“There’s no point in going back to the city, is there, fair lady?” he asked. “Your sister is already a reaver, and your husband will be one soon, and we don’t have a cure for them.” Omar held up the rinegold ring. “There’s no reason to take this back to Skadi. It’s as worthless as she is.”
Freya turned to look up the slope of the mountain at the black outline of Ivar’s Drill. “I can think of two very good reasons to take it back. Maybe we can’t do anything for Katja or Erik. We certainly can’t do anything for Ivar, or any of the other plague victims. But we can still help the people living in Rekavik, and everyone else in Ysland.”
“How?”
“By removing the woman who started all of this.” Freya took the ring. “When she gets this ring and finds there is no cure locked away in the old valas’ ghosts, what do you think she’ll do?”
Omar frowned. “She’ll do anything to stay on that throne of hers. She’ll make up some story about how the valas in the Rekavik ring are defying her. And then, maybe after a few weeks or months, she will claim to learn of a possible cure, but one so hard to make that it will take years of work, or maybe some rare artifact or plant that no one will ever find. And sooner or later, everyone will stop expecting her to find any cure at all.”
“Only if she controls the story. If someone presses her, perhaps the hero who brought them Fenrir’s head, then the people will doubt her. And doubt is a kind of weapon, too.” Freya nodded. “And what will happen when you walk into that city, alive and well, five years after she saw you die? Five years after everyone was told that you died?”
The southerner smiled. “Well, that will be an interesting day.”
“I’m glad we agree.”
Omar followed her gaze up to the drill. “Why don’t you go on ahead? Maybe I’ll spend a few hours up there, taking a fresh look at the scene. And it’ll be easier for you if I’m not there when you give the ring to Skadi. You’ll want everyone’s undivided attention.”
“So I’ll go back to Rekavik and make the queen squirm for a while, and then you’ll come knocking on those iron doors with that blazing sword in your hand?”
Omar grinned. “No, nothing so dramatic as that. But don’t worry. I won’t come empty-handed. Good luck, fair lady.”
“And to you.” Freya set off down the path at a quick trot. It was just past noon and a cool breeze was blowing off the bay laden with the scent of salt and seal flesh. More than once her eyes shifted to the south, again searching the snowy hills for the stream and the mill, but she never saw it and she never turned her feet from the path. She reached the edge of the bay with a tight knot in the muscles in her back, but she strode on along the pebbled beach, her spear on her shoulder, squinting across the dark waters at the walled city of Rekavik.
She followed the same path along the water’s edge that Leif had shown her when they left the city, and so she picked her way along the seawall, knowing that dozens of eyes would be watching her from the guards’ posts at the rusting iron doors. Freya took her time, ignoring the first two doors and letting the tip of her spear carelessly scrape and twang against the seawall to make sure she had as much attention as possible. By the time she reached the third door, it was already standing open and a young guardsman stood in the gap with his hands on his sword, and Freya heard at least a dozen others muttering just inside the wall.
“That’s close enough,” the armored house carl said. “Were you bitten?”
“No.”
“Show me.”
She frowned but didn’t argue as she leaned her spear against the wall and stripped off her coat and shirt to show him her tattooed arms, and then quickly dropped her trousers to her ankles to show him her bare legs. If the sight of her inked skin interested him at all, he did not show it.
Not even a little smile. Erik would have smiled.
He swallowed. “You look all right. How did you survive?”
“By killing them before they killed me.” She pulled her clothes back on quickly and took up her spear. “Now may I pass?”
The warrior didn’t move. He licked his lips nervously, and was about to speak when another, older man stepped out in front of him. Instead of a sword he carried a barbed harpoon in one hand, and this grizzled fisherman said, “We heard you were dead.”
She snorted. “But you can see that I’m not.”
“Where’s your husband?”
It was her turn to pause uncomfortably. “He didn’t make it,” she said softly.
The fisherman nodded.
“And neither did Leif,” she added.
The man grunted. “I’ve heard differently on that matter as well, but I suppose we’ll have to see. You were supposed to be hunting the demon Fenrir. What of that?”
She met his uneasy squint with her own clear-eyed stare and said, “We stalked the beast to Thaverfell, where we built a snare, and trapped him, and killed him.”
A rumble of whispers rose from beyond the doorway. The old fisherman pounded his spear on the pebbles, calling for silence. He said, “You’ll forgive us for wanting proof of that, girl.”
Freya frowned. She hadn’t wanted to tell her story or show her prizes until she stood in Skadi’s throne room, but she could see that she had little choice in the matter. She hefted the leather sack off her back and set it on the ground, opened the ties, and then lifted the severed head of Fenrir high into the air. The glassy amber eyes stared at the fisherman and the men behind him, and the stained fangs hung open in mid-snarl, but the flesh of the nose and jowls hung loose and dead from the skull showing the first small signs of the rot that would soon strip away all but the bone.
The fisherman stepped back from the huge, bestial muzzle and glanced over his shoulder at the other men behind him, but the other men were all silent.
“Let me know when you’re done staring,” Freya said. “This thing is heavy and my arm is getting tired. And I think the queen will want to hear about this, don’t you?”
“Yes. Yes!” The fisherman’s leathery face broke into a wide, bright smile and he shoved his old harpoon up at the sky as he shouted, “Fenrir is dead!”
A great war cry answered him from over the wall, and Freya grinned as she wrapped up the head of the dead monster in her bag, took her spear, and strode through the open door past the beaming fisherman. The street was lined with men, women, and children, and more were coming with each passing moment. They thronged to their doors and windows, and came rushing up the side lanes to stare at her, and to shout her name, and to laugh about the end of the plague.
Freya smiled and nodded to them all as she passed, all the way up to the iron door of the castle wall where two familiar old guards stood chewing their beards. They took one look at the crowd and let Freya pass, but kept the people of Rekavik back in the street. Freya paused in the courtyard, looking at the castle door ahead and the huge crowd behind.
Then she called out to the guard in front of her, “You there! Bring out the queen to see the head of Fenrir!” And she walked back out the door to stand in the street, surrounded by hundreds of cheering voices and joyous faces. And for a few moments, she let herself be caught up on that raging torrent of happiness, of lightness, of hope. Everyone was smiling and cheering and laughing and waving, and she found herself smiling and waving back. It felt wonderful.
Then she turned and saw Skadi stepping out into the street with her tall apprentice on one side and little Wren on the other, and several stern-looking men behind them including the bearded Halfdan. At the sight of their queen dressed in shimmering black and gold thread, the people fell respectfully silent.
“My dear, it’s a wonder and a blessing to see you safely returned to our city,” Skadi said. “I must admit I had little hope that we would see you again, but here you are and from what I heard from this crowd a moment ago, it sounds as though you have something wonderful to show us all.”
“Yes, I do. I bring you a trophy.” Freya set her sack on the ground and again loosed the tie
s to lift up the huge, deformed skull of the creature they called Fenrir. She held it with both hands over her head and turned slowly so that everyone could see exactly what it was. As she turned she saw everyone’s face upturned to stare into the dim golden eyes and grinning maw of the giant reaver. Finally she turned back to the queen and set the head on the ground. She watched Skadi’s eyes carefully, but saw only composed happiness, exactly what the crowd doubtlessly expected.
“Truly, you are the greatest huntress in all of Ysland,” the queen called out, and the crowd cheered back. “But are you alone?”
“My husband, Erik, did not make it back,” Freya said carefully. Her feet still wanted to turn and run to the water mill, but she knew there was nothing waiting for her there but horror and misery, and an unspeakable task. “And neither did your warrior, Leif.”
Skadi smiled kindly. “But there you are most fortunately wrong. Leif did survive your battle with the reavers and was swept down the Botsna River. He returned to us only a few hours ago and is resting from his injuries.”
A battle with the reavers? So that’s the lie he spun for her… or the lie she put in his mouth for him.
Freya nodded slowly. “Well, that is quite lucky for him. The last time I saw him, I was sure he was falling to his death.”
“We can discuss your adventures later when we celebrate your victory properly,” the queen said quickly, her voice pitched more to address the crowd than to speak to Freya. “But right now there is another matter of even greater importance. With Fenrir dead, the source of the plague is gone, but the plague itself is still among us. But perhaps the ancient valas of Rekavik could help us find a cure. Tell me, Freya, did you find the rinegold ring that our beloved king wore to his death?”
Freya took the ring from inside her shirt.
This almost sounds rehearsed. It’s all a performance, all an act to keep the people happy.
She held the ring out to the queen. “I did.”
There was a brief flash of surprise, the tiniest hint of shock and disbelief, and perhaps even anger in Skadi’s eyes when she saw the golden trinket in Freya’s hand, but it was gone in an instant and the queen continued to play the gracious and joyous hostess of the gathering. “The ring!”
Again the crowd cheered, some shouting Freya’s name and others calling for Skadi, and even a few cries of “Ivar!” as the queen took the ring.
“This is more good fortune than we have known in many years,” Skadi said. “Now with this ancient and powerful relic of our great city, there is hope that we may discover a cure for the reaver plague. If the ancient valas of Rekavik have the knowledge, and they find me worthy to receive it, then we may soon know a lasting peace again. But that is work still to be done in the long days ahead. Tonight we celebrate a great victory!”
The crowd cheered, and the cheers devolved into shouts and laughs and boasts, and in the joyous chaos the smiling queen turned and led her entourage back inside the castle walls. As soon as they were in the inner courtyard, Wren dashed over and threw her arms around Freya’s waist. The huntress grunted at a sudden pain in her bruised ribs, but hugged the girl back.
“I was so scared. When Leif came back alone, I thought you were dead,” the little vala whispered. She leaned back with a sad-eyed smile, and then frowned sharply at the huntress’s shirt. “Is this all dried blood? This is a lot of blood.”
“It’s reaver blood.”
“Ew.” Wren peeled her arms off her friend, but grabbed her empty hand. “And you cut your hair? Why would you… Oh gods, Erik! Is he really gone?”
“No. At least not yet. He was bitten,” Freya whispered.
“By a reaver? Oh no!”
“Actually, no. It wasn’t a reaver. It was a tainted bloodfly. Don’t worry. He’s resting at the water mill we passed on the road. I’ll explain everything as soon as we’re alone.”
Wren nodded. “I have things to tell you too.”
The group moved back through the dining hall toward the many doors and corridors at the center of the castle. The queen paused. “Well, it has been a momentous day, and there will be a feast tonight, so I suggest we all get some rest. I certainly have enough work ahead of me with this ring, and I imagine there is still a long road ahead before the reavers are gone for good.” She nodded and the group nodded or bowed or curtsied in reply, and Skadi passed through the curtains to her audience chamber.
The guardsmen slapped Freya on the back and congratulated her on her kill before wandering off to their own duties. One man relieved her of the sack containing the demon’s head, and Freya gave it away with a grateful nod. In the bustle of that moment, Freya noted that the apprentice Thora turned toward the bedrooms on the right instead of following her mistress to the left. So Freya held Wren back a moment before following the tall girl back to their own rooms.
Wren fidgeted with her fingers.
“Something wrong?”
The girl wrapped her hands up in her blanket and used the fringe of it to wipe the sweat from her brow. “No, nothing. Katja’s fine, by the way.”
“Good.”
“No, I mean, I stopped them.” Wren swallowed. “When Leif came back, we thought you and Erik were dead, and there was no hope of finding a cure, so there was no reason to keep Katja alive. Thora and I went to make a poison to kill her. I didn’t want to, I swear, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say or do. It was all happening so fast. But then, while we were waiting for the poison to set into a pellet, I realized I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t kill her. So I ruined the pellet and there wasn’t any other poison left, so now they’re just going to starve Katja to death. Of course, I’ve been slipping her bits of meat through the bars of her cell, so I think she’s all right. For now, at least.”
Freya saw the pain and fear in the girl’s darting eyes, and she laid a reassuring arm across Wren’s shoulders. “It’s all right. I understand. I’m thankful that you saved her, but I would have understood if you hadn’t, or couldn’t. I’ve known for days now that Katja may not survive this. And that I might have to kill her myself.”
Wren nodded.
“Come on.” Freya led her friend down the hall to the bedrooms and they were about to turn through a curtain on their right when she heard a heavy boot tread on the stones behind her. She turned. “Leif.”
For a young man who’d been maimed, thrown into a river, and forced to cross countless leagues of reaver hunting grounds alone and unarmed, he looked surprisingly well. But the closer he came, the more clearly she saw the strain in the lines of his neck and the creases around his eyes and mouth.
It’s a front. He’s a walking corpse. But who is he trying to impress? Me?
“How’s the shoulder?” she asked.
“It hurts,” he said.
“And what did Skadi say when you told her what really happened to your arm?”
Leif frowned.
“Did you tell her?” Freya narrowed her eyes. “Does queenie know who’s out there?”
Leif looked away.
Wren tilted her head and said in a sing-songy voice, “Oh, queenie doesn’t know.” Then she looked up at Freya. “Know what? Who’s out there?”
“Someone who knows the truth about the reavers,” Freya said. “And the truth about Skadi and Leif here.”
“He’s not who you think he is,” Leif said. “He’s a freak of nature. A demon. A liar. A sorcerer. He doesn’t care about you or the plague or saving lives. He only cares about himself, and about his power.”
“He’s a very old man from a far away land, and he has a very dangerous sword,” Freya said. “It’s that simple. And when he comes back here, you’re going to have to answer for the things that you’ve done.”
The young warrior stepped closer to her, and for a moment she saw a glimmer of real steel and ice in his eyes. “Pray to the gods that he stays away. Because if he does come back, you can be sure that I’ll kill you and your little pet before he kills me.”
Freya heard the
venom in his voice and knew the threat was real. This was a young man who had spent the last five years fighting reavers, even fighting Fenrir himself.
He is a traitor and a liar and a coward, but he’s also a killer.
She stepped back against the wall and let him pass, and he strode by, his back straight and head held high as he slipped through the curtain into Thora’s room.
Freya nodded slowly.
So that’s who he’s trying to impress.
Chapter 20
Omar Bakhoum sat down in the bottom of the rocky pit in the shadow of Ivar’s Drill and dangled his legs over the lip of the tunnel. The hole stared up at him, the darkness gazing into him in silence.
Near silence.
The tiny buzzing of the mosquitoes kept him scowling and jerking his head away, trying to keep the pests from whining in his ears. He gripped his sword and called the names of his inner council, his ghostly advisors, a few chosen souls from among the countless thousands that resided in his sun-steel blade.
One by one their faces and forms loomed darkly before him, standing on the floor of the pit around him dressed as they had been in life, aged as they had been at the moment of death, and wearing varying expressions of interest, annoyance, and boredom.
An elderly Indian physician with short white hair framing his lined brown face and stooping over his crooked little cane appeared on the left. A beautiful Hellan oracle with curling brown hair and soft olive skin sat on the right in her carefully folded white robes. A little Aegyptian girl dressed in a threadbare gray dress lay on the ground, staring up at the darkening sky and playing with a lock of her black hair.
And the young samurai from Nippon, Ito Daisuke, stood on the far side of the pit, pacing slowly along its edge. His green and black robes were immaculate, and his black hair was knotted at the back of his head, but a few long strands had escaped the knot and hung from his temples in such perfect balance that Omar suspected the youth had plucked them loose intentionally.
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