Blood sprayed as he stepped over her corpse to press into the gap she’d left in the shield wall, men and women falling as he carved into them before retreating, his face splattered with crimson.
“Hold the wall,” Sten shouted, taking the woman’s place, and the shields locked again. There was no mistaking the fear in the eyes of Sten’s warriors, but they held their line. One threw his spear at Bjorn, and I gasped, but Bjorn knocked the weapon from the air with his axe. Yet more followed the man’s lead, throwing their spears one after another.
I screamed, struggling against the half dozen gothar keeping me from going to Bjorn’s aid as he fell, his back slamming against the barrier.
“No!” I screamed, certain that he’d been mortally wounded. Certain that I was going to lose him.
But instead of collapsing dead, Bjorn pulled a fallen shield in front of him.
A heartbeat later, two of the attacking warriors screamed and fell, arrows in their backs.
What was happening?
Dropping low, I peered past Bjorn and through the legs of the mass of men. Beyond, a group of warriors gathered on the far side of the bridge, bows in hand.
Snorri was at their head.
“Loose!” he roared, and a rain of arrows fell upon Sten and his men.
And they had nowhere to go.
Several tried to pass through the gate, only to rebound off the barrier, arrows finding their backs. Others, seeing there was no escape, threw themselves at Bjorn, desperate to use him to block the barrage.
Bjorn slashed at one with his axe. The man howled as he clutched a charred wound on his arm, but the others grabbed at Bjorn’s shield and dragged it away from him. More arrows fell, one slicing so close to his arm that I gasped as it bounced off the barrier.
Wrenching free of the gothar, I threw myself forward but someone grabbed my legs. I fell against Bjorn, and knowing I’d get no further, I reached around him. The heat of his axe singed the fabric of my sleeve as I closed my fingers over his, digging in my nails lest I lose my grip. “Hlin,” I hissed. “Protect me.”
Protect him.
Magic flowed from my hands, covering Bjorn in a silvery glow right as a warrior swung at him with a sword. I screamed a warning, but Bjorn calmly lifted one arm.
The sword rebounded off my magic with enough force that it spun over the warrior’s head and into the chasm. Arrows fell all around us, yet while I braced for the inevitable bite of pain if one struck true, Bjorn didn’t so much as flinch. All around us warriors fell, filling my ears with shrieks of pain and wet gasps as they breathed their last.
And then there was silence.
I drew in ragged breath after ragged breath. My nails dug into Bjorn’s hand, my other arm was wrapped around his waist, and my face was pressed into his thigh. The group of gothar had ceased trying to haul me back through the barrier. My legs stung where their fingers had dug in, my skin likely to be covered with bruises tomorrow. If I lived that long.
“It’s over,” Bjorn said softly. “They’re dead.”
I believed him, but I couldn’t let go of my magic. Couldn’t lower my defenses with blood roaring hot in my veins, fueled by anger and fear. Couldn’t let go of him when I’d come so close to losing him entirely.
“Freya, my father’s coming.”
His father. My husband.
Snorri had been our salvation, yet I’d almost have rather faced another clan trying to kill me than face him.
“Freya.” Snorri’s deep voice cut the silence. “Lower your shield.”
A flash of bitterness filled me, but I complied and released my magic, then my grip on Bjorn’s hand. There were five crimson crescents on his skin from where my nails had scored his flesh, and a droplet of blood trickled from one of them to splash to the ground. A shiver ran through me, but I sat back on my haunches and lifted my face to meet Snorri’s gaze.
Ylva stood at his elbow, the rest of the warriors of his party beyond.
“You defeated the draug and passed the test.” Snorri’s mouth broke into a wide smile. “I knew you would. The gods have plans for you.”
I wasn’t sure why, but his words sent a flush of anger through me. He’d risked my life and Bjorn’s based on blind faith in riddles whispered by a specter, and yet stood here as though all had gone according to his well-mapped plan.
“So I keep hearing.” My voice was raspy, which was just as well because it concealed the frigidness of my tone. “You appear to have made it up the mountain unscathed.”
Snorri shrugged. “Involved a bit of trickery, but the gods reward the clever and the sacrifices made were worth us reaching you in time.”
I looked over the warriors again, all the faces I’d expected to be there present, none appearing worse for wear. “What losses?”
Snorri didn’t so much as blink. “The thralls. We passed them off as you. Three times it worked, those who’d been sent to ambush us chasing after a blond woman dressed as a warrior who’d escaped us.”
Dead. All three women were dead.
My stomach heaved. Twisting away, I vomited its few contents onto the dirt, because sacrifices implied they had the choice. Implied they’d wanted to die, when the reality was that Snorri had probably threatened them with a worse death if they’d refused.
Cruel, heartless prick. I remained on my hands and knees, spitting foulness on the ground, because if I turned back around, it would be to kill him.
Or at least, I’d try.
And when I inevitably failed, because far better warriors than me were close at hand, my family would be punished in some way.
Bite your tongue, Freya, I ordered myself. The dead are beyond your help but you’ve yet the power to curse the living.
“I think it not wise to linger here, given that more will come,” Bjorn said. Turning to the old gothi, he added, “Shall we pick up where I left off?”
The old man was gaping at the carnage, but at Bjorn’s words he blinked, then nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course, child of Tyr.”
Bjorn dropped to his knees to finish the rite, and as he did, Snorri’s warriors moved to strip the dead of valuables before dragging the bodies to one side, where, I presumed, they’d eventually be burned. Enemy or not, they were Skalanders and would be honored in death.
“We’ll await you at the Hall of the Gods.” Bjorn cast the words over his shoulder at his father as he stepped through the barrier. Grasping my shoulders, he steered me through the masses of onlookers, all of whom gave us a wide berth, whispers of “they vanquished the draug” repeating over and over.
“Shouldn’t we wait?” I muttered as we moved into the sea of tents and cookfires, dozens upon dozens of men, women, and a few children moving about them. There had to be hundreds here from places near and far.
“Given you appeared ready to murder my father with your bare hands, I thought distance a prudent choice. Will give you a chance to calm down.” He squeezed my shoulders, then let go, the heat left behind from his hands fading too quickly. “I’m hungry. And thirsty—fighting always makes me crave strong drink.”
As if hearing his words, a man sitting next to a fire shouted, “Bjorn!” then filled a cup from the jug at his feet. He handed it to Bjorn after they pounded each other vigorously on the back, promising to find each other later, before carrying on.
“Distance isn’t going to calm me down,” I informed him as he drained his cup. Another man at another fire laughed and refilled it, only for the process to be repeated at the next fire. Bjorn was apparently well known, and well liked, even outside of his father’s territories.
“There is nothing to be done,” he answered. “Seeking vengeance for those women will cost you more than you’re willing to pay. You know this; that is why you didn’t shove Snorri off the cliff. Here, drink, it’s going to my head too quickly and I don’t like to get drunk alone.”