Freya stood and left the guards without a word, and went back inside the castle. She expected a few interruptions, a few last drunken calls for her story, or even a few drunken advances on the poor grieving widow huntress, but there were none and she reached Wren’s room a moment later.
“Wren, it’s time to go. We’ll make for the seawall, and you’ll be away from the city in half an hour. Are you ready?”
There was no answer.
The room was empty.
Chapter 22
Freya dashed from room to room, searching the empty beds and the beds that were very much in use, looking for some sign of the young vala.
Maybe she went to the kitchen? Or to check on Katja?
She ran up and down the long corridors of the castle, hissing the girl’s name as loudly as she dared. “Wren!”
But the castle wasn’t big enough to keep her searching for long and soon she was striding back toward the dining hall with a burning ball of fear and confusion in her belly.
Did she try to leave the city on her own?
Freya stopped and fiddled with the handle of her knife.
Did she make it? Is she safe somewhere out there, by herself?
She stared at the iron door that led out to the courtyard and the remains of the feast.
Or did someone stop her, or see her ears, or see the other changes written on her weary face?
Freya hurried across the hall, snatched up her steel spear in the cloak room, and strode out into the cool night air. The heat of the bonfires had scattered on the breeze, and the chilly wind snapped her eyes wide and stung her throat when she inhaled. She glanced around the yard once, but none of the late-night revelers took any notice of her. They were all slumping over each other, wrapped up in their coats, and struggling to drain their last cups.
Outside the castle wall there was a lone guard by the door who nodded at her, but said nothing, and she was about to head for the eastern seawall when a bell began to ring somewhere toward the northern end of the city. And then a second bell clanged to the southeast. And a third rang out to the east.
She turned to the guard. “What’s that bell?”
The grim old man drew his sword as he jogged away from his post. “Reavers!”
Damn it, not now!
Freya leveled her spear at her side and took off after him, running toward the eastern seawall. She saw women and children retreating into their homes with frightened eyes and stern mouths, and she saw men standing in their doorways with stones and hammers and knives. At first she wondered why they weren’t heading toward the wall, until she realized they were no warriors, no house carls. They were fishermen, and stone cutters, and bone carvers, and weavers. And most of them looked just a bit too old or a bit too young to fight a reaver, even if they were given proper weapons. So they were standing in their doorways, preparing to defend their homes and their families with rocks and sharpened bones, in case the warriors failed.
I won’t fail.
Freya raced through the narrow lanes, past other armed guards, and ahead in the darkness she could see torches waving on the walls. The ringing of the bells had risen to a frantic metallic chaos that forced everyone to shout over the din and half the men had to cover one ear to block out the piercing noise. Freya passed all their frozen faces painted red and yellow by the torches until she came near the wall and the press of men, mostly warriors but many fishers as well, all arrayed near the seawall door.
Four swordsmen stood on top of the wall, slashing and hollering curses at the beasts below their feet. The savage snarls and barks of the reavers echoed across the bay outside, and were answered by more curses and screams from the people inside. Within moments there were two more men with spears on the wall, stabbing viciously at the monsters on the beach, and the young boys just behind Freya began whirling their slings and firing stones as big as her fist into the air to rain down just over the wall.
Looking left and right, Freya saw similar knots of warriors at the other seawall doors many hundreds of paces to the north and south, but through all the thunderous noise of the small battles she could not tell how many reavers there were, or how the tide of battle was flowing. As she scanned the scene, a figure caught her eye. A man was standing on the wall farther up to the north, standing halfway between two of the doors, the outline of his sheathed sword limned in firelight.
What’s that fool doing?
For a moment she thought to run to the man and tell him to join the fight, but then her heart softened. Maybe he was seeing the reavers for the first time and lost his courage. Maybe he was weeping for a dead friend.
Or maybe he’d been bitten.
Forgetting the man, Freya pushed to her left, trying to angle around the crowd to get closer to the wall. At that moment a reaver leapt up onto the wall, sinking its claws and fangs into one of the swordsmen. The pair tumbled down off the wall into the city, and a dozen men converged on them both with hammers and harpoons. Freya saw the hammers rise almost as one, and fall together in a chorus of steel. The reaver yelped a high, squeaky cry and the crowd cheered, but Freya winced as she tried to imagine what simple farmer’s wife or fisherman’s son had been deformed by the plague only to be butchered in the streets of Rekavik.
But then she heard another sound, the sound of the swordsman pleading for his life, screaming, “No!” But the harpoons plunged down as swiftly as diving eagles and the man’s scream died. No one cheered at that.
Still the battle raged atop the wall and Freya shoved her way clear at the northern end of the door and looked about for some way to get up on top of the wall, and seeing no stairs or roofs that would help her, she grabbed two young men at the edge of the crowd and had them make saddles with their hands and hurl her up onto the wall. Freya landed in a low crouch with her spear at the ready, and she looked down at her enemy.
A dozen reavers harried the seawall door, all of them clothed in dark red fur and tattered shirts and pants glistening with sea water and blood. They leapt up the wall to grab at the warriors’ feet, trying to tear the men down. But the swordsmen were as quick as they were powerful, stepping and dodging between sword thrusts that soon had the reavers drenched in blood from wounds in their arms and shoulders and heads. Still, the wounds were only cuts, and however much they pained the reavers, the beasts stayed on their feet, snarling and clawing at their enemies.
I’ll have to go down there to make the killing blows. It’s not fair. They shouldn’t have to die, but I can’t just let them kill the men either. And if I have to choose, well…
Freya studied the sheer drop to the dark pebbled beach. It wasn’t that far down, but far enough to break an ankle in the dark.
I won’t last long down there with a broken foot.
A second reaver hurled itself up to the top of the wall and wrapped its long hairy arms around an armored man. The other warriors lunged to grab him, but none were fast enough. The reaver and its prize fell back down to the beach and Freya watched by the light of the stars and torches as the fallen carl was torn limb from limb, his blood sprayed across the ground and his head left to roll down to the water’s edge.
“VENGEANCE!” A voice bellowed over the waves and echoed over the city. “BLOOD!”
Freya’s eyes snapped out to the eastern darkness, peering across the black waters of the bay at the huge shadow of Mount Esja in the distance. And for a moment all of the men on the wall stepped back and stared, wondering at the deep gravelly voice that had erupted as if from nowhere. And then it cried out again,
“DEATH!”
The reavers snarled and leapt at the men, and the men shouted and stabbed at the reavers, and the voice was forgotten as the battle raged on.
More men climbed the stair to the top of the wall and most of them were seal-fishers bearing their long harpoons, but more than a few of the young boys darted past their minders and scrambled up onto the wall with their slings whirling in their hands. Barbed harpoon blades and heavy stones pummeled the reavers
outside the door, and three of them fell dead in short order. But one reaver caught hold of a harpoon as its hooked blade pierced its arm, and the monster hauled the fisherman off balance, off the wall, and into the waiting claws of the reavers. The man screamed for many long moments before he died.
Freya looked toward the castle, looked out over the city, looked everywhere she could turn for some sign of Wren, but it was hopeless. Everywhere she looked was either black as pitch or ablaze with torch fires dancing on countless pale faces that all blurred together in the chaos.
“Are you afraid?” a voice asked.
Freya spun on the narrow wall to see Leif walking toward her. It was his figure she had seen standing alone on the wall just a few moments ago.
“Of course I’m afraid,” she said. “I don’t want to die.”
“Then why don’t you fight?”
“I’m a huntress, not a warrior. I’ve never fought more than one animal at a time.”
“But surely the woman who killed Fenrir can handle a few mongrels?” He smiled lazily, his empty sleeve flapping in the breeze.
“And why are you up here, just watching, while these men die for your city? Or did you lose your courage along with that arm?”
He glared. “What happened to the southerner? I saw the cut that severed Fenrir’s head, I know it was Omar who killed the beast, not you. But where is he now? Did you kill him so you could take the glory of the kill for yourself?”
“There is no glory in killing,” she said.
“Tell that to them!” He gestured to the straining mass of people inside the city walls waving their hammers and torches. “Everyone seeks glory for themselves, but when the weaklings learn their place, then they seek to glorify others. Glory is all there is. The only light, the only joy, the only real treasure. Life is short and painful and terrible. Glory is the only thing worth living for!”
“If you say so.” Freya chanced a quick glance over her shoulder to count seven remaining reavers on the ground and two more men climbing the wall to replace two of the fallen. She looked back at Leif. “We need to help them.”
“Us? A cripple and a liar?” Leif laughed a short and angry laugh. “Go on then, rush off to die. I’ll enjoy the show. I hope they bite you before they kill you. I hope you feel the poison burning you up from the inside before you die. And when you’re gone, everyone will remember who the real hero of Rekavik is.”
“You were never a hero, Leif,” Freya said quietly. “Omar told me what really happened at the pit. I know who Fenrir was. And I know that you killed all the witnesses so your vala-queen could keep her throne.”
A hideous sneer contorted the features of the beautiful, pale warrior. He drew his sword. “I thought he might tell you. After all, that’s why we’re here now.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’ve been waiting here for you, woman,” he said. “I’m here to give a tragic but fitting death for the hero of the hour. What better excuse, what better scene for your execution?” He swept his sword out toward the desperate battle for the seawall door.
Freya snapped her spear down to point at him. “Your city is under siege, and all you want is to kill me?”
“Of course.” He smiled. “But I can’t kill you here on the wall, can I? Someone might see. So if you want your little friend to live through the night, you’ll jump down there and fight those bloodthirsty animals to the bitter end.”
“Wren? You took Wren? Where is she?”
He shook his head. “Whether she lives or dies is up to you now. Die a glorious death fighting the reavers, and Wren lives to see the morning. Or you can die a traitor’s death right here at my hand, and I’ll kill her on my way to bed. Skadi seems to like her, but I don’t need yet another vala in this city trying to give me orders. So choose!”
“Damn you. You’ll just kill Wren either way!”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “It all depends on my mood. I don’t know. Maybe I should keep her alive either way. She might be pretty if she learned to use soap. And I’m willing to bet she’s a virgin, too. That might be fun, eh?” Leif pointed his sword at her. “So what will it be?”
He’s a coward and a liar.
Freya narrowed her eyes, and jumped. She jumped to her left, inside the city, with an eye on the distant castle walls, but she was barely a moment in the air before a hand grabbed her by the belt and wrenched her backwards. Freya fell back and down, slamming her hip on the top of the wall as she tumbled over and fell to the pebbled beach below. She landed on her side, thumping hard on the unforgiving stones with her steel spear clanging loudly beside her. But her head was cushioned by her arm so while her entire right side was throbbing with pain, she was able to look up with clear eyes. Leif stood high above her, picking up his dropped sword from the top of the seawall.
He actually did it. He threw me off the wall in front of everyone.
A low growl snapped her attention to the beach where two of the reavers had seen her fall and were loping across the uneven stones toward her. They howled in triumph, their golden eyes blazing in the darkness.
Freya staggered up to her feet and clutched her spear in both hands. She was far from the torches and had only the stars to shine on her attackers. There was a sheer stone wall on her right and the freezing waters of the bay on her left. And there was no Erik or Omar at her side.
When the first reaver reached her, her instincts took over and she set her feet and plunged her spear cleanly through its chest. The beast flailed and shrieked once, and then collapsed, its dead weight nearly yanking the spear from her grip. But as she planted her boot on its ribs to pull her weapon free, the second reaver leapt at her.
With her heart in her mouth and an icy chill slicing down her spine, Freya ducked to the ground, still gripping the shaft of her spear, leaning it forward. The flat butt of the spear caught the charging reaver in the shoulder and the creature stumbled off balance into the shallow black waves, splashing loudly.
But in the moment that it took the reaver to turn back around, Freya grabbed her serrated bone knife and jumped onto the reaver’s back, wrapped her legs around its waist, and sank her blade into its neck. The reaver reached back and clawed at Freya’s arms and shoulders, but she tightened her legs around its body, and wrenched her knife back and forth as hard as she could as the hot blood poured over her hands.
The claws fell limp in stages, weaker and weaker, and then the reaver pitched forward into the cold waters of the bay. Freya rolled off the body, choking on the salt water as it stung her open cuts. She stood up and found the night air even colder on her wet skin, and for a moment she stood very still, looking at the body lying face-down in the water, wobbling on the waves.
Down the beach outside the seawall door, three reavers hunched over the bodies of the fallen warriors and the slaughtered beasts, gnawing on the hot flesh with their dripping fangs and cracking the bones to drink their marrow. Above them, the exhausted swordsmen stood gasping and trembling, some leaning on others for support, and one man staggered aside to vomit on the top of the wall.
If it was any other enemy, they would be pouring over the wall to slaughter these creatures on the beach. But they’re afraid. Not afraid of dying, not afraid of pain. They’re afraid of being changed, of losing who they are, and what they are. This plague has stolen their courage.
Freya sloshed as quietly as she could up out of the water and stood dripping in the cold night air. She wrenched her spear free of the reaver on the strand and felt how suddenly tired she was. She had eaten too much at the feast, and drunk more than she was used to, and even with the sharp ice wind in her eyes and the freezing water running down her back, her eyes were beginning to droop.
For two days she had marched across the hills, and then lain awake all night to battle Fenrir, and then run back again, only to find herself alone on the wrong side of a wall with three snarling reavers between her and the door.
And Leif is still inside.
And
Wren is too, somewhere.
And my Erik is out there, by himself.
She started walking toward the door with one eye on the slavering creatures and one eye on the men above. After a moment the men saw her approaching, and some tried to wave her back, but she shook her head. One of the men had a harpoon in his hand.
They need to start throwing those harpoons instead of just stabbing with them.
She waved to him and tried to signal that he should hurl his weapon down at the reavers. He seemed unwilling to let his only means of defense out of his grip, and it took several gestures, but eventually he nodded and turned to wave behind him. Two more young men climbed up beside the spear-fisher with slings in their hands.
That would have been so much easier with Erik.
She nodded at them, and they nodded at her, and she raised her spear, and screamed.
The harpoon flew first, splitting the first reaver’s skull and skewering it into the ground. Two sling-stones hit the second reaver, which howled and skittered back from the wall toward the water. And the third reaver turned on all fours to growl at Freya. She hurled her spear, and it plunged straight through the creature’s open maw. The reaver snapped over backward and fell flat on the beach, its arms and legs twisted at unnatural angles.
The remaining reaver took another pair of sling-stones to the head and it yelped in pain and scrambled back into the water. Freya jogged up to the locked door and drew her knives in each hand. At her feet were the broken, mangled, and partly devoured bodies of five or six men, their limbs tossed everywhere, their blood still glistening and steaming on the stones. And beyond the carnage hunched the last reaver, alternately snarling in hatred and whining in fear.
Freya slowly lowered her knives.
The reaver snapped his fangs at her once, and then loped off through the shallow water, vanishing into the night.
A howl rose over the water, a long clear cry that ululated on and on, and Freya shivered as she listened to it echo long after the unseen beast fell silent. And then it cried out again, this time roaring with a man’s deep grating voice, “JUSTICE!”
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