Filed to story: A Fate Inked In Blood Free
“Unlikely, given that she has no tongue and Harald has her only token.”
I swallowed hard. “What is her token?”
His green eyes met mine. “He wears her dried tongue on a cord around his neck at all times. He is the only person she could speak to.”
It was a struggle on many levels to keep from vomiting. “Did he cut it out?”
Bjorn shook his head. “Her former master did. Harald took it from around his neck when he killed him.” His eyes moved to Ylva. “Harald will learn of her, yes. But delaying the information gives us time to prepare. Time to make alliances so that you might defend against his attack, which will come. He has no desire to see Skaland united beneath your rule, especially given he knows you plan to bring war to Nordeland.”
“For twenty years, I’ve waited for Freya.” Snorri rubbed at his temple. “And now that I have her, I find myself in a race against time, faced with doom should I take one wrong step.”
I struggled not to snort in disgust. For my entire life, he’d had time to prepare for this moment, whereas until a matter of days ago, I’d been entirely unaware that powerful men across two nations were plotting their moves for the day I made my name known. Snorri had no excuse not to be prepared.
Dropping his hand from his temple, Snorri looked at Bjorn. “When is the soonest he could come?”
Bjorn cleared his throat. “A matter of weeks.”
“With the losses we took against Gnut, we wouldn’t stand a chance in resisting Harald,” Ragnar said, even as Leif blurted out, “Are you sure this woman is worth it, Father? Perhaps it’s better to kill her and be done with it. She seems more likely to get us all killed than to see you to power.”
Next to me, Bjorn’s axe flared to life before disappearing again, and Leif frowned at him. “I merely pose the question of Father, for as jarl, it is his decision.”
“There is no decision to be made,” Ylva snapped. “Freya will make your father king of Skaland if only we hold true to the course, and as his son, you stand to benefit most.”
Leif cast his eyes skyward. “Bjorn stands to benefit most, Mother. But I will be proud to fight at his side whether he becomes jarl or king, it makes no difference. I ask though, how much will our family stand to lose by keeping this woman alive? How much will Halsar lose? For me, I say it is not worth it.”
Though the boy spoke of killing me, I found myself in approval of Leif’s reasoning, for he seemed to value lives above power and reputation and ambition. Wise beyond his years and having clearly been raised to understand what should be important to a jarl.
“The gods would punish us for spitting in the face of the gift they’ve given,” Snorri answered. “Even if they did not, if we were to kill Freya, it would be seen by our enemies as weakness. They’d see me backing away from an opportunity for greatness out of cowardice and fear, and all our enemies would come for us. We stay the course.”
Leif frowned, the expression turning to a scowl as Ylva nodded approvingly, but before the boy could say anything, Bjorn asked, “What is the course? How do you plan to gain the alliances you need in the short time you might have before the raids come?”
A practical question.
“By gathering all the jarls of Skaland together and convincing them that united, we stand at better odds.” Snorri smiled. “Which gives us more proof that the gods favor us, for the jarls already travel to meet in one place. Ready your things, for we ride to pay homage to the gods at Fjalltindr.”
Fjalltindr was the sacred temple on the very top of the mountain known as Hammar. Every nine years there was a gathering that drew people from near and far to pay tribute to the gods and offer their sacrifices. I’d never been before, my parents having always claimed that it was not a place for children, and this would be the first time it took place since I’d come of age.
The great hall was in a flurry of activity, two dozen horses and a number of pack animals already saddled and loaded when I emerged in dry clothes and a thick cloak. Ylva was directing the process, the lady of Halsar no longer attired in a costly dress, but in warrior’s clothes, including a mail shirt, a long seax hanging from her belt. I had no doubt that she knew how to use it.
Particularly when her opponent’s back was turned.
“You will remain with the warriors I’m leaving behind to protect Halsar,” Snorri said to Leif. “You will be lord in my absence. Send word across my territories calling for those who can fight and tell them to prepare.”
“Prepare to be attacked?” Leif crossed his arms, expression displeased. “There will be anger, Father.”
“Remind them that we are favored by the gods,” Snorri answered as he mounted his horse. “If they care not for that, then remind them that those who fight for me will be rewarded.” Turning away from his son, he said to me, “We lost horses in the fire, so we are short. You will ride with Bjorn.”
There wasn’t much I could say to that as Snorri reached down to lift Ylva, who settled comfortably behind him. Steinunn also shared a mount, though with a young thrall woman, the skald watching my every move, though no emotion showed on her face. Sighing, I walked over to Bjorn’s big roan gelding, noting that he was also wearing mail. “What happened to riding shirtless into battle?” I grumbled, my aching arms protesting as he pulled me up behind him, knowing it would be my arse suffering in a few hours. The horse likely wouldn’t be impressed, either.
“You’re riding behind me, Born-in-Fire,” he said, heeling the horse into a walk. “And it is very nearly guaranteed that I’ll say something to anger you on the journey. It’s a long ride and I’ve no talent for silence.”
“Well, that is certainly the truth.” I barely managed to curb a yelp as he urged the horse into a canter that nearly sent me toppling off the back. I clung to Bjorn’s waist as he followed Snorri out of Halsar, but as we left the town, a hooded figure on a rocky outcropping caught my attention.
It was the same figure I’d seen during the funeral of the victims of the raid, smoke and ash drifting away on a wind despite the air being still.
“Bjorn!” I pointed. “Do you see that person?”
He turned his head, and through the mail and all the padding he wore beneath it, I felt him tense. “Where? I see no one.”
A chill of fear ran down my spine, because if Bjorn couldn’t see the figure, I was either losing my mind or this was a specter revealing itself only to me. “Stop the horse.”
Bjorn drew up his mount, the rest of our party following suit even as Snorri demanded, “Why are you stopping?”
I pointed again at the specter, which remained with its head lowered, embers and ash falling around it. “Do any of you see that hooded figure? The embers? The smoke?”
Confusion radiated across our party as everyone looked to where I pointed, shaking their heads. Nothing. Yet the horses seemed aware, all of them snorting and stomping, their ears pinned flat.
“A specter,” Snorri breathed. “Perhaps even one of the gods having stepped onto the mortal plane. Speak to him, Freya.”
My palms turned clammy because that was the last thing I wanted to do. “Try to get closer.”
Bjorn urged his mount toward the outcropping until the horse finally dug in its heels, refusing to go closer. “What do you want?” I shouted at the specter.