Chapter Thirty-Two
When they reached the Rosebriar Inn, Astrid breached the door so fast, it splintered under her boot.
The innkeeper looked up, jaw agape.
“Where are they?” Astrid demanded.
Astrid did not wear her crown, but the authority in her voice was commanding enough. The barmaid stepped back, unblocking the stairs to the second story.
Astrid thundered up the steps. The others were still dismounting their horses outside, but she couldn’t wait.
She pounded on the first door until it opened, then the second, and the third.
She’d made it to the fourth when an arrow half-penetrated the wood of the door, sharp and true, its point sticking at the level of Astrid’s chest. A strong bolt from a crossbow, as Freya had guessed.
Hrothgar touched Astrid’s shoulder, and she jumped.
“Allow me to go in first,” they whispered.
“She’s armed,” said Astrid.
Brenn scuttled down the hall, Sigurd on her heels. “I can help.”
Brenn’s eyes closed, and a high-pitched, inhuman hum emitted from her throat. At the tip of her staff, a large half sphere emerged, shimmering and translucent. A shield large enough to cover them all. Astrid touched it with her finger. Though it appeared intangible, it was solid as oak.
“Together, then,” Astrid said. Everyone bundled in behind Brenn, and Astrid kicked the door in.
An arrow bounced off Brenn’s shield, then another. The room was smoky, dark, unlit, like the fire had recently been put out. A sound, a fiddling—another arrow being loaded and shot. It, too, bounced off the shield.
A muffled shout came from somewhere to the right. Astrid’s shoulders tensed. She drew Freya’s bone-handled dagger.
“Reveal yourself,” she ordered.
Hrothgar’s sharp intake of breath was the only warning Astrid had. She scruffed Hrothgar and Sigurd by the back of their necks and ducked.
The arrow landed in the wall behind them. The angle was just to the side, just barely through the shield’s defense.
Brenn’s rhythmic chanting filled the room. The tip of her staff began to glow and became brighter and brighter until the center of the room was washed in light. Only edges and corners remained in shadow.
Astrid bent to Freya. She was curled on the ground, eyes wide. Someone had tied a rag around her head, stuffed into her mouth, and her hands were tied and bruised.
She was alive, though. Astrid could not help the smile that came to her face. Freya was alive.
Astrid ducked again as another arrow whizzed past her—she was almost too slow to react. No time to celebrate. She looked up, around, eyes wild, dagger ready.
There. In the corner.
Every day since Freya arrived in Torden, she had protected Astrid. It was Astrid’s turn to return the favor.
Astrid dove toward the source of the arrows. Back in the center of the room, Hrothgar cursed and Sigurd pushed past the barrier.
The crossbow came down over Astrid’s head.
She swore, slashing at it with her dagger until she heard a yelp and a clatter.
The crossbow, on the ground, smashed beyond use.
Astrid stood over the orc who had nearly stolen Freya’s life.
In the low light, Astrid saw Alvor’s eyes—feral and panicked.
A rush of power flooded Astrid as she knocked Alvor to the ground.
Her fist made contact with Alvor’s face. Alvor drew a sword with one hand, a wicked-looking knife in the other, and leapt at Astrid. Astrid only parried in time to miss losing her head.
Astrid gripped the dagger clumsily as she parried the attacks, out of practice with wielding a weapon. The heavy weight of the dagger barely repelled Alvor’s wild blows. Exhaustion ran up her arms each time the weapons made contact.
Astrid was losing. Her opponent was too capable.
Hrothgar approached, but Alvor swung at them, too. Astrid took the opening to get closer to the knife and slammed her hand into Alvor’s fist. The knife clattered to the ground.
Alvor stepped back, sword drawn.
Astrid looked to Hrothgar. They nodded. Her muscles were warm, ready, and suddenly they felt sure.
Her grip on the dagger became more natural, an extension of herself.
But of course. Astrid had wielded dozens of daggers in her day.
She’d used swords for most of her life. She fell into her old self, letting her overthinking drop away.
The muscle memory came back to her.
Hrothgar moved in on Alvor’s left, and as she parried, Astrid swung in, twirled the sword around her dagger, and disarmed Alvor once and for all.
“Search her,” Astrid said.
Hrothgar and Sigurd rushed forward. Sigurd held Alvor’s hands over her head as Hrothgar shook through her pockets. They extracted another small knife, the kind used as a last resort when all other options were exhausted. There were no other weapons.
Alvor squirmed out of Sigurd’s grip and lurched for Astrid. Astrid thrust her palm into Alvor’s shoulder and Alvor twisted, falling to her knees. Sigurd knelt to pin Alvor’s hands behind her back.
Astrid pointed the dagger at Alvor’s throat.
“Lucky you brought your priestess,” said Alvor, chest heaving. “You all would have been dead.”
Astrid pressed the tip of the dagger into Alvor’s neck. A bead of blood welled against the blade.
“You’re not wrong,” Astrid said. “It seems the goddess chose our side.”
To Astrid’s left, Hrothgar stood, holding their sword out. But Astrid had already won. Together, they’d disarmed her, neutralized the threat.
Astrid had protected Freya.
Her hand shook. She was not scared, not buzzing with adrenaline.
She was angry.
She had welcomed this orc into her castle, allowed her to integrate with Torden’s citizens, given her room and board and her husband a warm welcome despite the forced circumstances.
She had been a good host, and Alvor had violated her home.
Ruined the sanctity of the place that housed Astrid and the people she loved.
“I should kill you,” Astrid said.
There was a cracking sound, as if someone’s bones had broken. Astrid’s head whipped around.
Brenn had Freya standing, holding one of her hands.
The skin of the hand looked fresh, bearing only its old scars but none of the new dark bruising.
An on-the-spot bone healing, done so suddenly that Brenn swayed with exhaustion.
In the doorway, Hedda had arrived and was trying to make sense of the scene.
“Don’t kill her,” Freya said hoarsely.
Astrid looked to her félag, to Brenn. Only Freya could have defied her. Only Freya could stop her from going through with this act of vengeance.
“She hurt you,” Astrid said, voice cracking. “She wanted you dead.”
Freya touched each of her own wrists, the side of her head, her shoulder. Astrid’s eyes followed every movement, counting the places she had been injured. Unbidden, the dagger pressed deeper against Alvor’s neck.
“Get it over with,” Alvor snapped.
“Why shouldn’t I?” asked Astrid.
“She’s working for someone,” Freya said, flexing her recently healed fingers. “We need to know their agenda. Maybe we can use her as leverage.”
“We can’t keep her alive,” Hedda said. She stepped into the room. “She tried to kill the queen. She did kill King Skarde.”
“Hedda has a point,” Astrid said. “We can’t harbor a king-killer, even for answers. Sydlig won’t stand for it.”
“So kill me,” said Alvor.
“She wants to die,” Freya said. “The person who gave her the orders—or who hired her—wants her to die, too. That way, we’ll never know.”
“I don’t have any answers worth giving,” Alvor said from her knees.
“Let me look at her.” Freya put a hand on Astrid’s arm. Her skin was cold. Bare skin to bare skin.
Astrid backed away.
Freya stooped to Alvor’s level and, without warning, grabbed her chin and made her look up. “I know your kind,” she said.
“I bet you do,” Alvor said.
Freya threw down her chin. Alvor let her head hang and didn’t pick it back up, but through her strands of magenta hair, Astrid saw an expression that would haunt her later: a wicked smile.
“My Queen,” said Freya.
“Yes?” Astrid asked, startled.
“Permission to give an order?”
Astrid squinted at Freya. She did not ask permission to do anything, least of all giving orders. In present company, though… Someone who was a killer and an informant in their midst, the félag here…
“Granted,” Astrid said.
“You have been wanting something important to do for a while now. To try to prove yourself here, prove your necessity. Your loyalty.” Freya turned to Hedda. “Here is your chance.”
Hedda looked lost. “Freya…”
“This prisoner is your responsibility. Watch her, feed her, and interrogate her. Get some damn answers about what’s going on in the rest of the world.”
Uncomfortable, Astrid shifted. She would not have thought to do this. Hedda might find it even more demeaning than cleaning the floors.
Astrid met Freya’s gaze, and an understanding passed between them—the kind of understanding one could only cultivate through years of trust. To Hedda, Astrid nodded her assent.
Hedda’s eyes fell to Alvor. “What will we do with her? After we have our answers?”
“You already have them,” Alvor said.
“We’ll have to give her over to the Sydlig council,” Astrid said. “Until then, as Freya said, she is yours.”
Hedda looked down at Alvor, hands twitching at her sides.
Of all of them, she looked the least like a warrior.
She bore the scar over her nose, her hair pulled back out of her face and ready for action, but she wore common clothes where the others wore armor, her blade in its scabbard, undrawn and unused.
“Very well,” said Hedda. “The captive will stay in my charge.”