“Only if she controls the story. If someone presses her, perhaps the hero who brought them Fenrir’s head, then the people will doubt her. And doubt is a kind of weapon, too.” Freya nodded. “And what will happen when you walk into that city, alive and well, five years after she saw you die? Five years after everyone was told that you died?”
The southerner smiled. “Well, that will be an interesting day.”
“I’m glad we agree.”
Omar followed her gaze up to the drill. “Why don’t you go on ahead? Maybe I’ll spend a few hours up there, taking a fresh look at the scene. And it’ll be easier for you if I’m not there when you give the ring to Skadi. You’ll want everyone’s undivided attention.”
“So I’ll go back to Rekavik and make the queen squirm for a while, and then you’ll come knocking on those iron doors with that blazing sword in your hand?”
Omar grinned. “No, nothing so dramatic as that. But don’t worry. I won’t come empty-handed. Good luck, fair lady.”
“And to you.” Freya set off down the path at a quick trot. It was just past noon and a cool breeze was blowing off the bay laden with the scent of salt and seal flesh. More than once her eyes shifted to the south, again searching the snowy hills for the stream and the mill, but she never saw it and she never turned her feet from the path. She reached the edge of the bay with a tight knot in the muscles in her back, but she strode on along the pebbled beach, her spear on her shoulder, squinting across the dark waters at the walled city of Rekavik.
She followed the same path along the water’s edge that Leif had shown her when they left the city, and so she picked her way along the seawall, knowing that dozens of eyes would be watching her from the guards’ posts at the rusting iron doors. Freya took her time, ignoring the first two doors and letting the tip of her spear carelessly scrape and twang against the seawall to make sure she had as much attention as possible. By the time she reached the third door, it was already standing open and a young guardsman stood in the gap with his hands on his sword, 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.”