and Freya heard at least a dozen others muttering just inside the wall.
“That’s close enough,” the armored house carl said. “Were you bitten?”
“No.”
“Show me.”
She frowned but didn’t argue as she leaned her spear against the wall and stripped off her coat and shirt to show him her tattooed arms, and then quickly dropped her trousers to her ankles to show him her bare legs. If the sight of her inked skin interested him at all, he did not show it.
Not even a little smile. Erik would have smiled.
He swallowed. “You look all right. How did you survive?”
“By killing them before they killed me.” She pulled her clothes back on quickly and took up her spear. “Now may I pass?”
The warrior didn’t move. He licked his lips nervously, and was about to speak when another, older man stepped out in front of him. Instead of a sword he carried a barbed harpoon in one hand, and this grizzled fisherman said, “We heard you were dead.”
She snorted. “But you can see that I’m not.”
“Where’s your husband?”
It was her turn to pause uncomfortably. “He didn’t make it,” she said softly.
The fisherman nodded.
“And neither did Leif,” she added.
The man grunted. “I’ve heard differently on that matter as well, but I suppose we’ll have to see. You were supposed to be hunting the demon Fenrir. What of that?”
She met his uneasy squint with her own clear-eyed stare and said, “We stalked the beast to Thaverfell, where we built a snare, and trapped him, and killed him.”
A rumble of whispers rose from beyond the doorway. The old fisherman pounded his spear on the pebbles, calling for silence. He said, “You’ll forgive us for wanting proof of that, girl.”
Freya frowned. She hadn’t wanted to tell her story or show her prizes until she stood in Skadi’s throne room, but she could see that she had little choice in the matter. She hefted the leather sack off her back and set it on the ground, opened the ties, and then lifted the severed head of Fenrir high into the air. The glassy amber eyes stared at the fisherman and the men behind him, and the stained fangs hung open in mid-snarl, but the flesh of the nose and jowls hung loose and dead from the skull showing the first small signs of the rot that would soon strip away all but the bone.
The fisherman stepped back from the huge, bestial muzzle and glanced over his shoulder at the other men behind him, but the other men were all silent.
“Let me know when you’re done staring,” Freya said. “This thing is heavy and my arm is getting tired. And I think the queen will want to hear about this, don’t you?”
“Yes. Yes!” The fisherman’s leathery face broke into a wide, bright smile and he shoved his old harpoon up at the sky as he shouted, “Fenrir is dead!”
A great war cry answered him from over the wall, and Freya grinned as she wrapped up the head of the dead monster in her bag, took her spear, and strode through the open door past the beaming fisherman. The street was lined with men, women, and children, and more were coming with each passing moment. They thronged to their doors and windows, and came rushing up the side lanes to stare at her, and to shout her name, and to laugh about the end of the plague.
Freya smiled and nodded to them all as she passed, all the way up to the iron door of the castle wall where two familiar old guards stood chewing their beards. They took one look at the crowd and let Freya pass, but kept the people of Rekavik back in the street. Freya paused in the courtyard, looking at the castle door ahead and the huge crowd behind.
Then she called out to the guard in front of her, “You there! Bring out the queen to see the head of Fenrir!” And she walked back out the door to stand in the street, surrounded by hundreds of cheering voices and joyous faces. And for a few moments, she let herself be caught up on that raging torrent of happiness, of lightness, of hope. Everyone was smiling and cheering and laughing and waving, and she found herself smiling and waving back. It felt wonderful.
Then she turned and saw Skadi stepping out into the street with her tall apprentice on one side and little Wren on the other, and several stern-looking men behind them including the bearded Halfdan. At the sight of their queen dressed in shimmering black and gold thread, the people fell respectfully silent.
“My dear, it’s a wonder and a blessing to see you safely returned to our city,” Skadi said. “I must admit I had little hope that we would see you again, but here you are and from what I heard from this crowd a moment ago, it sounds as though you have something wonderful to show us all.”
“Yes, I do. I bring you a trophy.” Freya set her sack on the ground and again loosed the ties to lift up the huge, deformed skull of the creature they called Fenrir. She held it with both hands over her head and turned slowly so that everyone could see exactly what it was. As she turned she saw everyone’s face upturned to stare into the dim golden eyes and grinning maw of the giant reaver. Finally she turned back to the queen and set the head on the ground. She watched Skadi’s eyes carefully, but saw only composed happiness, exactly what the crowd doubtlessly expected.
“Truly, you are the greatest huntress in all of Ysland,” the queen called out, and the crowd cheered back. “But are you alone?”
“My husband, Erik, did not make it back,” Freya said carefully. Her feet still wanted to turn and run to the water mill, but she knew there was nothing waiting for her there but horror and misery, and an unspeakable task. “And neither did your warrior, Leif.”
Skadi smiled kindly. “But there you are most fortunately wrong. Leif did survive your battle with the reavers and was swept down the Botsna River. He returned to us only a few hours ago and is resting from his injuries.”
A battle with the reavers? So that’s the lie he spun for her… or the lie she put in his mouth for him.
Freya nodded slowly. “Well, that is quite lucky for him. The last time I saw him, I was sure he was falling to his death.”
“We can discuss your adventures later when we celebrate your victory properly,” the queen said quickly, her voice pitched more to address the crowd than to speak to Freya. “But right now there is another matter of even greater importance. With Fenrir dead, the source of the plague is gone, but the plague itself is still among us. But perhaps the ancient valas of Rekavik could help us find a cure. Tell me, Freya, did you find the rinegold ring that our beloved king wore to his death?”
Freya took the ring from inside her shirt.
This almost sounds rehearsed. It’s all a performance, all an act to keep the people happy.
She held the ring out to the queen. “I did.”
There was a brief flash of surprise, the tiniest hint of shock and disbelief, and perhaps even anger in Skadi’s eyes when she saw the golden trinket in Freya’s hand, but it was gone in an instant and the queen continued to play the gracious and joyous hostess of the gathering. “The ring!”
Again the crowd cheered, some shouting Freya’s name and others calling for Skadi, and even a few cries of “Ivar!” as the queen took the ring.
“This is more good fortune than we have known in many years,” Skadi said. “Now with this ancient and powerful relic of our great city, there is hope that we may discover a cure for the reaver plague. If the ancient valas of Rekavik have the knowledge, and they find me worthy to receive it, then we may soon know a lasting peace again. But that is work still to be done in the long days ahead. Tonight we celebrate a great victory!”
The crowd cheered, and the cheers devolved into shouts and laughs and boasts, and in the joyous chaos the smiling queen turned and led her entourage back inside the castle walls. As soon as they were in the inner courtyard, Wren dashed over and threw her arms around Freya’s waist. The huntress grunted at a sudden pain in her bruised ribs, but hugged the girl back.
“I was so scared. When Leif came back alone, I thought you were dead,” the little vala whispered. She leaned back with a sad-eyed smile, and then frowned sharply at the huntress’s shirt. “Is this all dried blood? This is a lot of blood.”
“It’s reaver blood.”
