Joseph Lewis - Freya the Huntress

And this damned night still isn’t over yet.

Freya was nearing the castle wall with a small entourage of house carls, fishermen, and young boys who still seemed to have too much energy in them when she heard the shouts coming from the south end of the city. She paused to listen, a weight in her belly, fearing that more reavers had struck the south wall, but there were no bells ringing. Compared to an hour ago, the city was nearly silent with exhaustion and grief.

But the small angry voices were shouting, and they were coming closer, and Freya waited in the castle courtyard, amid the forgotten and trampled remains of her victory feast, to see what was coming. Half her heart wanted to chase down Leif, to find Wren, to put an end to the cancer inside the city. It was the right thing to do. Her blood cried out to her weary bones to keep going, to deliver some sort of justice to these people.

But there was a shadow in her mind, as well. A shadow that whispered that Wren might already be dead, and even if she wasn’t yet she would be soon, one way or another, and that she was beyond helping. And the shadow whispered that even if she killed Leif, it would only make more trouble for her here, trouble that she didn’t have time for. Because all she really wanted was to run out into that black night, over the hills, and down the stream to the water mill where her Erik was waiting for her.

He doesn’t have much time left. I should be with him, in his last moments, and I should be there to silence his pain, when the time comes. And to hell with the rest of the world.

But the voices in her heart and in her head somehow never took hold of her, and so she stood there in the dark and the cold, waiting for the shouts to arrive with whatever new pain they might bring.

Just as the band of newcomers began to come through the iron door in the castle wall, Freya saw the inner door open and out came Skadi with Thora at her side, but there was no sign of Wren.

“Omar!”

Freya spun to see Halfdan crashing through the crowd and snatching up the southerner in a bear hug. The warrior laughed and put the man down, and Omar stumbled back with a smile. The huntress blinked. “Omar?”

It must have been him shouting over the bay! But why?

He sauntered forward and clasped her arm. “Ah, you made it back, fair lady. Good, very good. I was worried when I heard the reavers howling this evening, and I saw them skirting the bay, making for the city. But they were leagues ahead of me, beyond my reach. I take it the battle went well?”

“No thanks to you!” Leif yelled from behind the queen. The young warrior strode into the courtyard and drew his sword. He shouted to the crowd, “Omar Bakhoum was a loyal friend to our king and queen, right to the bitter end when Fenrir killed him. The queen and I both saw him fall! This is not Omar Bakhoum, it’s a demon! He must have led the reavers here tonight. He’s in league with the beasts!”

Freya rolled her eyes, but to her amazement dozens of angry voices rose to support Leif’s claims, echoing his story about the death of the king and of Omar. There were shouts to kill Omar, and others to exile him, and others to sacrifice him on Mount Esja to appease the Allfather.

“No, no!” Freya shouted over the din. “He’s lying. Leif is lying to you all. He’s been lying to you for years. Fenrir didn’t kill Omar. It was Leif who struck him down. The beast from the pit killed three men that day, and Leif killed the rest so there would be no witnesses, no one to tell the truth of what happened on the mountain!”

The crowd fell silent. Most of their eyes glared darkly at her, lips curled and ready to shout her down, but for a moment they listened.

“But Omar survived and he ran away,” she said. “He went to the vala at Glymur Falls, and there he stayed all this time, for five years, trying to cure the plague on his own, living in fear for his life should Leif ever find him again.” She glanced at the southerner and saw a sort of nervous amusement in his eyes. But he gave her no other sign of what he might want her to say, or not say.

How much should I reveal? Can I tell them that Omar is immortal? Can I tell them that Fenrir was really Ivar? How much will they be willing to hear, or believe? And what will they do to us, whether they believe me or not?

“And we did find him, me and Erik and Leif. Leif drew his sword, and Omar cut off his arm and let him fall into the river. That’s what really happened. And Omar was the one who struck off Fenrir’s head when we trapped the beast. Omar is your champion, not me, and certainly not Leif!”

The following shouting match was deafening. Everyone had an opinion or a question, everyone took sides. Some believed Freya, in whole or in part. Some stood by their warrior, Leif. And some still wanted to kill Omar on the mountain and pray for an end to their nightmare. But it was the voice of the queen that ended the fighting.

“My people, it has been a long and tiring day, full of victories and tragedies. Freya has brought us the head of Fenrir, and the reavers made us pay for that in blood tonight. But we prevailed, as we always have and always will. And now Omar Bakhoum has returned to us. Look at him!”

She stepped forward and put her hand on his shoulder. “He’s no demon, no monster, no ghost or trick of the light. He’s alive, and he has returned from the wilderness, no doubt after surviving unspeakable horrors and perhaps having done great deeds as well. I will question him, and you will all know the truth of the matter soon enough. But there will be no more killing. There has been enough blood spilled in Rekavik tonight. Go home, and rest easy knowing that you have such heroes as these to defend your city.” She extended her hands to touch Freya’s and Leif’s shoulders. “Good night, and may the Allfather grant us a long rest from our labors.”

Then she nodded to Omar, and turned back to the castle. Skadi led the procession of guards and valas inside, and Freya followed at Omar’s side. But in the middle of the dining hall, the guards seized Omar’s arms.

“No!” Freya tried to pry them off of him, but Leif’s sword was suddenly at her throat, pushing her back against the wall. “What’s going on?”

“A very good question,” Skadi said. She stood before Omar, studying him. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

“Never if I can help it, Highness,” Omar said smoothly. “I used to revel in surprises, but such is a pastime for younger men. These days I strive to avoid new things at all costs. They upset my digestion.”

“It really is you, isn’t it?” The queen leaned close to his face. “I saw you die, and yet here you are, all too well. Is it true what the girl said? Did you kill Fenrir?”

“Indeed it is, all too true. I did kill… the beast you called Fenrir.” Omar smiled thinly. “Though I must admit, I expected a warmer reception for all my hard work.”

“Your reception is still very much in question,” Skadi said. “Why are you here? Why come back now?”

Freya turned her attention to Leif and the blade at her throat. The young warrior was facing the queen, but was watching his prisoner with a sidelong squint.

“I took the ring from Fenrir’s hand,” Omar said. “And I spoke with the ancient valas of Rekavik. Have you?”

Skadi hesitated. “I did. Briefly.”

“Then you already know, Highness, that none of your exalted predecessors know anything about this plague. They have no answers for you, no cure at all.”

“That remains to be seen,” she said sternly.

“Perhaps it remains to be seen by you, but I have seen it clearly enough, and I have far more experience speaking with the dead. But if you have forgotten that, you are always welcome to inspect my sword again.”