Something moved behind an oak tree.
She clenched her fingers. If only she had her sword!
Then the pony nosed out from behind a tree, followed by Fire-eyes.
Hild let out her breath, her knees wobbly with relief. Forgetting Mord’s half-wrapped bandage, she ran to the horse, pressed her face against his warm neck, and wrapped her fingers in his mane. When she could breathe easily again, she looked him over. He had cuts and scratches, but nothing worse. Thialfi stepped forward to help her take off the saddle.
When she turned back to the fire, she saw that Mord was trying to finish tying the bandage himself, and making a bad job of it.
“Here,” she said, pushing his hands away. She rewrapped it, tying it neatly.
“My thanks, Lady Hild.” He dipped his head to her. “Will you see to Gizzur’s arm?”
Her own wrist throbbed, and every time she moved, she could feel the bruises on her side, but she nodded. If Mord could ignore the pain a deep cut like his must cause, she wouldn’t let herself be bothered, either.
Gizzur approached her reluctantly, pulling his cloak back to reveal the cut on his wiry arm, just below the band of twisted metal he wore. It looked like a claw had gotten him, too, but it wasn’t as bad as Mord’s wound. She made another paste of heal-all, spit, and ashes and chanted while she applied it to his arm. He endured her ministrations silently, never meeting her eyes, and stood the moment she finished tying his bandage.
“Gizzur,” she said softly, touching his shoulder.
He looked at her through his narrow eyes.
“I’m sorry about your horse.”
For an instant, his face changed, his eyes widening, the thin line of his lips softening. Then he nodded and moved away, returning to the cairn Hadding was building.
Hild rose. She couldn’t bear to look at the body up close. But she had to, for Beyla’s sake. She moved uncertainly toward the cairn. As she approached it, Gizzur stopped his work and elbowed Hadding. The two of them backed away, leaving Hild alone with Brynjolf. Keeping her eyes away from his bloody tunic, she knelt beside him. Dirt streaked his forehead just above his brows and Hild reached to wipe it off, trying not to recoil at the feel of his cold skin. She slipped off the silver band Beyla had given her and tried to work it over one of Brynjolf’s lifeless hands. It wasn’t easy and she almost gave up. But he’d earned an armband, even if he hadn’t lived long enough to receive it from the king. She tried again, and this time she got it over his stiff fingers and onto his arm. Softly, she called on Odin, saying, “Receive this warrior into your hall.” She hoped the silver band would help Brynjolf find a place among the warriors who had died in battle.
When she rose, Gizzur and Hadding stepped forward again. “That was a good thing you did, my lady,” Hadding said, nodding toward Brynjolf’s arm. Then he placed another stone on the pile.
Hild turned away. As she did, Mord approached her. “We’ve found a place to ford the river, my lady,” he said. “Now that the horses are back, we can go. As soon as we’ve done right by Brynjolf.” He dropped his voice, his tone uncertain. “Would you sing him out, my lady?”
Hild looked at him, startled. Of course they would need a woman to sing for Brynjolf. She nodded.
While the men finished their grim work, she combed her fingers through her hair, struggling to bind it up, finally resorting to braiding it the way slaves wore their hair, in order to wind it around her head. Doing so made her think of Beyla’s unruly curls falling out of their knot. How many times had she had to retie it for her friend? “Oh, Beyla,” she whispered. She wished that none of this had happened, that the two of them were standing in the stables at home, making each other laugh, that Brynjolf would come around the corner at any moment, smiling his broken-toothed smile at them.
She closed her eyes for a space, then opened them and turned back to the men.
Thialfi was kneeling, arranging the cloak around the body. Brynjolf’s sword was clutched in one of his hands and his bloody fingers had stiffened. Mord struggled to loosen the weapon, but in death, Brynjolf held fast. Finally, Mord worked it free and replaced it with the dagger Brynjolf had been so proud of, polished again to a high gleam. Holding the sword, Mord looked from face to face, Hadding standing at the dead warrior’s head, Gizzur at his feet, the three Geats at his shoulders. “It was his father’s before him. Now it will go to his cousin Borr,” Mord said.
Hild felt tears threatening. If she didn’t start now, she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to at all. She stepped forward. Without waiting for acknowledgment, she squared her shoulders, drew in her breath, and began to sing.
She’d never sung the funeral rites before, but she knew them; she’d heard them often enough. She thought of her father’s funeral and Aunt Var standing beside the pyre, singing him to the gods. Her own voice sounded high and thin, like a child’s, not rich and resonant like Var’s. Would the gods accept her song, so ill-sung? There was nothing to do but press on, her eyes closed against the wound on Brynjolf’s chest.
As the last word lingered on the cold air, Mord leaned down to place the first rock over the young warrior’s body. Hild stepped back and stood in silence as, stone by stone, the men covered him. Brynjolf had still had so much to learn about being a warrior. Hild smiled a little through her tears, remembering how often he had forgotten his task as a rear guard. He’d always been so good-natured when she and Beyla teased him, laughing along with them. She recalled the way he had played with his little sister Inga and his puppy outside Freyja’s temple in what now seemed like another life. She wished she could have found a sprig of holly to lay on the cairn.
A bird trilled from a nearby branch, the sound incongruously joyous to Hild’s ears. Then, as if it recognized her thoughts, it fell silent. Somewhere in the woods, she saw something move. She listened but heard nothing. It must have been the bird.
A horse whinnied. Brynjolf’s horse? Did it know its master was dead?
She turned her attention back to the cairn. An edge of Brynjolf’s cloak peeked out from the rocks, and Hild hoped they wouldn’t leave it uncovered.
She pulled her own cloak more closely around her. As she did, she saw Mord rising from the head of the cairn, his mouth open in surprise. At the same time, a potent stench reached her nostrils, making her think of the leather tanners at home. She turned.
Something ran at her—something huge. It was on her so fast she couldn’t react. A powerful arm wrapped around her torso, lifting her from her feet. Twisting, biting on thick hide, she tried to free herself, but her arms were pinned to her sides.
She kicked, then kicked again, wrenching her back. She was tight in the creature’s grip, her face mashed against its wiry fur. She couldn’t get away. And now it was running. Out of one eye, she could see trees passing in a blur. Where were Mord and the others? She could hear them but she couldn’t see them.
She struggled, but it was no use.
Moving with incredible speed, the creature headed into the forest, Hild tight in its grip.
The shouts of the men faded into the distance.
TWENTY
FUR AS COARSE AS HORSEHAIR SCRATCHED INTO HER CHEEK and neck, scraping them raw. The creature leapt over stones and glided around trees, moving silently through the woods.
Hild stopped struggling. It did no good and it was tiring her out. She tried to watch where they were going, but fear crowded out thought. She heard a whimpering sound, then realized it was coming from her own lips. She willed herself to stop.
The terrible smell threatened to overwhelm her. She couldn’t breathe. Or was it fear that kept her from getting her breath?
It could have killed me if it had wanted to, she told herself. She knew she needed to pay attention, to watch where she was being taken, but even if she could quell her terror, she could barely see.
She could hear, though. Her ear was pressed into the creature’s chest, and its heart beat almost like a human’s. Its breath came in sharp inhalations, b
ut it didn’t sound tired or even winded. Its feet made hardly any sound at all, which seemed improbable for a creature so huge. It must have been half again as tall as she was.
Where were they going? She tried not to think of animals that liked their meat fresh.
Inside her head, she imagined herself curling into a ball to protect herself. “Lady of the Vanir, Freyja, help me,” she whispered.
Her legs dangled helplessly, hitting against the creature’s knees as it ran. She tried pulling them up, but that took more strength than she wanted to expend.
How long had they been going? It could have been a moment or a lifetime. She forced herself to stay alert, to breathe despite the unbearable stench of the creature’s hide. Trees rushed past. Light flickered through branches, but she couldn’t look up to see where the sun was. If the creature set her down that very moment, she wouldn’t know where she was or how to find her way back to the men. Not that she had to worry about that. The creature’s grasp was so tight that she’d lost all feeling in her arms—it wasn’t about to let her go.
Sharp pain shot through her side where something dug into her. She tried to shift her position, but the creature’s grip was too strong. It couldn’t keep running forever, could it?
A shudder ran through her. Better to keep running than to stop, because who knew what would happen then.
Twigs and branches scratched at her legs as they moved through dense woods. The pain in her side grew harder to bear. If only she could get away from whatever was digging into her side—but she couldn’t. She closed her eyes and slipped into an endless stupor of fear and pain.
She was barely aware when the creature began to slow, but she woke fully when she heard splashing. The creature was holding her differently now, and whatever had been hurting her side was blessedly gone. She had almost grown accustomed to the foul odor and she could open both her eyes now, although her head was turned to the side, limiting her view.
She saw what she thought were giant legs until they resolved into tree trunks, alders, rising out of dark water in the pool the creature was splashing through. Either the sun had gone down or they were in a place that got no sun, but from her position, all she could tell was how little light there was.
Ahead of her she could make out the edge of the pool and, beyond it, the massive roots of a giant oak, coiled like a dragon’s tail, earth packed around them. Below the roots, something dark. She stared until she understood the vision. It was the mouth of an earth cave under the oak roots.
The creature’s grip changed, loosening a little.
Hild tensed, readying herself to flee, but the claws tightened around her again. The creature stooped, then plunged them both into the darkness.
She stifled a scream. Her heart pounded so hard she thought it would burst through her chest. She couldn’t think; she was too afraid. “Oh, Freyja,” she whispered, the words coming out like a moan.
The creature dropped her. The ground hit her with a cold shock. She tried to scramble away, but her body betrayed her. She lay where she’d fallen. Let me die now, she begged the goddess, not knowing if she said the words aloud. Let it be over.
Snuffling noises reached her ears. She brought her knees to her chest, pulling herself into a ball, and waited to die.
Nothing happened.
She blinked. In the middle of the cave, coals glowed red. In the eerie light, roots dangled like snakes from the earthen roof and walls. She strained her eyes to see what was on the other side of the cave. Something crouched in the shadows, its eyes gleaming.
Hild scuttled backward. She hit a cold earth wall and hunched like a wild animal, watching. The feeling was returning to her arms, sending agonizing prickles to her fingertips. She squeezed her fingers into fists against the pain and kept her eyes on the shape in the shadows.
Something cried out.
She flinched and pushed herself farther into the cave wall.
The cry came again, not as loud this time, and diminished into a noise that made Hild think of one of her nephews whimpering.
The thing on the other side of the fire rose, towering, and moved toward her.
Hild brought her arms up to protect her chest and face.
The creature stopped. It bent down in front of the coals and blew, sending ash flying into the air. Flames leapt up, illuminating the creature and the cave.
Hild stared, incredulous. The creature had a woman’s shape, like a troll-wife from one of Ari Frothi’s stories. Behind it, against the other wall, lay a pile of something, a large heap, indistinct in the murky gloom.
The heap moved.
Hild shrank back, keeping herself from yelping. She tried to watch both the heap and the creature beside the fire, not knowing which threatened her the most.
The heap moved again. A noise came from it, a snarl, followed by a sound like a child’s sniveling.
Hild’s eyes widened. It was another monster. It held its legs and arms to its chest just as she had done moments ago. It was crying.
The female creature raised its head from the fire. It cast a glance at the monster on the ground. Then, with a movement so swift that Hild could barely follow it, it stood and crossed to Hild, swept her into its arms, carried her to the other side of the fire, and dumped her on the floor—directly in front of the crying monster.
She couldn’t get away. There was no place for her to go. She tried not to weep. She didn’t want to sound like the monster as she died. Her mother’s face filled her mind. Instead of giving her courage, it sent tears streaming down her cheeks, stinging the raw places where the monster’s hide had rubbed her.
The female creature pushed her from behind.
Hild raised her hands to her face and lowered her head to her chest. If she had to die here, why couldn’t it be faster? Horrified, she answered her own question. The monsters would want to play with her first, like a cat with a bird, before they ate her.
“Freyja,” she whispered, and gulped back a sob.
The monster pushed her again, not as hard this time.
Hild raised her head, sudden anger filling her. “Stop it!” she croaked, her voice rough from tears and tension.
This time, the push was more like a nudge.
Bracing herself, curiosity fighting with her fear, Hild turned to see what the female creature was doing, to see what form her death would take.
It moved forward.
Hild jerked away, but she needn’t have bothered. The creature went past her to the monster on the floor and raised its claw. For a terrible moment, Hild thought she was about to witness one monster killing another. The claw stopped at the monster’s chest.
Hild squinted in the firelight, blinking, fighting her fear and pain in order to concentrate. The monster’s claws clutched at something, but she couldn’t see what.
Then it shifted position and she saw fur, dark and matted. Dried blood? Yes, she was sure there was blood, and then she saw something else.
Something buried deep in the monster’s chest.
It was her sword.
TWENTY-ONE
THE FEMALE CREATURE LOOKED AT HILD THROUGH RED eyes set deep in its matted, wiry fur. It turned back to the sword hilt, dabbing at it gently while the monster on the floor moaned.
Then the female raised its claw toward Hild.
She flinched. In an instant, she looked around, taking in her position. The fire was behind her, too high to jump. On one side, an earth wall. The wounded monster lay on the ground in front of her; the other crouched beside her. There was no escape.
The claw came closer. Hild held her breath.
It stopped so near her face it was almost touching her.
Hild stared, mesmerized, at the dirt-encrusted talon.
Then it moved back, away from her face. She remembered to breathe, gulping in air.
The claw dropped to the sword hilt. As it did, the monster on the ground roared, twisting its body in agony.
Hild hunched into the wall, screwing her eyes shut in h
orror.
The sound died away. Cautiously, she cracked open one eye, then the other.
The female creature was holding its claw near the sword hilt, looking at it—and now looking at Hild. Did it know what she had done? Whose sword it was? Hild watched as it stared down at the weapon, then looked back at her, reaching out with its talons. She flattened herself against the wall again, but the claw stopped an arm’s length away.
It was pointing at her. Then it pointed at the sword.
Like a rush of clear water, comprehension flowed through her. It wanted her to remove the weapon from the wounded monster’s chest.
Perhaps it had seen her tending to Mord and Gizzur. Perhaps it believed only the blade’s wielder could draw it free. Perhaps it had motives Hild would never fathom. Whatever the reason, the creature wanted her to heal the wound she had caused.
She’d been brought here to nurse a monster.
She could have laughed, the notion was so far-fetched. She felt momentarily giddy. She wasn’t going to die, not just yet.
Then she looked back at the monster on the ground and the feeling fled. Didn’t the female creature realize that pulling the sword out was the surest way to a quick death? No, of course it didn’t. That was why she was here: because it believed Hild had the power to heal. And if she was going to stay alive, she had better start believing it, too—or at least start convincing the creatures that she knew what she was doing.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll try.” Keeping her eye on the female creature, moving the way you would to calm a skittish horse, Hild eased herself onto her knees in front of the injured creature. As she did, pain flared in her side and she gasped. She waited until she could stand it, then moved again, this time more carefully.
The closer she got to the wounded creature, the harder it was to breathe. She had thought the female smelled bad, but its stench was nothing compared to this. The fur was matted with dirt and blood. Not just its own blood, she realized. Brynjolf’s blood.
She couldn’t think about that now.
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