and important just a moment ago, were reduced to snow dust in the maelstrom of eternity.
Freya blinked and glanced at her sweating, wheezing sister sprawled on the back of a dirty white elk, and suddenly the vast universe seemed just as unreal and irrelevant as it had to her as a child, and she was about to tell the others to get moving when Wren whispered, “The old stories are true, aren’t they? All of them. The reavers and Fenrir. Woden and the frost giants. It’s all true.”
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