Joseph Lewis - Freya the Huntress

They stood and went to the door where they both had to pause for their golden eyes to adjust to the bright sunlight. She took up her spear, and as they walked upstream in search of Arfast, she told him about her journey to Thaverfell, and killing Fenrir, and returning the ring to Skadi. When they found the white elk, she pulled off the saddle blanket for Erik to tie around his waist under her coat.

He patted Arfast’s neck, and signed, “It sounds like it was quite an adventure.”

“It was. And I’m glad it’s over. Well, it will be over as soon as we find Wren. I followed her tracks here, but she seems to have moved on. Do you have any memory of her coming to see you in the mill?”

Erik shook his head. He frowned. “I do wish I had my clothes. And my spear.”

“Well, you probably tore your clothes off when you changed,” she said quietly. Then she frowned. “But your spear should be wherever you left it. I mean, I can’t imagine anyone came to visit you out here. And if they did find a chained up reaver and a spear close at hand…”

“They would have killed me,” Erik signed.

Freya said, “Maybe Wren took it.”

“But why?”

“Why else would she need a spear? To kill something.”

Together they searched the banks of the stream all the way back to the mill, and in the dead grass behind the house Freya found a fresh boot print in the snowy earth. They set out north, following the faint trail as it meandered around boggy pits and rocky crags and over hillocks until they both began to hear something on the reedy wind. They knelt together in the snow to listen as Arfast stood behind them, flicking his tail over his rump.

“Is it a voice?” Erik signed.

“It could be an animal,” Freya signed back.

“It almost sounds like a deer caught in a snare. Hear the way it’s breathing, short and shallow?”

She nodded and they set out again, quicker than before. The sounds led them up a rocky slope and when they reached the top they looked down on a wide jagged gash in the earth more than fifty paces long though only six or seven paces wide at its center. It looked as though the Allfather himself had plunged his sword into the ground, carving a wound in the stone and soil that plunged far down into the darkness below. Across a narrow part of the ravine, with its steel butt and blade just barely clinging to either side of the rock, was Erik’s steel spear, and in the center of the spear’s shaft they could see ten white-and-red fingers.

“Wren!” Freya dashed down the slope and across the broken rock floor to the edge of the ravine, and looked down.

Wren looked up, her face pale and drawn, her feet dangling above the black abyss. “I made a bet with the Allfather that you would come and save me before I fell,” she said. “Looks like I lost.”

“You bet against me?” Freya reached down to steady the spearhead at her feet as Erik leapt across the gap and took hold of the butt.

“Well, you know how clever Woden likes to be. I thought if I tricked him into taking the wrong end of the bet, I would come out ahead when I fell to my death,” she wheezed breathily. “I would go to the next world with the Allfather owing me a favor. It seemed like the wise thing to do at the time.”

Freya and Erik lifted the spear and the dangling girl with it, and then Erik leapt back across the narrow ravine and Wren collapsed onto solid ground. When she caught her breath, she said, “But now I owe him a favor. Clever bastard.”

“I can always throw you back in,” Freya offered as she sat down beside the young vala.

“Maybe another time.” Wren leaned against the huntress and sighed, rubbing her hands. “Thanks for saving me, all the same.” Then she hopped up and hugged Erik. “And thanks for not eating me, you know, when you were a reaver.” She pulled back and glanced down at the rough blanket around the man’s waist and his bare chest behind Freya’s white and gray leather coat. “I think you need some clothes.”

“This is how all recovering reavers dress,” he signed with a smile.

Freya interpreted for him, and Wren laughed and hugged him again. Then she handed him his spear. “Sorry. Looks like I scraped it up a little.”

Erik rolled his eyes and took back his weapon with a mocking glare. He marched over to Freya with an open hand and she gave him the small whetstone from the pouch on her belt, and he went to sit on a rock to try to fix his spear with a very serious pout on his lip.

Freya stood and tussled the girl’s hair and plucked gently at the little tufts of hair on top of her fox ears. “I see that Omar’s bloodflies found you in time.”

“Just barely. Someone up there must like me after all,” she said with a sidelong glance at the gray sky.

“Mm hm. He liked you enough to dangle you over a ravine. Are you going to explain that any time soon?”

The young vala straightened her jacket and made a show of brushing the dust from her black sleeves and skirts. “I really don’t think it’s any of your business.”

“Oh really?” Freya smiled. “Then I guess I don’t need to let you ride Arfast back to the city.”

“Oh please let me! My arms are killing me!” Wren pleaded. “I’ll tell you. I got to the mill and I heard reavers in the hills, so I took the spear to protect Erik, and I wound up here, and there was one reaver, and I, sort of, well, tripped.”

Freya laughed and she saw Erik’s shoulders shaking silently out of the corner of her eye. “You tripped into the ravine?”

Wren pouted haughtily as she walked over to Arfast. “Well, what do I know about fighting with a spear? I’ll stick to my sling, thank you very much.”

Erik tapped his spear to get their attention, and signed, “What happened to the reaver?” There was worry in his golden eyes.

“It tried to grab me, and missed.” Wren hopped up onto the white elk’s back. “And it fell a lot farther than I did. Now let’s please get going. I’m hungry. I didn’t bring any food because I really didn’t expect to live this long today.”

They returned to Rekavik in no particular hurry. Freya and Erik walked side by side, occasionally catching each others’ hands or slipping an arm around the other’s waist or neck. They didn’t speak, each lost in their own thoughts and their own strange new sensations, each one exploring the world again for the first time, hearing it again for the first time in all its tiny, living details. They heard the crickets in the grass and the rabbits in their burrows, and when a rock broke free and tumbled down a distant hillside, all three of them turned to look. The sun glared through the overcast sky, and they all shaded their eyes with their hands or kept their gazes on the ground.

It was late in the afternoon when they finally reached the iron door in the south wall of the city, and the guards let them enter without any questions or searches. Freya started to explain their ears, but then saw that a third of the warriors had them as well, in various states of growth. So after leaving Arfast in the stabler’s care, they continued toward the castle. The streets were quiet except for the handful of children running about. Freya saw the housewives through the open doorways making their suppers, and the fishermen cleaning their catches, and the crones knitting their scarves. And on nearly half of the heads she saw small or large furry ears, and bright golden eyes.

“You have to admit, this is very strange,” Wren said.

“The ears or the fact that everyone seems fine with them?” asked Freya.

“Both,” Erik signed.

The sun was setting as they approached the castle walls and the closed iron door. Freya banged on the door and called out, and after a moment of silence, the locks clicked and clanged and the door squealed inward. Freya stepped inside and found Halfdan and his guards standing around a crackling fire in an iron brazier. The bearded captain waved them over. “You’re all alive?” He grunted mirthlessly. “I suppose someone was bound to have a better day than us.”