Chapter 12 Freya
Though my body was exhausted, the glimmer of hope that Harald had put in my chest infused me with more energy than a night’s rest. Servants hurried about to provide me with supplies. I was given fresh clothes and leathers, as well as a glittering set of mail. A servant named Una wove my swiftly washed hair into tight war braids while another added to the bag small comforts, such as soap and rags for my courses, that only another woman would know I’d want on the journey.
Harald’s servants seemed strong and healthy, and they were all men and women who resided in Hrafnheim rather than thralls captured in raids. They were dressed well, and though their nervousness was betrayed by the way they watched me as though I might bite, they did their duties without complaint. I made a half-hearted effort to learn more about Harald, but in truth my mind was all for whether Saga would fuel the spark Harald had ignited or whether she’d crushit.
Stepping out from behind a woven hanging depicting Freyja and Freyr, I walked back to the main room of the great hall. Though such places were usually bustling with activity, Bjorn sat alone at a table, absently flipping a knife in his hands while he stared at the glowing hearth fire. I paused and took a moment to watch him, for he was so deep in thought he’d not heard my approach.
He had taken time to wash, and the sides of his head were freshly shaved so that the inkwork was clearly visible, the long black lengths twisted into a knot with a piece of braided cord. In flagrant disregard of the customs of our people, his face was also freshly shaven, the scruff of dark beard no longer hiding the sharp line of his jaw. The muscles in his arms flexed above his bracers as he flipped the knife. The motion made the chain mail that ended just above his biceps jingle softly. He’d changed clothes, and I wondered if they were garments he’d packed away before going to Skaland. Another reminder that this had been his home, not a prison. That these people were to him a family, not his enemies. That Bjorn was a Nordelander through and through.
“Have you gotten your eyeful, Born-in-Fire, or do you wish me to sit still a moment longer?”
I scowled, annoyed to be caught staring at him. “Merely considering the best places to stick a knife, though I think ridding myself of your tongue is where I should start.”
Bjorn turned his head to look at me, green eyes drifting up and down. “You’d regret that choice.”
My insides flipped but all I said was, “I doubt that.”
I hefted my bag across my shoulder and crossed to his table. “Are you brave enough to allow me a weapon?”
He handed me the knife he’d been flipping. “I’d find you a shield, but you’d do just as well with a cooking pot.”
“If that is a not-so-subtle hint that I should cook for you on this journey, consider yourself warned that I will spit in every meal I make for you.”
Bjorn only shrugged. “Won’t be the first time I’ve tasted your spit, Born-in-Fire, and I think not the last.”
I stared at him, my cheeks burning hot. “You think I wish to hear jokes from you?”
“Was not a joke.” Heaving a pack over his shoulder, he gestured to the door. “Do you wish to go, or do you wish to stand here arguing with me?”
“Arsehole,” I growled, then I shoved his knife into my belt. A sword would have been better, but my father’s weapon had not only been ruined when Bjorn had hit it with his axe in Grindill, it was now likely turning to rust in the hot springs where I’d left it. Though it was impossible to mend a warped blade, a pang of sadness hit me, as it was the last thing I had of my father. The last thing I had of my family at all, and its loss made me feel even more alone.
Skoll and Hati trotted beside us as Bjorn led me through Hrafnheim’s narrow streets, walls rising high on all sides so my only view was occasional glimpses of the sky. Laughter emanated from buildings, drowned out from time to time by the heavy clanking of blacksmiths at work, far more in number than I’d expect for a town this size. We walked through the market square, which was full of merchants, most local, but many with the darker skin of those from the distant south. More than a few southerners were traders that I recognized from Halsar’s market, so I pulled the hood of my cloak forward. Harald might be content to share my identity with the entire fortress, but any steps that I could take to delay Snorri’s discovery of where I was seemed wise tome.
We reached the fortified gates leading to the bridge that stretched to the eastern bank of the Rimstrom. A tremendously tall and broad woman with thick red braids stood waiting. She wore the garments of a blacksmith. And the sword in her hands was mine.
At the sight of Bjorn, her face broke into a smile. “I could scarcely believe the news when I heard that you had returned to us, you little shit.” She pounded him on the back with such force that Bjorn staggered. “You finally put on some muscle, so you must have been eating well in the south. This is her?”
“This is Freya.” Bjorn nodded to the muscular woman and said, “Gyda is the finest smith in Nordeland by virtue of being a child of Brokkr.”
Gyda made a face. “Your silver tongue doesn’t work on me, boy.” Then she looked me up and down. “She was certainly the runt of the litter.”
I crossed my arms and scowled up at her. “Would you like to fight me?”
Gyda laughed, then reached down to stroke Hati’s back, the wolf leaning against her leg. “She is like a small dog who thinks it is a wolf. All bark.”
“She bites, too,” Bjorn said, and my face burned.
“Then let’s give her back her teeth.” Gyda handed me my sheathed sword. “See if this suits, shield maiden. Harald sent it ahead to have me mend the blade, and I had time to do a bit more than straighten it.”
I frowned at learning Harald had facilitated the repair, but all thought of Nordeland’s king vanished as I took hold of the weapon. A lump formed in my throat as I unsheathed my father’s sword, the blade no longer warped from Bjorn’s axe but reforged straight and true with her magic. As I ran my fingers over the blade, I felt etchings in the metal that I could not see with my eyes. Etchings that felt to me like runes. “What do these markings mean?”
“What they mean is my business,” Gyda answered. “What they do is ensure your blade will hold true against magic and steel alike. Unbreakable, so your only limitation is your own strength.” She reached over and pinched my bicep. “Though that seems a significant limitation, you scrawny little bird.”
Bjorn laughed, but I barely noticed as my eyes fell on the cloth-wrapped object that Gyda had retrieved from where it rested against the wall. Pulling off the cloth, she revealed a shield made of a silvery metal that had been hammered thin, more designs etched into its surface. She handed it to me. “Empowered to be light as a feather.”
My jaw dropped as I held the shield, which indeed seemed to have no weight at all.
“I can only give an object one power,” Gyda said. “So it is not strong. But with your magic…”
“Hlin,” I murmured, and magic illuminated the silver surface. It felt as though I could hold it up high forever. “Thank you.”
“Ain’t interested in thanks.” She held out a hand. “You want it, you need to pay for it. I’ll bleed Harald for the sword.”
My heart sank because I had nothing to give beyond the clothes on my back. Then next to me, Bjorn dug into his pocket and extracted a handful of golden chains that I could only imagine had been waiting for him in the same chest as his clothes. Plunder from raids in the service of Nordeland, which meant there was every chance it had been stolen from Skaland.
“No,” I snapped. “I’ll pay.”
“With what?” Bjorn demanded.
“Don’t be a fool, girl.” Gyda tugged on one of her crimson braids and looked me over as though I was the purest form of stupid. “If he’s idiot enough to spend his wealth on you, then take it.”
“No.” I looked down at the beautiful shield in my hands, trying to ignore how badly I wanted it to be mine. “If I let him pay, then every time I look at it, I’ll be reminded that he’s a lying traitor and I might be tempted to cast it aside in the middle of battle.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” Bjorn said between his teeth. “Be mad at me all you want, but don’t make bad decisions just to spite me.”
Gyda looked between us and then whistled between her teeth. “You little shit. You were supposed to kill her and instead you cuckolded Snorri, didn’t you? I’d heard rumors you were bedding her but I didn’t think you were that stupid…”
“Not your business, Gyda.” Bjorn stepped closer to me, but I stepped back. “Freya…”
“I don’t want your gifts, Bjorn. I don’t want anything from you. If it were possible to erase you from my memories, I would do so.” Not giving him a chance to respond, I said to Gyda, “This is truly beautiful work, but you will have to sell it to someone else. He’s right that I have no way to pay.”
The smith tilted her head sideways. “It’s good for nothing but a decoration without your magic, shield maiden.”
Guilt pooled in my stomach that her effort, time, and magic had been wasted. Then from behind me, Harald said, “You are not without means, Freya.”
Stepping alongside us, he nodded at Gyda before plucking up the handful of gold chains Bjorn still held and handing them to her. “He damaged the sword, so it is fitting he pay for it.”
Then Harald held out a leather sack to me. “This is yours. Spoils collected from the Islunders you defeated. The mail you wear was taken off one of the female warriors you sent to Helheim.”
My mouth went dry because I felt no honor in those deaths. Yet I still took the sack and looked inside. Precious metals and jewels shone in the fading light of the sun. Armbands, bracelets, and rings cut out of the dead men’s beards. It made me want to vomit and I closed the sack.
“This is how it is done, Freya,” Harald said. “They’d have done the same to us, had they been the victors.”
Why had I ever wanted this life? Why had I ever believed I’d feel good picking the valuables off the people I killed to line my own pockets?
I shoved the entire sack at Gyda. “Take this as compensation.”
The smith opened the sack and examined the contents before turning a discerning eye on me. Silently, she unfastened her belt and pulled off a sheath that held a beautiful seax, which she handed to me. “Never loses its edge. I’ll include it along with the shield to make this a fair trade. Are you content?”
She could have given me a crust of stale bread instead of steel and I’d have called it even just to get the spoils of the dead out of my hands. “Yes.”
The smith gave a satisfied nod, then looked to Bjorn. “It is good to have you back. Less good to find out you’ve been something of an idiot, but hopefully you’ll grovel your way back into her good graces.” Gyda buckled her belt. “May your steel serve you well, shield maiden. My king.” She nodded at Harald, and turned on her heels and rounded the bend.
“The hour grows late,” Harald said. “Show care in your ride into the wilds, both of you. Nordeland is not Skaland, and she gnaws the bones of any who forget it.” Inclining his head to me, he said, “I will pray to the Allfather to give my wife the answers you seek and for you to return to Hrafnheim armed with the knowledge needed to change all our fates, Freya.”
Bjorn had a strange look on his face.
“I pray for this as well.” I touched the hilt of my sword, every part of me feeling better with it back in my possession. “Thank you for not leaving it to rust. It was my father’s.”
“Family is important.” The king of Nordeland clasped my shoulder. “Please find a way that I don’t have to lose mine.”
I gave a tight nod as I watched him walk away, then turned to find Bjorn crossing the bridge to where a man waited with two horses. The wolves sat with their tongues lolling and I said, “Come!” and hurried across the bridge. I swiftly fastened my bag and shield to the saddle of one of the horses. Bjorn was already astride by the time I’d finished.
“Keep up, Born-in-Fire,” he said. “And keep your eyes on your surroundings, not on my backside.”
Before I could retort, Bjorn dug in his heels, leading me into Nordeland’s wilds at a gallop.