Chapter 3 Freya
No part of me wanted to climb back in the drakkar with the Nordelanders, for beneath my anger ran a current of fear that made me sick to my stomach. I’d felt able to leave Skaland with Bjorn because I’d believed Snorri would accept that I was dead. That he’d not punish my brother or Ingrid, and what remained of my family would be able to live on. Yet the report I’d overheard indicated that Snorri had not given up on me, which meant Geir, Ingrid, and their unborn child remained at risk. Though my relationship with my brother was greatly soured, it made me ill that his innocent child might be harmed.
And I also, selfishly, feared for myself.
The men and women in the ship, as well as those who traveled in the two other vessels, were the raiders I’d grown up dreading. Every child raised on the coast of Skaland knew to fear the sight of drakkar with blue-striped sails. Knew that at the sight of the white wolf banner to run and hide in the woods with the elderly while the adults tried to fight seasoned warriors intent on taking everything of value, human life first and foremost. My uncle had died in a raid when I was a young girl, my aunt taken as a thrall and never heard of again. Distant memories but ones never forgotten, and I was under no delusion that those around me were anything less than dangerous. Especially with the white wolf snapping in the breeze above our heads.
You are far from helpless, I silently whispered, the wary distance most of the Nordelanders gave me comforting and horrifying in equal measure, because they feared me as one did a monster. I heard the whispers among them as they spoke of what I’d done to Harald’s warriors when they’d tracked Bjorn and me down. How the magic gifted to me by Hel dragged their souls out of their bodies and down to Helheim, ever denied the halls of Valhalla. Whispers that said only the Unfated could defend themselves from me, Harald’s life spared only because the other gods had intervened to protect Nordeland’s beloved king. Which for all I knew was accurate, as Hel’s magic had not so much as touched him.
They were terrified of me, and I could not blame them for that, as I was terrified of myself. I’d never understood how the catastrophic future that Saga had foreseen was possible when Hlin’s magic did nothing but protect, but now it was clear how I would become the plague she’d foretold. How in a fit of anger I might kill dozens, hundreds, perhaps thousands, and imprison their souls in Hel’s realm. Helheim was no place of horror, but to be sent there denied warriors the chance to sit at the Allfather’s table and to fight in the last battle, the promise of which gave them the bravery to face death.
No one should have such power, least of all me, and I silently swore that I’d not use the magic again.
I would not be that monster. I refused.
You are on the path to finding out the truth about who you are, I reminded myself. With the truth, the route forward will be clear.
Alternatively, I was sailing toward my future prison. But that was a risk I needed to take.
Wrapping my woolen cloak more tightly around my body, I eyed Bjorn where he sat with Harald. His midnight hair was pulled back in a knot, the tattoos on the sides of his head slightly obscured from several days away from a razor. His cheeks, too, were stubbled, though it had not grown so much as to obscure the sharp line of his jaw and cheekbones. Harald said something to him, and when Bjorn answered, the sunlight illuminated the leaf-green of his eyes but also the dark circles beneath them.
No one will stop you from going to see my mother to seek your truths, Bjorn’s voice repeated in my head. You have my word.
He’d seemed genuine, but it was not lost on me that I’d felt that way when he’d been lying through his teeth.
The twisted silver arm ring he now wore above his elbow gleamed in the sunlight, and I knew it had been given to him by Harald. A symbol of family and fealty. My brother, Geir, wore a similar one gifted to him by Snorri when he joined his war band, and my father had as well. All of Snorri’s warriors wore them, and while I’d noticed that Bjorn did not, I’d thought nothing of it. Had foolishly believed that it was reflective of his penchant for discarding his shirt at every opportunity, not a small display of defiance against the man he’d apparently sworn to destroy.
Unbidden, the memory of our climb through the draug-infested tunnels to Fjalltindr filled my mind. The moment we’d rested together, the heat of his axe and arms warding away the chill of the mountain. We’d spoken of Nordeland, of how the people had treated him, and I’d asked how he felt about the idea of Snorri going to war against them. No matter how I feel about the people, vengeance must be had against the one who hurt my mother, he’d said. I’ve sworn an oath to take everything from him, and anyone who stands in the way is nothing more than a casualty of war.
He’d spoken the truth, and yet I’d only heard what I’d wanted to hear. That Harald was his enemy. Nordeland was his enemy. Ylva had been right in her accusations, and too easily I remembered dismissing her animosity toward him as jealousy on Leif’s behalf. How wrong I’d been.
Regardless of blood, Bjorn was a Nordelander through and through, which made him my enemy.
My hands balled into fists, and I turned my head so I could no longer see him. Which unfortunately put Tora in my line of sight.
The child of Thor was a full head taller than I was and broad through her shoulders. More than capable of wielding any weapon, but what made her dangerous was the lightning she could summon from her hands. Lightning that had almost killed me but taken Bodil’s life instead. Her face was covered with burn marks from when I’d rebounded her lightning bolt off my shield into the gatehouse of Grindill. The burns were still livid red though much time had passed, and I noticed that she wore her long blond hair loose to cover them. “Does Harald not have a healer in his service?” I asked.
“Volund is a child of Eir.” Tora jerked her chin toward one of the drakkar that sailed in our escort. “The old fat one in the green tunic.”
I squinted at the other vessel, finally picking out a rosy-cheeked older man who met the description. He appeared half asleep, head resting on one hand as the vessel slid over the waves. “Why did he not heal you, then?”
“I was denied healing.” Tora’s voice was toneless, but I didn’t miss how she lifted her hand to touch the wounds, which appeared painful and were sure to scar.
Most of what I knew about the powers of children of Eir came from Liv, the healer who’d treated my hand after I’d been burned by Bjorn’s axe. She’d told me that Eir was fickle with her magic, healing some injuries so that it appeared they’d never happened and others, such as my hand, as if time and nature had run their course. Some, Eir did not heal at all, which I’d seen after Gnut had attacked Halsar, many of the injured succumbing despite Liv trying to aid them with her magic. Liv had been a good woman, and I might have come to call her friend if she hadn’t been killed when Gnut had returned to finish his attack. The thought occurred to me that Tora might have aided Gnut in that battle as well, so I said, “A fitting punishment. You killed my friend and many others besides.”
Tora caught hold of my right hand and lifted it so the scars were illuminated by the sun. “Perhaps Eir saw your future and thought you deserved punishment as well. And I was not aiming for Bodil, I was aiming for you. That error was one of the greatest mistakes of my life.”
I jerked my wrist from her grip.
“I met Bodil when I was very young and my uncle was seeking trade with her clan,” Tora said. “She was a fierce warrior with more reputation than any woman alive, and I told her that I wanted to be like her.” She drew in a breath. “I remember Bodil lifting a foot to scratch it, then smiling and saying, ‘No you don’t.’?”
My chest hollowed. “Her feet itched when someone told a mistruth. You did not wish to be a warrior.”
“Not then.”
“What changed?” I met Tora’s brown eyes. They were hollow with old grief.
Before she could answer, Harald rested a hand on her shoulder. “Her uncle was a bad man who did bad things. But he’s long dead, isn’t he, Tora?”
“Yes, my king,” the child of Thor said softly. “You executed him.”
“And you have been at my side ever since.” Harald patted her shoulder. “A child of my heart if not my blood, and a warrior only a few have ever stood against. You are one of the few, Freya.”
My skin prickled, his words sitting poorly with me though I could not quite explain why.
“Smoke!”
Skade’s voice rang loud, and all in the drakkar looked onward to where the huntress pointed. Faint at first, barely more than wisps, but the plumes swiftly grew into great black columns.
Raiders.
“The Skalanders have come!” someone shouted from one of the other ships. “It is Snorri come to steal back his prize!”
My heart lurched, and I climbed to my feet. How could he be here so soon? How was it possible?
The bird I’d seen riding on a man’s shoulder earlier shot down from the sky, crying loud as it circled its master, who rode in the other vessel. He roared, “Not Skalanders! Islunders!”
My hands turned clammy at mention of the island nation, for they occasionally raided Skaland’s shores. When they did, none were left alive. Yet every Nordelander on all three ships was now on his or her feet, voices roaring in fury, not fear.
“It seems the Islunders noted our absence and took advantage,” Skade said. “Our villages were left undefended.”
Harald’s jaw tightened and his eyes flicked to the columns of smoke. “They shall pay the price, because the white wolf is here now.” Then he roared, “Ready your weapons, my friends, for we sail to bathe in Islund’s blood!”