“Do you really think she’s spying for Snorri?”
“Of course she is,” Bjorn answered. “She’s the perfect spy, for everyone answers her questions in the hope of a mention in one of her songs. Even if they didn’t, she’s always lurking in the corners, watching and listening. You’d do well to mind your words around her.”
On that, he might have a point, but…“I feel bad for her.”
“Why? She’s given everything.”
“There’s something sad about her. I…” I shook my head, unable to give justification to the feeling. Besides, Steinunn, and whether or not she was spying for Snorri, was hardly my foremost concern. “How did the draug come to be here?” I cast a backward glance toward the entrance, only to find the sunlight already gone, the tunnel having bent without my noticing. “Who were they?”
“It is forbidden to carry a weapon through the temple borders or to take a life not in sacrifice to the gods,” Bjorn answered. “As the story goes, a jarl coveted the wealth of Fjalltindr and sought to take it. He and his trusted warriors came for the ritual, and in the celebration that followed, they stole much of the gold and silver that had been left as offerings and fled with it down this path. One by one, they were struck down by divine force, made to bear the burden of their master’s curse and guard the tunnels until the end of days. Most believe that the treasure they stole still remains within the caverns, and many have attempted to steal it for themselves. None have ever returned, and it is said that any who touch the treasure of Fjalltindr are cursed to become draug themselves. So if you see anything valuable on the steps, best leave it alone.”
“Noted,” I muttered, stepping over a dead rabbit, its skin torn by what looked like claws. “What about your axe? Can you still call it within the temple’s borders?”
“I wouldn’t even attempt to do so.” Bjorn stopped at the base of a staircase leading up, each step only half a handspan deep, the rock slimy with moisture. At his feet, the hindquarters of a deer sat rotting. “It’s a weapon.”
“What about my shield?”
He glanced over his shoulder at me. “You willing to risk finding out?”
Given what had happened to the jarl and his men, that was a definite no.
The steps rose up and up, and it wasn’t long until my calves screamed from the effort of keeping my balance on the slippery rock. I suspected it was worse for Bjorn, for he was tall enough to have to hunch over, but he never paused.
And with every step, the mountain pressed in.
There was no way to know how deep inside we were, or even how far off the ground we’d traveled, and the walls of the tunnel seemed to narrow even as the air grew hotter and more fetid. Strange sounds filled the cavern, and more than once I swore I heard the sound of feet. The whisper of strange voices. I sucked in breath after rapid breath, my heart beating chaotically in my chest as the walls moved ever closer.
It’s just your imagination, I told myself. There’s plenty of space.
Bjorn chose that moment to grumble, “This is the first time in my life I’ve wished I were smaller,” before turning sideways to squeeze between stone walls, moisture sizzling as it struck his axe. Then he stopped, turning his head to look back at me. “You all right, Born-in-Fire?”
I was quivering, but I forced a nod. “Fine. Why?”
“You look like you might vomit.” His brow furrowed. “Or faint.”
“I’m not going to fucking faint, Bjorn,” I snapped, then regretted it as my voice echoed through the tunnels. We both froze, listening, but other than the endless hiss of steam venting, there was no sound but our breathing. “I swear I’ve heard footsteps,” I whispered. “Voices. Do you hear them?”
He was quiet, then said, “The imagination plays tricks.”
Cold crept up my fingertips because he hadn’t denied hearing things. “I don’t think we’re alone in here.”
“Doesn’t mean there are draug,” Bjorn said softly. “It could be that the bones and chimes are tricks set out by the gothar to dissuade those who wish to harm or thieve. Could be that it’s all myth and legend.”
“Maybe,” I whispered, remembering all the dead things I’d stepped over on the endless stairs. Creatures that had not died easily. “Either way, I don’t care to linger.”
Bjorn gave a tight nod of agreement, then continued his sideways progress through the tight space, the mail he wore scraping against the rock.
And then he stumbled.
Something metallic shot past my feet, and I managed a backward glance in time to see a golden cup crusted with jewels go bouncing down the steps and out of sight.
Clank.
Clank.
Clank.
The sound of the metal striking against stone as it went down and down and down echoed louder than any shout. Worse, it felt like it went on forever, my stomach twisted into knots by the time it finally silenced.
I held my breath, waiting for some sign that we’d been heard. For some sign that something other than us walked the tunnels of these mountains.
“It would seem that—” Bjorn cut off as the air stirred.
Hot mist swirled around my face as though the mountain had taken a deep breath. As though the mountain had…awakened.
“Fuck,” Bjorn whispered.
I squeezed through the tight spot to where he stood. Only to have my jaw drop. The stairs beneath his feet glimmered with coins and cups of silver and gold, rubies and emeralds winking in the axe’s light.
The stolen treasure, and if that part of the story was true, then—
A scream pierced the darkness. Then another and another.
Great shuddering shrieks coming from every direction and none. Voices beyond number, their howls full of grief and pain and rage. Drums not of this world took the place of screams, the rapid rhythm punctuated by sounds of footfalls. Not boots or shoes or even the slap of bare feet, but the scratch of…of bones against stone.
And they were coming closer.
“Run!” I gasped, but Bjorn had already locked his hand around my wrist, dragging me upward.
Terror chased away my exhaustion and I took the steps three at a time, shield bouncing against my back. The stairs ended, and Bjorn cut right down a narrow tunnel, dragging me with him.
Then he slid to a stop.
I collided with him, his chain mail digging into my forehead as my skull bounced off his shoulder. Stunned, I looked past him.
Part of me wished I hadn’t.
Four skeletal figures raced toward us, their forms illuminated by a strange green light. Scraps of leather and armor hung from their bony forms, chilling war cries echoing out of their gaping jaws, teeth blackened and foul. But the weapons in their hands gleamed brilliant bright, as though even in death the draug cared for them.
Twisting, I looked back the way we’d come, but the same green light illuminated the stairs, drums and footfalls growing louder by the second.
We were trapped.
“Freya,” Bjorn said, unhooking his shield from his shoulder, “get ready to fight.”
Ripping my own shield off my back, I drew my sword and then invoked Hlin’s name. Magic flared over my shield as draug exploded from the stairwell. My back to Bjorn’s, I widened my stance and braced, fetid steam filling my mouth with every rapid breath I took.
Empty eye sockets fixed on me, more of their awful screams shattering the air as they surged forward, weapons raised.
“Born-in-Fire,” I whispered, then screamed my own battle cry.
A draug threw itself at me, and for a heartbeat I thought my magic would fail. That the draug would slam through my shield, fingers clawing and teeth gnashing. But the silver glow was the power of a goddess, and it was as though it took hold of the draug and flung it with the strength of Hlin herself.