Fjalltindr was the sacred temple on the very top of the mountain known as Hammar. Every nine years there was a gathering that drew people from near and far to pay tribute to the gods and offer their sacrifices. I’d never been before, my parents having always claimed that it was not a place for children, and this would be the first time it took place since I’d come of age.
The great hall was in a flurry of activity, two dozen horses and a number of pack animals already saddled and loaded when I emerged in dry clothes and a thick cloak. Ylva was directing the process, the lady of Halsar no longer attired in a costly dress, but in warrior’s clothes, including a mail shirt, a long seax hanging from her belt. I had no doubt that she knew how to use it.
Particularly when her opponent’s back was turned.
“You will remain with the warriors I’m leaving behind to protect Halsar,” Snorri said to Leif. “You will be lord in my absence. Send word across my territories calling for those who can fight and tell them to prepare.”
“Prepare to be attacked?” Leif crossed his arms, expression displeased. “There will be anger, Father.”
“Remind them that we are favored by the gods,” Snorri answered as he mounted his horse. “If they care not for that, then remind them that those who fight for me will be rewarded.” Turning away from his son, he said to me, “We lost horses in the fire, so we are short. You will ride with Bjorn.”
There wasn’t much I could say to that as Snorri reached down to lift Ylva, who settled comfortably behind him. Steinunn also shared a mount, though with a young thrall woman, the skald watching my every move, though no emotion showed on her face. Sighing, I walked over to Bjorn’s big roan gelding, noting that he was also wearing mail. “What happened to riding shirtless into battle?” I grumbled, my aching arms protesting as he pulled me up behind him, knowing it would be my arse suffering in a few hours. The horse likely wouldn’t be impressed, either.
“You’re riding behind me, Born-in-Fire,” he said, heeling the horse into a walk. “And it is very nearly guaranteed that I’ll say something to anger you on the journey. It’s a long ride and I’ve no talent for silence.”
“Well, that is certainly the truth.” I barely managed to curb a yelp as he urged the horse into a canter that nearly sent me toppling off the back. I clung to Bjorn’s waist as he followed Snorri out of Halsar, but as we left the town, a hooded figure on a rocky outcropping caught my attention.
It was the same figure I’d seen during the funeral of the victims of the raid, smoke and ash drifting away on a wind despite the air being still.
“Bjorn!” I pointed. “Do you see that person?”
He turned his head, and through the mail and all the padding he wore beneath it, I felt him tense. “Where? I see no one.”
A chill of fear ran down my spine, because if Bjorn couldn’t see the figure, I was either losing my mind or this was a specter revealing itself only to me. “Stop the horse.”
Bjorn drew up his mount, the rest of our party following suit even as Snorri demanded, “Why are you stopping?”
I pointed again at the specter, which remained with its head lowered, embers and ash falling around it. “Do any of you see that hooded figure? The embers? The smoke?”
Confusion radiated across our party as everyone looked to where I pointed, shaking their heads. Nothing. Yet the horses seemed aware, all of them snorting and stomping, their ears pinned flat.
“A specter,” Snorri breathed. “Perhaps even one of the gods having stepped onto the mortal plane. Speak to him, Freya.”
My palms turned clammy because that was the last thing I wanted to do. “Try to get closer.”
Bjorn urged his mount toward the outcropping until the horse finally dug in its heels, refusing to go closer. “What do you want?” I shouted at the specter.
“So polite, Born-in-Fire,” Bjorn murmured, but I ignored him as the specter’s head tracked toward me, face still hidden by the hood. Then it lifted its hand and spoke, voice rough and pained.
“She, the unfated, she the child of Hlin, she who was born in fire must give sacrifice to the gods on the mount at the first night of the full moon else her thread will be cut short, the future that was foreseen unwoven.”
The words settled into my head, understanding of what they meant twisting my guts with nausea.
“Did it answer?” Bjorn asked, and I gave a tight nod. “Yes.” Louder, I asked, “Why? Why must I do this?”
“She must earn her fate,” the specter answered, then exploded into embers and smoke.
The horse reared, and I cursed, clinging to Bjorn’s waist to keep from falling while he settled the animal.
“How did the specter answer?” Snorri demanded, riding his snorting mount in circles around us. “Did it identify itself?”
“It said that I must earn my fate,” I answered, righting myself behind Bjorn. “That I must give sacrifice to the gods on the mount on the first night of the full moon, or my thread will be cut short.”
“A test!” Snorri’s eyes brightened. “Surely the specter was one of the gods, for they delight in such things.”
A test that, if I failed, would see me dead. Needless to say, I did not share in Snorri’s enthusiasm.
“The gods will not grant you greatness for nothing,” he said. “You must prove yourself to them.”
It was not lost on me that I’d once dreamed of greatness, and now, presented with it, it felt like the last thing I wanted.
Besides, I was unfated. How could the specter, the gods, or anyone truly predict what my future held? How could they know for certain that if I didn’t go to Fjalltindr, I’d die? Maybe I could alter my destiny and escape this. Maybe I could wait for a moment when backs were turned and run. I could retrieve my family, and together we could flee out of Snorri’s reach. I could weave a new fate for myself. The race of thoughts made me abruptly regret not taking Bjorn up on his offer to help me escape.
As though hearing my thoughts, Snorri added, “If you destroy the fate foreseen for me, Freya, you had best hope that you are dead. For my wrath will burn like wildfire, and it will turn on everything you love.”
Hate boiled in my chest because the gods weren’t the threat I feared. It was the bastard standing before me.
“We’ve wasted enough time! We ride to Fjalltindr,” he ordered, spinning his horse and setting off at a gallop.
Instead of following, Bjorn twisted in the saddle, wrapping one arm around my waist, and pulling me in front of him. As I struggled to right my legs around the horse’s shoulders, he said, “I don’t think the specter was threatening you, Freya. I think it was warning you that there will be those along the way who will try to kill you.”
“As if I didn’t already know that.”
“The mountaintop is sacred ground.” Bjorn’s hand pressed against my ribs to hold me steady. “No weapons are allowed, as all deaths must be in sacrifice to the gods, which means some level of safety within Fjalltindr’s borders.”
I didn’t take much comfort in that. “How long will it take us to reach the mountain?”
“Tomorrow we’ll reach the village at the base of the mountain, where we’ll leave the horses,” he said. “Then another half day’s climb.”
A night out in the open. I swallowed hard. “I think we should ride faster.”
By the time dusk fell, the horses were laboring hard and my body ached from bouncing up and down for hours on Bjorn’s lap. Judging from his groans as he slowly dismounted his horse, falling on his back in the dirt and shouting at the sky that he’d lost the ability to sire children, he’d not fared much better.
Yet it was the first time since we’d left Halsar that anyone laughed, so I welcomed the release of tension even if it was at my expense. The warriors jostled and elbowed one another as they tended the mounts, the thralls Snorri had brought moving to prepare dinner while their mistress perched on a rock, clearly above doing anything at all.
I hesitated, not certain where I belonged, then moved to join the thralls. For while I didn’t know how to prepare the defense of a camp, I did know how to make a fire and dress game.
Carefully stacking a pile of kindling, I stuffed moss under the sticks. My scarred hand was painfully stiff, likely from my training with Bjorn, and I struggled to grip my knife to strike the flint.
“There’s an easier way.” Bjorn crouched next to me, axe appearing in his hand. The crimson fire flickered and danced as he shoved it into my carefully assembled stack of wood, knocking everything askew before disappearing into the darkness.
I eyed the weapon, this the first opportunity I’d had to really scrutinize the axe up close. It gave off tremendous heat, though the sweat that beaded on my brow was more from nerves than the temperature, as I remembered how it had felt when it seared my palm. How in the heartbeat I’d held it, the crimson fire had enveloped my hand as though it intended to consume me. As though Tyr himself wanted to punish me for wielding a weapon never meant for my hands.
Yet my curiosity was greater than my fear, and I bent closer, squinting against the glow. Beneath the flickers of fire, the axe itself appeared to be made from translucent glass with patterns etched along the blade and haft.
Realizing the thralls were watching, I pushed kindling on top of the axe. The wood swiftly ignited, the oranges and golds and blues of natural flame mixing with the blood-red god-fire as I added larger pieces.
“Will you describe to me the specter’s appearance?” Steinunn knelt next to me, her cloak slipping dangerously close to Bjorn’s axe. I reached to move the fabric even as I said, “Hooded. Embers and smoke poured from it as though it were aflame beneath its cloak.”
“How did seeing it make you feel? What were your thoughts?”
My jaw tightened, the invasiveness of her queries again rubbing me the wrong way. As though sensing my irritation, the skald swiftly said, “It is how my magic works, Freya. I chronicle the stories of our people as ballads, but for them to possess heart and emotion, they must be told from the perspective of those they are about, not my own observations. I seek only to do justice to your growing fame.”
“It feels strange to share with someone I barely know.”
A rare flicker of emotion appeared in the skald’s eyes, then she looked away. “I’m not used to speaking about myself. Most desire for me to sing of their exploits, so conversation is about them, not me.”
My irritation fled in favor of sympathy, and for the first time since we’d met, I truly focused on the skald as I considered the cost of her gift. What it would feel like if everyone you spoke to cared only about telling you their stories on the chance of expanding their fame in a ballad, and nothing about the woman who wrote the songs. Steinunn was used as a tool, just as I was. “I would like to know more about you.”
Steinunn stiffened, then wiped her palms on her skirt. “There is little to tell. I was born in a small fishing village on the coast. When I turned fourteen, our jarl took me into service, though it was short-lived, for another jarl soon learned of my gift and paid him in gold to bring me into his service. So it was for many years, jarls buying my service from one another.”
Like a thrall. “You had no choice where you went?”
Steinunn lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “For the most part, I was well compensated and cared for, and in recent years, my…liberty has grown.” Her jaw clenched as she said the last, but then she gave me a smile, the moment of discomfort gone as swiftly as it had appeared.
I opened my mouth to ask whether she had or wanted a family, then closed it again. If she had a family, they weren’t in Halsar, and she might not appreciate me raising the topic. “So you wish to know how I felt? That is how your magic works?”
Steinunn nodded.
Keeping my eyes on Bjorn’s axe, I bit the insides of my cheeks. Admitting that I had been afraid seemed counter to the story Snorri wished to spread about me, but if I said otherwise, the woman would likely know it was a lie.
“Perhaps if I show you,” the skald said, and opening her full lips, she began to sing. Softly, so that only I would hear, her beautiful voice filled my ears, telling the tale of the raid against Halsar. Yet it was not the words that drew a gasp from my lips, it was visions of darkness and flame that filled my eyes, blocking out the world around me, fear forming like a vise around my chest.
“Save your caterwauling for those who didn’t live through that battle, Steinunn.”
Bjorn’s voice cut through the song and the skald fell silent, the vision immediately fading away.
“I’m following your father’s orders,” she snapped, the first sign of anger I’d ever seen from her. “It is Snorri who wishes Freya’s fame to grow.”
“I felt afraid,” I blurted out, not wishing to be at the center of a confrontation between these two, who clearly were not friends. “But I also wanted answers.”
I held my breath, praying that would be sufficient.
“Thank you, Freya.” Steinunn rose to her feet, not saying a word to Bjorn as she pushed past him.
“You shouldn’t be so rude,” I said to him as he knelt near the fire. “She’s got no more choice in what she does than I do.”
Bjorn grunted, though whether it was in agreement or denial, I wasn’t sure. “I once allowed her to pick my thoughts, not realizing what her magic could do. Days later, she sang to all of Halsar and I realized that her power would allow all who heard her song to…become me in that moment. To see what I saw. To feel what I felt. To cast their judgment upon me for something I’d never have shared with them, if given the choice. It was…intrusive.”
It struck me as strange that a man such as him would resent anything that brought him notoriety. He was above all else a raider, and to warriors like Bjorn, nothing mattered more than battle fame. Except I’d once dreamed of such things, and those opening verses of the raid on Halsar had not brought me pride and elation, but rather fear. Perhaps, however improbably, Bjorn felt the same. But still…“That doesn’t mean you need to be rude to her.”
“You might reconsider your stance after a few more months of her prying into every detail of your actions,” he answered. “It’s the only way I can get her to leave me be.”
Chewing the insides of my cheeks, I debated whether this was something I wished to argue about and decided on changing the subject. Gesturing at his axe, I asked, “Does it have to be an axe? Or could you make it any weapon?”
Bjorn huffed a breath at the subject change but said, “It has always been an axe. For others with Tyr’s blood, a sword or knife.”
“And it looks the same every time you summon it?”
His axe abruptly disappeared, as though he liked my scrutiny of it as little as he did Steinunn’s intrusions into his thoughts. “More or less.” Circling the fire, he sat cross-legged next to me. “Is Hlin’s shield always the same?”
I frowned, considering the question. “It takes the shape of the shield I’m holding.”
“Does it need to be a proper shield? Or could your magic turn anything into a shield?” He reached over and picked up a pot, brandishing it. “Such magic would keep anyone from crossing you in the kitchen. Are you a good cook, by the way?”
“Don’t be an arse—of course I’m a good cook.” Wrenching the pot from his grip, I turned it over in my hand, then lifted it. “Hlin, protect me.”
Power flooded my veins, the warmth of it driving away the chill in the air. It flowed from my hand to cover the pot, its glow doing more than the fire to illuminate the darkness. Vaguely, I was aware that everyone had stopped to stare at me, but my attention was all for Bjorn, who was eyeing the pot thoughtfully.
Extracting a knife from his belt, he slammed the tip into my pot. The weapon bounced off with enough force that it went spinning out of his grip and into the dirt, but rather than retrieving the blade, he motioned for me to rise. Nerves prickled my skin, but I obliged him, my nerves turning to fear as his axe appeared in his hand.
“Bjorn…” Snorri said, stepping forward. “I don’t think this—”
“Do you trust that I won’t miss?” Bjorn said to me, acting as though his father hadn’t even spoken.
I swallowed. “Bjorn, I’m wielding a cooking pot.”
“You’re wielding Hlin’s power,” he corrected. “So perhaps the better question is whether you trust the goddess? Or whether you trust yourself?”
Did I? Hlin’s magic had held against Tyr’s once before, but Bjorn had been unprepared. What if this time his axe sliced through my magic?
The memory of the pain I’d felt when the axe had burned me filled my head, feeling so real I looked down at my hand to ensure it wasn’t aflame. My breathing accelerated, my pulse a dull roar in my ears as the arm holding the pot trembled.
“Bjorn,” Snorri snarled, “if you hurt her, I’ll cut out your gods-cursed heart!”
Bjorn did not so much as blink, only asked softly, “Well, Freya?”
Terror and nausea rolled in my guts, every instinct telling me to back down. To say that I couldn’t do it. That I needed a proper shield and time to test just how powerful Hlin’s magic was. But a defiant, albeit potentially idiotic, part of my heart forced two words up through my strangled throat and across my dry tongue. “Do it.”
Bjorn threw the axe.
I clenched my teeth, fighting the instinct to dive sideways, instead holding my pot steady, a scream filling my ears. Crimson flame flipped end-over-end toward me, the screaming—which I realized was my own—abruptly drowned out by a concussive blast that shattered the air like thunder.
The axe ricocheted off my pot, smashing through tree branches and up into the sky before winking out.
Ylva gasped loudly, but Bjorn only laughed, his eyes bright as he reached out to touch the glowing pot.
“Careful!” I tensed, afraid that the magic would shatter his hand. But with utter fearlessness, he pressed his palm against the magic.
Instead of repelling his touch, my magic allowed Bjorn’s hand to sink into it like water. I felt the moment he touched the pot itself, a gentle pressure, whereas with the impact of his axe, I’d felt nothing. The sensation moved up my arm and down into my core, as though he touched not magic and metal, but my bare skin, and I shivered.
“You get what you give,” he murmured, then lifted his eyes from the magic to meet mine. “Or perhaps more accurately, you give what you get.”
The rest of the world fell away as I considered his words, it feeling for all the world like he was the first person to ever understand me.
Except…that wasn’t quite it.
My family understood me. My friends understood me. But there were parts of me that they wanted to change, whereas Bjorn seemed to accept the way I was. Seemed to encourage the parts of my character that everyone else in my life had tried to quash. A quiver ran through me, a powerful mix of emotions filling my chest in a way that made it hard to breathe.
Then Snorri spoke, shattering the moment. “Her magic is more powerful than yours? The shield maiden is stronger than you?”
My jaw tightened at the use of my title rather than my name, a reminder that to Snorri, I was a thing, not a person.
If Bjorn’s ego was bruised by the comment, he didn’t show it, only shrugged. “That certainly seems to be the case.”
I waited for him to caveat the statement. To argue that in battle, I wouldn’t stand a chance against him. But he didn’t. Didn’t tear me down in order to make himself look strong, as so many men did.
“Yet more proof the gods favor her.” Snorri smiled. “That they favor me.”
I couldn’t stop myself from demanding, “Why? How is the strength of my magic proof the gods favor you as the future king of Skaland?”
“Shut your disrespectful mouth, girl!” Ylva shoved past Bjorn, and I lowered my pot lest I accidentally send her flying across the camp. “A tool is only as good as the hand that wields it, and it was Snorri who received the foretelling. You are nothing without him.”
My jaw tightened, but before I could retort, Snorri said, “Be at ease, my love. She has not your experience and wisdom to have faith in the gods.”
“It is true,” Bjorn said. “I’d estimate two decades’ less experience. Or is it three, Ylva?”
Snorri struck.
One moment Bjorn was laughing, and the next he was on his knees, bleeding from his mouth.
“You are my son, Bjorn, and I love you.” Snorri’s voice was rimmed with frost. “But do not see my affection as weakness. Dishonor Ylva, and you dishonor me. Now apologize.”
Bjorn’s jaw worked back and forth, his eyes narrow and full of anger as he stood.
No, it was more than that.
He hated Ylva. Hated her more than could reasonably be justified by what I’d seen and heard. He opened his mouth and I tensed, sensing the words about to come out would be anything but an apology. But Bjorn only took a deep inhale, then let the breath out slowly.
Ylva crossed her arms, eyes narrowed. “I was grateful my husband was able to rescue you from our enemies, Bjorn, but every day, you test that gratitude.”
“Don’t lie to me, Ylva,” he retorted. “I know it angers you that I took Leif’s place as heir. But at least have the decency to own it rather than hiding behind false sentiment.”
“Fine!” she snarled. “I do not wish for you to inherit. You were gone too long and are more of a Nordelander than a Skalander. The people deserve to be ruled by one of their own. By a legitimate son!”
I clapped a hand to my mouth, shocked at her words, but Bjorn did not so much as blink.
“Enough!” Snorri shouted. “You will both cease in this pointless quarrel.”
Bjorn didn’t seem to have even heard his father, only lowered his head to Ylva’s level and said, “I heard you once said the same thing to my mother.”
I took a step back, for though I stood in the midst of this argument, I’d ceased to be part of it. All around, warriors and servants were doing their best to look anywhere but at the disagreement before them.
Ylva blanched at the accusation, but it was Snorri who roared, “Who told you this lie? Ylva was a friend to your mother, and you know it.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Bjorn twisted away. “It is history. It is done. Forget I said anything.”
Then he strode away into the darkness.
Snorri started in the direction Bjorn had gone, but Ylva caught his arm. “He won’t listen while he’s angry,” she said. “And the more you deny it, the more he’ll believe it’s true.”
“It was Harald,” Snorri seethed. “That’s his way. To whisper poison and lies into ears, twisting loyalties.”
“Likely so,” Ylva answered. “Which begs the question of what else he whispered in Bjorn’s ears during those long years your son was in his care.”
I ground my teeth. Even in this moment, Ylva was manipulating circumstances to her advantage. But at least Snorri seemed to see it. “Your relationship with Bjorn would be better if you weren’t always trying to find ways to discredit him. And to what end? To make Leif look good? I already know my son is a fine boy and will make a fine warrior, but he is not my firstborn. Is not the one Tyr chose to honor with a drop of blood.”
I took a step back, intending to seek out Bjorn, but immediately regretted moving when Ylva looked at me with a scowl, as though all this were my doing. Reaching into the pouch on her belt, she extracted a jar and tossed it at me. “Liv said you are to use this every night. It will ease the pain and stiffness so that you might remain of value. Now go find something useful to keep yourself busy.”
Shoving the salve pot in my pocket, I walked back to the fire where the thralls were working together to prepare a meal. Ylva had brought several of them, all about my age, and likely captured in raids of neighboring territories. Theirs was a hard life, and a short one, unless Ylva chose to make them free women at some point. “How might I help?”
One of them opened her mouth, probably to tell me that it was not necessary, so I swiftly said, “Ylva wishes for me to be useful.” The young woman gave her mistress a sideways glance, then handed me a spoon. “Stir from time to time.”
I dutifully obeyed, though my eyes kept drifting to the perimeter of the camp, waiting for Bjorn to reappear. What had he meant in his comment about his mother? Had Ylva somehow been involved in what had happened to her?
A million questions with no answers. Dipping the spoon into the stew, I tasted it and struggled not to make a face, for it was bland. Reaching for the tiny sacks of spice the women had left out, I added in salt and a few others, tasting it again and finding it more to my liking. “It’s ready.”
The women doled out bowls to everyone, and I sat apart while I ate my meal and stewed over my circumstances. When I was finished, I set my bowl aside and opened the salve Ylva had given me. The contents were waxy and pungent, but though the smell was not unpleasant, I sealed it.
“You actually need to use it for it to help.”
I twitched at Bjorn’s voice, having not heard him come out of the shadowed woods. He sat across the fire from me, picking up a stick and poking pensively at the embers before adding more wood. Then he looked up. “Well? Aren’t you going to put it on?”
My fingers were painfully stiff and would probably be worse come the morning, but for reasons I couldn’t explain, I set aside the jar.
And was rewarded with a noise of exasperation from Bjorn, who rose and circled the fire. “Give me the salve.”
Deeply aware that all eyes were on us, I handed over the little pot, wincing as he extracted a large glob, the frugalness in me protesting the excess.
“Clearly you aren’t aware of the chests of silver my father has buried in various locations about his territory,” he said. “Trust me, he cares more about you being able to use your hand than paying for pots of salve.”
Frugality was ingrained in my character, but in this, he had a point. Extending my arm, I waited for him to deposit the glob of salve on my palm. Instead, Bjorn took hold of my hand and smeared the salve over the twisted tattoo on my right palm. I tensed, self-conscious about him touching the scars despite his claims that they were marks of honor. Yet if the texture of my skin bothered him, Bjorn didn’t show it, his brow furrowed in concentration as his strong fingers dug into the stiff tendons, the heat of his flesh doing more to warm my skin than the fire.
Not that I relaxed.
Relaxing was impossible, for the intimacy of this act was not lost on me. I was another man’s wife. Not just any man’s, but his father’s.
Yet I didn’t pull away.
The shadows from the firelight danced over Bjorn’s hands, tendons standing out against suntanned skin marked with tiny white scars, many of which looked as though they’d been burns. My eyes traveled up his muscled forearms, examining all the tattoos, the black faded enough that he must have had them for many years. I wondered if they had meaning to him or if they were nothing more than decorations that struck his fancy, but I refrained from asking the question.
I didn’t want to disrupt the moment. Didn’t want to do anything that would cause him to remove his hands from mine. Not because the pain was easing beneath his care, but because the diminishing stiffness in my fingers was being replaced with a growing tension in my core.
You are a cursed fool, Freya. An idiot who deserves to be slapped upside the head for lusting over that which you cannot have.
Not only did my body ignore my admonitions, but the ache also deepened, and with it, my imagination flared to life. Flickers of images danced across my thoughts of Bjorn without the shirt he currently wore. Without the trousers. Without any garments between us, his hands on my body and his lips on mine.
Stop it, I pleaded to my imagination, but the Freya who owned those thoughts only smirked and gave me more.
My imagination was a curse.
It had always been a curse, giving me the false belief that what it conjured might become reality, which always led to disappointment. As displeased as I’d been about my father’s choice to wed me to Vragi, I’d still dreamed of the pleasures I’d experience on my wedding night, my imagination fueled by the stories told to me by other women. The reality had proven a bitter tonic, for Vragi had only demanded I disrobe, then bent me over the bed and serviced me like a horse, finishing in moments and leaving nothing but a cold and hollow void in his wake.
“Deep thoughts for the late hour,” Bjorn said softly, and I jerked my eyes up to meet his gaze, feeling caught out despite my memories of Vragi having vanquished the lust burning in my body.
Though now I burned with embarrassment.
“I wasn’t thinking of anything.” I pulled my hand from his grip and hid it in the fold of my cloak. “Thank you for your assistance. The pain is much reduced.”
Bjorn shrugged. “It’s nothing.”
If only that were the case.
“Apologies,” he added after a moment. “For before. You were trying to make sense of the role my father sees for you, and I turned the conversation to my own grievances, which robbed you of the opportunity.”
I lifted one shoulder, for some reason unable to meet his gaze. “He had no intention of telling me anything.”
“I think it’s because he doesn’t know.” Picking up the stick, Bjorn poked at the fire, voice low as he added, “He knows of warring and raiding and twisting stories of the gods to serve his purposes. But as to how you might inspire Skaland to swear oaths to him as king? I think he’s as in the dark as you or me.”
I bit my bottom lip, the night air somehow colder than it had been a moment ago.
“You should get some rest,” he said, rising to his feet. “We’ll break camp before dawn and ride hard tomorrow.”
Spreading out my furs, I lay down and pulled a thick pelt on top of me, my eyes on the glowing embers. In the absence of our conversation, the camp was quiet, the only sounds the crackle and pop of smoldering wood, the wind in the pine boughs above, and the faint snoring of one of the warriors.
Which meant it was impossible to miss the meaty crunch that filled the air.
Sitting upright, I gaped in horror as one of the warriors on guard toppled into the circle of firelight, an axe embedded in his skull. Before I could scream a warning, warriors appeared among the trees, faces marked with warpaint and weapons glinting in the light, their battle cries filling my chest with the purest form of terror.
“Kill the shield maiden!” one of them shrieked. “Kill all the women!”
One of the thralls darted ahead of them, screaming as she tried to get away. Before she made it two steps, a man sliced at her back. She fell, dead before she hit the ground, and the warrior’s eyes fixed on me.
My instincts took over.
Leaping to my feet, I drew my sword before bending to pick up a shield, emotion making my arm strong. It was me they wanted dead. So it would be me they had to kill. “Hlin,” I screamed, “give me your strength!”
Magic filled me, then spilled out of my hand to encase the shield, illuminating the night with brilliant silver light. All eyes turned on me, and then with a roar, the attackers surged. Not just a few men and women, but dozens spilling out from the trees, their eyes full of murder.
And I stood alone.
Or so I thought.
A shield appeared next to mine, and I turned to find Bjorn next to me, his axe burning bright. His face was splattered with blood, but he grinned. “Arm up, Born-in-Fire.” Then, louder, he shouted, “Shield wall!”
Other warriors hurried into position, Snorri among them. Shields locked into place, forming a circle within which Ylva, Steinunn, and the thralls crouched. Though I could smell their terror, mine was gone. In its place, a wild, furious defiance fueled my strength. And my magic.
The glow spilled outward, covering Bjorn’s shield first and then the others, spreading like a tide until the shield wall glowed with starlight.
Yet the enemy didn’t hesitate.
Whether it was because they didn’t know what Hlin’s power could do or that they were too caught up in battle rage to care, the enemy raced toward us as a wall of shield, axe, and blade. The collision was deafening, my magic hurling them back with such force that they collided with their fellows, knocking them from their feet. Screams and the snap of breaking bones filled the night, then Snorri shouted, “Attack!”
For a heartbeat, I wavered, then a voice whispered in my head, They attacked you. Attacked your people. They deserve this fate. I allowed the rage behind that voice to take control.
Hacking and stabbing at the enemy as my pulse roared, I killed and maimed those who’d come to do the same to me. Blood splattered my face and I tasted copper on my tongue, but I didn’t care. They’d brought this fight to me, but I’d be the one who finished it.
And then it was over.
Gasping for breath, I turned in a circle, searching for someone to fight. Someone to kill. But all the enemy was on the ground, either dead or soon to be so, the light from my shield illuminating the gore-soaked scene.
Men and women reduced to carcasses. To parts. The rage that had fueled me fled, replaced with sick horror over the scene before me. A scene that I’d helped create. My fingers turned to ice, bile burning in my throat because each breath I sucked in smelled of blood and opened bowel. They deserved it! I desperately reminded myself. They’d have done the same to you, given the chance!
“Are you hurt?”
I lifted my head to find Bjorn before me, eyes narrowed with concern.
“It smells,” I blurted out. “I didn’t realize it would stink this bad.”
It was a stupid thing to say. A stupid thing to think, but Bjorn only gave a grim nod. “A sweet-smelling victory is a myth, Born-in-Fire.”
Yet one I’d believed in.
I swallowed hard, feeling painfully naive, but before I was forced to acknowledge so to him, a commotion caught our attention.
Snorri was bent over a warrior, the dying man’s guts spilling out of a charred hole in his chain mail, suggesting Bjorn had been the one to strike the blow.
“It’s been a long time since we crossed blades, Jarl Torvin,” Snorri said, wiping gore from his brow. “It would’ve been better if you’d kept it that way.”
Torvin spat a mouthful of blood. “Your time will come soon enough,” he gasped out. “You possess the king-maker but have not the strength to keep her. Everyone is coming for her, to kill her or take her, and you’ll be a corpse alongside me soon enough.”
Snorri laughed. “How can I fear death when the gods themselves have foreseen my greatness?”
“They foresaw greatness,” Torvin whispered. “But is it yours? Or is it for the taking?”
Snorri’s face darkened and, rotating his axe head up, he shoved the haft into Torvin’s mouth, smiling as the man choked and gagged, clutching at his throat before finally going still.
No one spoke as Snorri straightened. “Ready the horses. We ride through the night to Fjalltindr.”
Bjorn cleared his throat. “They cut the lines and scattered the horses. It will take some time to track them down.”
“We don’t have time,” Ylva said. “You heard him—every jarl in Skaland is coming for her.”
“We’ve lost a third of our men,” Bjorn said. “We should return to Halsar.”
Blood dribbled down Snorri’s face, and I found myself staring at what looked like bits of skull caught in his beard. “No,” he said. “The specter said that if Freya isn’t able to give sacrifice on the first night of the full moon her thread will be cut short. And if she’s dead, I will not achieve my destiny.”
How many will die in the quest to get me to that moment? The question rippled through my thoughts, and I gripped my sword hilt. All this death for a chance at power.
“If what Torvin said is true, then more will be waiting to ambush us on the path up the mountain,” Bjorn said. “It’s narrow and we’ll be at a great disadvantage against those holding higher ground.”
Silence hung over the survivors of the battle, and though my fate sat at the center of this, I held my tongue.
Because I did not know which way forward was best.
If I didn’t make it to Fjalltindr, it meant I was dead, so turning back wasn’t an option. But that didn’t mean I’d survive pressing forward. Perhaps not even the gods knew for certain.
“There’s another path,” Snorri said, finally breaking the silence. “You and Freya will go that route while the rest of us provide diversion.”
Bjorn stared at him. “You don’t honestly mean…?”
“No one will think to guard that route.”
“Because only a lunatic would attempt that climb,” Bjorn exploded, sending a flood of unease through me. If it was dangerous enough to dissuade Bjorn, it must truly be madness to consider it.
I opened my mouth to demand an explanation, but before I could speak, Snorri said, “The gods have set Freya to this test, and Hlin herself has set you to guard her back.”
“No.” Bjorn was pale. “I’d rather fight my way through every clan in Skaland than go that route.”
“Which route?” I demanded. “What is this path you speak of?”
Snorri didn’t so much as look my way, but Bjorn’s gaze met mine. “It’s called the Path to Helheim. It’s a set of stairs and tunnels that runs inside the sheer side of the mountain.”
The idea of tunnels set my pulse to thrumming, as I had no liking for being underground, but I didn’t think Bjorn would blanch at the idea of confined spaces. “What is so dangerous about it?”
Bjorn’s tone was flat as he said, “It’s full of draug.”
The undead.
My skin crawled as memories of the stories I’d heard as a child filled my mind, corpses that couldn’t be killed with mortal weapons.
“Allegedly,” Snorri said. “There is no proof.”
“Hard for there to be any proof when any fool who attempts the climb is consumed,” Bjorn snapped. “The area around the entrance is littered with bones. Not even animals will venture close.”
“There is no choice.” Snorri’s hands fisted. “Freya must be there for the full moon. The specter told her that she must earn her fate, which means she must pass every test the gods set for her.”
“The specter spoke in riddles,” Bjorn retorted. “You might unwittingly be sending Freya to her death.”
“Is it Freya’s death you fear”—Snorri’s face was hard as granite—“or your own, Bjorn?”
No one spoke. No one even seemed to breathe.
“Are you my son or are you a coward, because you cannot be both,” Snorri said softly. “Choose.”
It was no choice, I knew that. Either Bjorn walked toward death and kept his honor, or he lived and was branded a coward, which meant he’d be exiled and ostracized by all he crossed paths with.
Stepping forward, I said, “I won’t condemn anyone to die just to spare myself death. I especially won’t condemn anyone to spend eternity as a draug.” Because that was the fate that awaited anyone who was killed by one.
Bjorn opened his mouth to speak, but Ylva interrupted him. “If you fail to make it by the full moon, Freya, you will cease to be of value. As will your family. Am I clear?”
I pressed my hands flat against my thighs because the alternative was to strike her. Hard. And I didn’t think I’d be able to stop with one blow. Didn’t think I’d be able to stop until her face was pulp beneath my fists. “The gods see all, Ylva. There will be a reckoning for this.”
“Foretellings are the words of the gods. Of Odin himself,” she answered. “They’d not have set us on this path if they did not intend to reward us for doing whatever it took to reach the end.”
I was tempted to point out that neither she nor Snorri were the ones who had to face the draug, but instead I said, “Then I’ll go alone.”
“No!” All three of them spoke at once, and all, I thought, for different reasons. Ylva, because she hoped the draug would kill Bjorn and clear the way for Leif. Snorri, because he feared losing his destiny. And Bjorn…I wasn’t entirely sure what his reasons were, only that his no had been more vehement than the others.
“It makes sense,” I said.
“It does not make sense.” Bjorn crossed his arms. “You don’t know the way. Going at all is insanity, but going by yourself is blind stupidity.”
“Agreed,” Snorri said. “Hlin wishes for him to see you through to fulfill your destiny, which means he must be with you through each test.”
Part of me thought that I should argue. Another part of me wondered if Snorri was right. “Fine.”
Holding his fingers to his lips, Bjorn whistled, and a heartbeat later, his ugly roan horse emerged from the trees, walking toward its master. “Pack only what you need. And what you’re willing to carry.” His gaze met mine. “Leave behind anything you don’t want lost to this world.”
My gaze instinctively went to the sword I still held, sticky with the blood of the men whose lives it had taken. It was the last thing I had of my father’s, and if I died, it should go to Geir, not be left to rust in a cave.
A dark voice whispered inside my head, Why? Because he valued it so greatly?
My jaw tightened, for the voice spoke true. Wiping the blade clean on the body of one of the fallen, I sheathed it at my side before turning to Snorri. “I want my own horse.”
