When I’ve scraped off the blood crystals as best I can, I stroke a finger along his short tusk and whisper, “It won’t be much longer.”
“Lady?” Darius says.
Putting my back to Red Stripe’s hard marble chest, I lean into his arm, which props him up like a pillar. And I look at Darius. He’s back in his uniform now, the long black vest and black pants, black boots. It leaves his arms bare. The left shoulder is marked with a family crest tattoo: a rampant eagle spreading its wings, in its claws a round-shield divided into quarters: two are blacked out, one holds the rune for strength, and in the last is a crossed hammer and anvil. Beneath the crest is a small phrase in medieval script.
“What does not a leader, but a man mean?”
He puts his book upside down against his knee. “It reminds me that when dealing with such power as turns in my chest, with the god of madness, I must be a man first before I can expect anyone to follow me. My father used to say it, and I had it added when I was made captain.”
“You must have been young.”
Darius shrugs. “Young but strong, Lady Valkyrie.”
“Strong,” I murmur.
“That isn’t something you need to worry about. I saw your strength when you charged at the herd, all alone.”
I push away from Red Stripe. “I wasn’t thinking about it. It was just what I had to do.”
He nods as if to say, Of course.
“Darius,” I whisper.
The captain sets his book on the floor and leans his elbows onto his knees. He regards me intensely but only waits.
“The troll mother is here. Near here, at least.” I take a long, shaking breath. “I think she followed me, and maybe even somehow was in Vinland because of me and my riddle. I can’t explain how, but the goddess Freya is involved, and I suspect she’s capable of manipulating nearly anything.”
He nods once, slowly. “What would you have us do?”
I push my temple against the hard, smooth surface of Red Stripe’s knee until it hurts. “I want to go out tonight and see if I can find out about where she might be. Through the lesser trolls. If I can find some iron eaters, maybe I can bargain with them. There’s so much water here she could be hiding in—the Wide Water or the ocean, or any of these massive swamps. If I can’t narrow it down, we’ll have to do something to draw her out.”
“Which would be more dangerous.”
“Exactly.”
“We’ll go with you. Sharkman and I, and leave Thebes here with Red Stripe.”
“No, I should go alone.”
The long look Darius gives me makes plain his disagreement.
“You’ll scare them—especially iron wights, Captain. Probably I’ll scare them, even if I’m gentle. But I’ll fare better on my own with getting them to talk instead of run.”
“This sounds more like madness than bravery.”
I throw him a half smile. “I’m better with madness.”
“As am I,” says Sharkman as he clomps down the stairs. “You see? We belong together.”
I laugh, and it feels good.
Sharkman gives me the smile that earned him his name.
TWENTY-THREE
NEAR MIDNIGHT I slip out the front door in jeans, boots, and my black Mad Eagles hoodie despite the warmth that lingers in the night air. Thebes is on guard duty in Red Stripe’s violently bright garage, and he whispers “Good luck” as I strap Unferth’s sword over my shoulder.
I spent three hours with my berserkers going over the maps of troll sightings in Port Orleans to pinpoint the best possibility for me encountering the least dangerous iron wights. The majority of the sightings are near the river and bridges, of course, or near highway overpasses and up north by the Wide Water. Darius suggested I avoid deep water if I’m truly uninterested in danger, and we isolated a seven-block area south of here between the trolley tracks and river where there’ve been sightings of mostly iron wights. So that’s where I’m headed, and alone in order to be less of a threat to the curious little trolls. There are some cheap silver rings in my pockets to bribe them with, and a handful of colored paper clips I found in a kitchen drawer. My other pocket is full with a cell phone, at the captain’s insistence. Just in case.
The night is quiet but for the harsh-pitched cry of frogs and muffled traffic, and I jog down our dim street to an avenue with better lighting and four lanes divided by a grass median. It’s lined with scraggly oak trees and a strange blend of very nice antebellum houses and sorry ranches on concrete foundations with sagging porches. I start at an easy gait, Unferth’s sword quietly slapping my butt as I go. I count the blocks, and after nine take a left onto Sanctus Charles, which is busy even at this time of night. I follow the trolley tracks for two blocks before heading right, toward the river, again, this time on a narrower street in the center of these localized iron wight sightings. This one is quiet and dark thanks to fewer streetlamps. One side is lined with gorgeous three-story town houses, the other with short chain-link fences and single-family homes. Even in the dark it’s like two cities crashing into one another.
I tuck into the shadow of a tree as a cluster of five men spreads out across the street, sweeping their UV flashlights up the sides of houses and into the branches of trees.
Hunters after the bounty Thor promised yesterday, on account of all the extra sightings.
Once they’ve passed, I step off the sidewalk to cross the street. On my left the houses are replaced by a two-meter-tall whitewashed brick wall that glows in the dingy streetlights. I slow my pace and hop onto my tiptoes to see over it.
Darker gray and white rooftops peer at me from the other side, some peaked or curved, others entirely flat. They’re decorated with stone flowers and urns, some with false windows or wrought-iron crowns. Mausoleums and family crypts.
I sink to my heels. It’s one of Port Orleans’ cities of the dead. An entire block of marble and stone that wasn’t marked on my map. This should be the center of that iron wight territory Darius identified. What better place for small trolls to hide under the sun?
With a running start, I leap to grab the top edge of the wall and drag myself up. I roll onto my side across the flat top and catch my breath. Right before my face is a crumbling mausoleum, tucked against the wall, stained gray by rain and weathering. A lush green fern grows from the top corner. I sit to dangle my legs down into the cemetery. No streetlamps invade the city of graves, but it looks like there’s a lane around the inner perimeter and two that cross in the middle to create four smaller blocks of crypts within the larger block. Trees grow near the center and along the lanes, casting additional shadows in the dim moonlight.
I hop down into the cemetery.
My boots hit the dirt hard, and I crouch with my back against the cool brick wall. I’m hidden between two mausoleums. The breeze smells like wet stone and mud, and down here the city sounds are muffled.
I touch the cool marble to my right, skimming my fingers down it. This place reminds me of the death ship beach, though crowded and claustrophobic. I wish I knew who this cemetery is dedicated to. Most like it’s for Thunderers, who are often buried whole-bodied in stone graves like this, or in crypts beneath one of their rock cathedrals, waiting in peace for the day Thor Thunderer summons them to his side, to travel with him to his far mountain home. But in a city like Port Orleans, there might be shared cemeteries, with portions assigned to Freyan ashes or Biblist internment or foreigners or anything.