Freya the Huntress (Europa #2: A Dark Fantasy) (25 page)

“Who is she?” the huntress whispered.

“Her name is Roosa, or something,” Wren said. “She’s the one who was flying the skyship when it crashed in Hengavik eight years ago.”

Freya darted forward, dragging Wren and her light with her to inspect the woman. “The pilot! Omar told me about her.”

“Omar? Is that the old man with the dangerous sword?”

Freya grinned. “Very dangerous. It’s solid rinegold.”

“What!” Wren stared at her. “There isn’t enough rinegold in the entire world to make a knife. How can he have a whole sword of it?”

“Apparently, there is quite a bit of it out in the world. It’s just very hard to find. In fact, that’s why he came here in the first place, eight years ago. He was looking for more.” Freya turned her attention back to the woman in the corner. “Omar seemed to think the pilot was living in the city. I don’t think he knew about this, though.”

“Skadi said they put her down here because she was sabotaging the drill, stealing parts to build a ship so she could leave Ysland.”

They both looked at the stranger, and the stranger stared back at them with her wide, sunken eyes. She sat at an awkward angle, leaning against the cold stone wall in her ragged, colorless clothes. Her bony hands trembled in her lap, and her breaths were short and shallow.

“I think she’s dying, very slowly. No thief deserves to suffer like this.” Freya reached behind the woman to yank on the chain clasped around her ankle, and found it quite sturdy. “But even if we set her free, I don’t think she’s in any condition to escape, much less survive outside the city on her own. We’ll have to leave her here, for now.”

The dark woman blinked at them. “Morayo.”

“What’s that mean?” Freya asked.

“I’m not sure. I think it’s someone she doesn’t like,” said Wren. “Maybe you should ask Omar. Maybe he knows.”

After a few more moments holding the stranger’s hand and trying without success to coax her into speaking, Freya and Wren left the cellar and returned to their room upstairs. Wren eased into bed with a violent shiver, her teeth chattering.

“Does it hurt much?” Freya asked. She touched the girl’s forehead and found her burning up.

Wren shrugged. “Only when I’m awake.”

“Then get some sleep. I’ll come get you tonight when it’s time to leave.”

Freya spent the rest of the evening in the courtyard as more and more people came inside the castle walls to eat, drink, and sing. The bonfires burned brightly, the people shouted and stamped their feet, and even though she found herself within reach of Skadi or Leif, Freya found herself almost enjoying the evening as stranger after stranger rushed up to embrace her and praise her and thank her.

The sheer noise and movement and press of life, the parade of smiles, the echo of laughter, and the smell of the food stampeded through her. She was a creature of the hills, of long silent nights lying in wait, and long sultry nights lying with her husband. The sound and fury of the celebration swept her along on a current of human joy and relief, the likes of which she had never felt before.

Countless men, women, and children thronged around her to hear the story of the great hunt and the great battle with the demon Fenrir, and she found that with a little encouragement and a little mead, she could tell the story quite well. And she told it truthfully, for the most part.

She let Erik stand for Omar, whom she never mentioned at all, and at the very end of their battle in the snowy ravine she gave Erik a death so heroic and godly that people were soon singing the praises of the Silent Stalker of Thaverfell. But after telling the story three times, others were able to take up that duty, and she found a seat among the guards to watch the festivities and eat, and to keep an eye on the queen.

The women sang songs of love, and the men sang songs of war, and then the women and the men sang in a battling round that ended with more drinking and laughing and more than a few couples stumbling around the corners and shadows to celebrate with even more vigor.

A brief lull settled over the crowd at one point. There was a moment when everyone seemed to be wiping a merry tear from their eye at the same time, when everyone was reaching for a glass at the same time, and everyone was thinking about finding an outhouse or ditch at the same time. And in that moment a small, elderly man stepped forward into the clearing between the tables and cried out, “I sing the song of Ivar Ketilsson, King of Rekavik, warrior, father, and hero to his people.”

As the skald began to recite the epic life and deeds of the dead king, Freya slid over to Halfdan and said, “Father? Ivar and Skadi have children?”

“Not with Skadi. He had a son with his first wife, the one who died. Pretty little thing, too,” the man said. “I liked her. She was nice to me.”

“Where is his son? I don’t think I’ve met him.”

Halfdan shook his head. “Young Magnus led the very first war party into the north after Fenrir killed Ivar, and Magnus was the first to fall. Precious few men returned from that raid to tell the tale.”

Freya felt a cool wave of understanding wash through the ale-mist in her brain. “Was Leif one of those precious few?”

Halfdan paused to think. “Yes, I think so. Lucky little coward.”

Or a lucky little killer. With Ivar gone, Skadi still needed to kill his son for her to take the throne.

“I suppose Ivar didn’t have any other family.”

Halfdan grinned. “Well, except for me. He was my cousin on my father’s side.”

“But then, shouldn’t you be king now?”

“I’m just a soldier.” He shrugged. “What do I know about kingcraft?”

“Highness!” Freya called out over the din, and a few faces turned to hear what the heroine of the hour wished to say to the queen. “Have you had any luck with the ring of Rekavik? Have the valas taught you a cure for the plague?”

The crowd fell a bit quieter still as more faces turned to hear the answer.

Skadi smiled and raised her silver cup. “A worthy question. And the answer is that I have spent the day learning to speak to the souls of my ancient seidr-sisters dwelling in the ring. But there are so many of them, reaching back so far into Ysland’s distant past, that it may take some time for me to find the one who can help us. But be assured, all of you, that I will not rest until I have found the cure.”

Her words earned her a few raised cups and quiet cheers before everyone turned back to hear the skald’s melodic retelling of one of Ivar’s duels as a young man. Freya frowned into her cup.

Omar was right. She already knows the ring is useless, but she’s going to play for time, for months or maybe even years. She’ll use the ring and the possibility of a cure to keep these people serving her for the rest of her life.

Evening turned to night, and the joyful celebration of life and victory slowly descended into a drunken search for a lover to grope or an old grudge to fight over. Somewhere between the beatings and the humpings, the queen excused herself along with Thora and Leif. By that time, Freya was long since tired of the feast and longing for bed, for sleep, for oblivion from all the madness and politics and fear, and even to escape the aching sense of her own betrayal. She felt Erik’s absence so keenly it made her arms ache that she couldn’t grab him and crush him against her at that moment.

The crowd thinned and the last of the songs and stories were told, and the last of the good ale was drunk, and all that was left in the courtyard was a mess of bodies, torn clothing, half-eaten food, and crackling fires that were slowly dying down into smoldering coals and ash.

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. Panic

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.