Filed to story: A Fate Inked In Blood Free
“Do you know who they are?” I whispered.
Bjorn gave a tight nod, pointing to a big warrior with a bushy red beard and shaved head. “That is Jarl Sten.”
Jarl Sten was built like a bull and carried an axe I’d probably struggle to lift. “I don’t suppose he’s on good terms with your father?”
Bjorn cast me a sideways glance, suggesting that to have hoped for such was idiocy.
“Fine,” I muttered, casting a glance skyward. The sun was drifting downward, which meant we had only a matter of an hour or two until the moon appeared. “We kill them and then cross through the gates and get on with what we came here to do.”
Bjorn’s eyebrows rose. “Perhaps as well as possessing the blood of a god, you are also descended from the Valkyries of old.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You’re starting to see violence as the best solution.”
That wasn’t even close to the truth. I saw violence as the answer because the alternative was to see violence enacted upon me. “How is it not the solution here?”
“Because,” he answered, “my understanding is that to get through the gates into Fjalltindr, you must get on your knees and honor each of the gods by name.”
I stared at him, realizing with a start that having lived most of his life in Nordeland, Bjorn had never been to the temple before, either. “Which gods?”
“All of them.” When I blanched, he laughed softly. “Not all battles are won with steel, Born-in-Fire-some are won by guile.”
“What do you propose?” I asked, simultaneously worried and curious, because Bjorn’s grin was wide, his green eyes gleaming bright. And I knew what that meant.
“I propose that we go see how the gothar are doing in gathering their gold.”
Not an hour later, Bjorn and I once again approached the gates, though this time we were dressed in the hooded robes of gothar, the deep cowls serving the double purpose of warmth and deception.
It had not been difficult to get the clothing, for as Bjorn had anticipated, the gothi and one of his fellows had immediately ventured into the tunnels in search of the stolen wealth. After extinguishing their lantern, Bjorn had then informed them he’d leave them alone in the dark unless they gave up their clothing, which had them stripping faster than men on their wedding nights.
Bjorn left them in the dark anyway, loosely trussed so that they could get free and find their way out.
Eventually.
I’d felt guilty walking away with the echoes of weeping pleas filling my ears, and had muttered, “Leaving them down there in the dark was cruel.”
“It was not cruel. The bastards planned to pocket some of the wealth before anyone else knew of it, which might well have seen them turned to draug by the gods they claim to serve. We saved both men from themselves. Now walk faster, we’re running short on time.”
Bjorn led me down the path at a trot until we were nearly in sight of the gates, then slowed to a sedate stride.
I mimicked him, keeping my head lowered as we approached the waiting warriors.
Never suspecting that their target might be coming from this direction, none of them paid us any attention. Neither did they make room for us to pass, forcing Bjorn and me to weave among them. My heart thundered, my stomach twisting into knots, and I feared one of them would notice my rapid breathing. Would know that it was Bjorn and me, not a pair of hapless gothar.
But they only grumbled about the cold, half of them seeming to believe this was a fool’s errand and the other half seeming to believe I’d come striding across the bridge, shield ablaze. Not a one suspecting that I stood right next to them, which meant that in a few paces, we’d reached the gates.
An elderly gothi with tufts of white hair on his head waited, and I dropped to my knees in front of him, Bjorn following suit. The old man blinked at us in confusion, and I lifted my face to meet his gaze, saying softly, “The draug are vanquished.”
His eyes, clouded with cataracts, widened, then skipped to the warriors standing only a few feet behind me. I tensed, watching as he pieced together my identity, praying to every god that he’d not sell me out to those who’d see me dead. Instead, the old gothi smiled, then intoned, “Do you submit to Odin, Thor, Frigg, Freyr, and”-he winked-“Freyja?”
“Yes,” I croaked, curbing the urge to look behind me, the sensation of having my enemies at my back while I was defenseless on my knees infinitely worse than meeting them head-on.
“To Tyr, Hlin, Njord, and Loki?”
“Yes,” Bjorn answered, even as I willed the old man to speak faster. There were dozens and dozens of gods left, and each passing second risked discovery.
I barely heard the names of the gods, only mumbled my assent with each pause, every part of me certain that the warriors behind us would hear the hammering of my heart. Would smell the sweat of nerves and fear rising to my skin, or notice that Bjorn’s scarred hands, visible where they pressed against the ground, were not the hands of the gothi. Or worse, would question why gothar of the temple were on their knees performing a submission to the gods at all.
It wasn’t until shouts filled the air that I realized my fears were misplaced.
I twitched, lifting my face to look through the gates. Beyond, two men stripped to their undergarments strode toward us. As I stared, horror filling my guts, one of them pointed. “It was them! They vanquished the draug, then accosted us so they might sneak into Fjalltindr!”
Those people lingering just inside the gates heard, whispers of interest racing like wildfire among them, several turning to see who the men were pointing at.
“I should have killed them.” Bjorn sighed. “This is Tyr punishing me for abandoning my better instincts.”
If I weren’t about to drown in a flood of panic, I’d have smacked him, but the warriors behind us were stirring at the commotion, which meant that we had a matter of seconds. A crowd was gathering inside the gates, the pair of gothar pointing at me as they repeated their story.
The old man rattled off the names of the gods faster now, Bjorn and I muttering our assent, and my brain scrambled to remember how many were left. Too many was the number I came up with a heartbeat before a hand closed on my hood and ripped it backward.
“It’s her!” a male voice snarled.