Filed to story: A Fate Inked In Blood Free
“Tell me,” Snorri roared, “will you scurry back to those whose fate is already decided, or will you stand in the shield wall with the one favored by the gods? Choose!”
Destroy our enemy or protect our home. I squeezed my hands into fists because the alternative was to squeeze my head. This was all beyond me, the realm of great thinkers, not fishmongers’ wives.
Except I was a fishmonger’s wife no longer.
I was Freya, child of Hlin and lady of Halsar, and it was the latter that drew words up my throat to my tongue, and then out into the ears of all who listened. “What good is vengeance when all we know and love are dead? What glory will we feel in defeating our enemy if it means no hearth fire for us to return to? The Norns may have woven Halsar’s fate, but together we will force them to weave a new pattern, and with the strength of our families and allies, we will turn our eyes north for vengeance!”
Cheers rose from the warriors around us, and my chest tightened at the relief I saw in their eyes. Not only that I had removed the need for them to choose between their honor and their families, but because I had the power to alter what the seer had seen.
I had the power to save Halsar.
Yet not everyone was smiling. Snorri’s jaw was tight, his mouth drawn into a straight line. He cared more about defeating Harald than about the lives of those in Halsar, and I’d stolen the opportunity to have his prize. But almost as much as that, I suspected I’d earned his wrath by making a decision at all. People who were controlled did not make choices-choices were made for them.
He eyed his warriors as they lifted their hands and cheered my words, and he said, “Let Harald scuttle home to Nordeland to hide, for every day he evades us we will grow stronger. When the gods will it, we will strike our blow and vengeance will be ours!”
Men and women shouted their agreement, promising blood, and my own grew hot with anticipation of that moment, whenever it should come.
“Ready yourselves,” Snorri shouted. “We march, and if the gods are with us, we’ll see the bottom of this mountain before dawn.”
All became organized chaos, my clothes-still filthy and stinking-once again on my body, along with my chain mail, and then we were walking to the gates of Fjalltindr, the gothar waiting with our weapons.
As we passed over the threshold, Bjorn’s axe flared to life, lighting our path downward. I wanted to ask him why he’d left the hall. Why he’d gone to speak to a seer when the threat surrounding us was so great.
And most of all, what we should do about what had happened between us.
That question terrified me, because it was driven by the fact that I cared about what had happened. That I cared far, far too much. So instead I asked, “Do you believe we walk toward battle?”
Bjorn was quiet for a long moment, then he said, “My mother once told me that the trouble with foretellings is that you never truly understand them until they come to pass.”
I frowned. “Then why did you bother asking the seer about Halsar?”
“And there lies the trouble with seers,” he said, stepping away even as Bodil strode up next to me, her maidens arraying around us. “They rarely answer the question you ask.”
By the light of torches, we made our way down the southern slope of Hammar. No one spoke, every bit of concentration required not to slip on the treacherous pathway. Yet for all the slightest misstep that might send me tumbling to my death, flickers of memory invaded my mind’s eye. The sensation of Bjorn’s mouth on mine, our tongues entwined, the taste of him lingering like spice. Of his hands on my body, my legs wrapped around his waist, his hardness rubbing against my sex as I ground against him. Each time my boots skidded on loose rock or I stumbled over a root, I’d snap back to reality, my cheeks flushed and thighs slick with liquid heat, shame in my heart.
Why had I taken it so far?
Oh, it was easy enough to tell myself that we’d done what we needed to do, but that had only been the impetus. The escalation had been all desire, my desire, for while Bjorn’s body had reacted, that was only because he was a man and men had little control over such things. He was loyal to his father, and I’d shamed that loyalty. Embarrassed myself and him, and each time he reached out to steady me, mortification filled my core.
Yet for all my self-admonitions, it felt like a string stretched between us, my awareness of his proximity never faltering, and I could swear that even if my eyes were closed I might reach out to him with unerring precision. My eyes went to him of their own accord, only force of will driving them back to the ground, and my ears perked up every time I heard his voice.
You’re a stupid, lovesick fool, I snarled at myself. Lives are at stake, yet you lust over muscles and a pretty face. Act like a grown woman, not a girl who’s never had a man between her legs.
It’s more than that, my heart pleaded in protest. It’s more than just lust.
Which was what terrified me the most. Lust, I could satisfy myself. But the emotions burning in my chest? Those were not something that could be sated by deft fingers in a dark room. And certainly not by me.
It was with relief that the village at the base of the mountain appeared in the dawn light, and alongside it multiple camps with picket lines full of horses, all flying different banners. One of which was Snorri’s. Those on guard duty must have recognized us, for I’d not trodden another dozen feet before Ragnar approached. “My lord,” he said, “we were not expecting you so soon.”
“Halsar may be at risk of a raid.” Snorri’s voice was clipped. “Break camp and ready the horses. We must make haste.”
Bodil and her maidens split off to their camp, while our party trudged toward our own. As we drew closer, a familiar figure stepped out of a tent, her dress and cloak marked with travel stains and her face with exhaustion. “I am pleased to see you well, my lord,” Steinunn said, then to Ylva, “You as well, my lady.” Bjorn she pointedly ignored, but to me she said, “I would have your story, Freya Born-in-Fire.” Her voice was cool, expression stony, something in her gaze causing discomfort to twist my stomach.
“She’s tired,” Bjorn snapped. “While you’ve been at ease in camp, Freya has barely slept in days.”
“On the contrary,” the skald snapped back, “I arrived at the camp not an hour past, because that idiot man with the horses left before-” She broke off as Bodil approached, inclining her head. “Jarl Bodil.”
The big woman gave her a considering look, then said, “It has been long months since you’ve graced Brekkur with your presence, Steinunn. I look forward to a performance.”
“I will tell the tale of how Freya defeated the draug to reach the summit of the Hammar.”
“How do you know that is what happened?” Bjorn asked. “Perhaps the tunnels were empty and we merely climbed to the top.”
The look the skald gave him was withering, but before the conversation could devolve further, I said, “It was a great battle, and I will tell you all of it, as I promised.”
“Since you’ve made clear you do not wish to tell me anything, Bjorn,” Steinunn said, “perhaps you might retrieve our horses.”
Bjorn’s eyes narrowed, but Bodil said, “I will stay with Freya, Firehand. This is a story I greatly wish to hear.”
“It’s fine,” I said to him, “I will make no mention of Bjorn Shitshimself.”
Bodil coughed on the mouthful of water she’d just drunk, but Bjorn only smirked. “It is to my good fortune that the skalds’ magic can only reveal the truth.”