I mimicked him, keeping my head lowered as we approached the waiting warriors.
Never suspecting that their target might be coming from this direction, none of them paid us any attention. Neither did they make room for us to pass, forcing Bjorn and me to weave among them. My heart thundered, my stomach twisting into knots, and I feared one of them would notice my rapid breathing. Would know that it was Bjorn and me, not a pair of hapless gothar.
But they only grumbled about the cold, half of them seeming to believe this was a fool’s errand and the other half seeming to believe I’d come striding across the bridge, shield ablaze. Not a one suspecting that I stood right next to them, which meant that in a few paces, we’d reached the gates.
An elderly gothi with tufts of white hair on his head waited, and I dropped to my knees in front of him, Bjorn following suit. The old man blinked at us in confusion, and I lifted my face to meet his gaze, saying softly, “The draug are vanquished.”
His eyes, clouded with cataracts, widened, then skipped to the warriors standing only a few feet behind me. I tensed, watching as he pieced together my identity, praying to every god that he’d not sell me out to those who’d see me dead. Instead, the old gothi smiled, then intoned, “Do you submit to Odin, Thor, Frigg, Freyr, and”—he winked—“Freyja?”
“Yes,” I croaked, curbing the urge to look behind me, the sensation of having my enemies at my back while I was defenseless on my knees infinitely worse than meeting them head-on.
“To Tyr, Hlin, Njord, and Loki?”
“Yes,” Bjorn answered, even as I willed the old man to speak faster. There were dozens and dozens of gods left, and each passing second risked discovery.
I barely heard the names of the gods, only mumbled my assent with each pause, every part of me certain that the warriors behind us would hear the hammering of my heart. Would smell the sweat of nerves and fear rising to my skin, or notice that Bjorn’s scarred hands, visible where they pressed against the ground, were not the hands of the gothi. Or worse, would question why gothar of the temple were on their knees performing a submission to the gods at all.
It wasn’t until shouts filled the air that I realized my fears were misplaced.
I twitched, lifting my face to look through the gates. Beyond, two men stripped to their undergarments strode toward us. As I stared, horror filling my guts, one of them pointed. “It was them! They vanquished the draug, then accosted us so they might sneak into Fjalltindr!”
Those people lingering just inside the gates heard, whispers of interest racing like wildfire among them, several turning to see who the men were pointing at.
“I should have killed them.” Bjorn sighed. “This is Tyr punishing me for abandoning my better instincts.”
If I weren’t about to drown in a flood of panic, I’d have smacked him, but the warriors behind us were stirring at the commotion, which meant that we had a matter of seconds. A crowd was gathering inside the gates, the pair of gothar pointing at me as they repeated their story.
The old man rattled off the names of the gods faster now, Bjorn and I muttering our assent, and my brain scrambled to remember how many were left. Too many was the number I came up with a heartbeat before a hand closed on my hood and ripped it backward.
“It’s her!” a male voice snarled.
Bjorn was already on his feet, robes cast off and axe burning in his hand. “Is this a fight you truly wish to pick?” he asked the warriors. “Are you so certain a child of a minor god is worth your lives?”
I wasn’t worth it. None of this made sense. Yet everyone seemed ready to slaughter one another over me anyway.
“Girl,” the old man hissed, drawing my attention back to him. “Do you submit?”
I had no notion which gods he’d just named, and I prayed those in question wouldn’t feel disrespected as I blurted out, “Yes, I submit!”
“We’ve heard of the seer’s prophecy, Firehand,” one of the warriors retorted. “And no one wishes to swear oaths to Jarl Snorri.”
I didn’t blame them, but I doubted saying so would help my cause.
The old gothi was glaring at me, which meant I’d missed another set of names in my distraction. “Yes!” I snapped, lifting my hands to check if the barrier had lifted, but it remained implacable. “Faster!”
“You know how seers are,” Bjorn answered. “They speak in riddles, nothing of what they say of the future clear until the moment to do anything about it has passed.”
“Except when it comes to the children of the gods,” the warrior retorted. “The shield maiden’s fate is uncertain. As is yours, Firehand.”
Bjorn laughed. “Then how this fight ends may be a surprise to you and the gods alike. Although I think not.”
A scream filled my ears, and I twisted in time to watch a warrior clutching a charred hole in his chest topple backward off the cliff, Bjorn’s axe already clashing with the weapon of the next. His axe locked with the sword, and Bjorn punched the warrior in the face before slicing the man’s leg from his body, the shrieks deafening. Men falling one after another to Bjorn’s skill. Except Jarl Sten was already halfway across the bridge with more men. Twenty against one.
Hands closed on my shoulders, and I jerked around to see the old man was clutching my stolen robes. “If you wish to live, you must focus,” he snapped. “Do you submit to Sigyn and Snotra?”
Why were there so many gods? Why were there so many names? “Yes!”
More shrieks, the stink of burning flesh turning the air acrid. My skin crawled with the need to turn and face the danger, but the old man was shouting more names.
“Yes!” I waited for him to ramble off more gods, but the old man only said, “That’s it, girl! Drop your weapons and step through!”
Not a fucking chance.
Twisting, I pulled my sword, “Bjorn—”
Bjorn’s hand struck me in the chest. I toppled through the barrier, the magic wrenching the sword from my hand as I landed on my arse next to the gathered gothar. Bjorn kicked my weapon out of reach, shouting at the gothi, “Restrain her!”
“You idiot!” I screamed as hands closed on my arms, hauling me backward. “You cursed fool of a man!”
If Bjorn heard, he didn’t react.
Sten and the rest of his men were across the bridge, converging on Bjorn with their shields locked in a wall, spears protruding through the gaps. “Yield, Firehand,” the jarl shouted. “Yield and we will let you live.”
“Why would I yield when I’m winning?” Bjorn nudged a dying man with his boot. “You and yours should yield. Retreat from this place with your lives, if not your honor.”
“Not with the shield maiden still alive,” Sten snarled. “Without her, Snorri is nothing. Without her, the future Saga foresaw is no more.”
Bjorn laughed. “You have not the power to change her fate.” Then he threw his axe into one of the shields, bits of burning wood flying into the air as the man who held it staggered into those behind him.
“Attack,” Sten roared. Men pushed forward, Bjorn’s axe still embedded in the man’s shield, the wood nearly engulfed.
Bjorn bent to retrieve my fallen sword as one of the men stabbed at him over his shield rim, the spear tip slicing at his face. Bjorn only sidestepped it and thrust my sword through the same gap, the man screaming as the blade punctured his chest.
Bjorn’s axe appeared in his hand again as he dodged yet another stabbing spear, and he reached out to hook a woman’s shield, jerking her forward. She stumbled and swung her own axe at Bjorn’s head, but he ducked even as he chopped at her side, fiery axe slicing into her torso, rings from her chain mail exploding outward as she screamed.