Joseph Lewis - Freya the Huntress

Freya and Erik said nothing and ran out into the street. Freya led the way to the eastern seawall, tracing the same path she had taken the night before. When they approached the wall, she saw the same mass of warriors and fishermen with swords and harpoons crowding near the door with several men up on the wall and several boys on the roofs of the nearby houses, their slings already hurling stones over the wall.

And then the blazing white light of Omar’s sword erupted atop the wall, and Freya grinned. “Come on, we’re not needed here. Omar can take care of anything that attacks this door. Let’s go to the next one.”

They turned south and snaked a path carefully through the gawkers and the boys and the mothers.

“If you’re not fighting, get back inside!” Freya shouted.

At the next door in the seawall there were far fewer men on the wall, and all of them were fishermen, but they had three times as many slingers behind them, and the stones were flying as thick as the snow blasting down on them in the arctic wind. The torches fluttered and gasped, threatening to go out.

Freya and Erik climbed up to the top of the wall and the fishermen made room for them.

“The hunters!” One of the older men nodded. “Good. Everyone’s at the north door tonight. They all want to be near Omar. Everyone wants to see him fight with that damn sword of his.”

“Let them. More for us,” Freya said. She peered out at the bay and her keen fox eyes quickly picked out the sharp ripples in the water driving toward the city. “They’re swimming? But that water’s freezing. They won’t put up much of a fight when they get here.”

“Let’s hope not,” Erik signed.

“But still, why would they? Why risk it? Why not follow the bank along the beach?” Freya leaned on her spear as the slingers’ stones rained down on the water with heavy plops and splashes. The torches growled, the wind shrieked, and the crowd at the north door was shouting and singing in anticipation of the battle. But gradually through all that noise, Freya heard something new. “Do you hear that? It sounds like voices.”

“Just the reavers, snarling and carrying on,” the fisherman said.

“No, it’s not.” Freya squinted at the ripples, and saw the first shaggy head rise high above the water as the swimmer came close to the shore. She saw the tall hairy ears and golden glint of two eyes, but the rest of the body that emerged from the black water was pale and smooth.

“They’re human!” She spun to the slingers. “Stop throwing, stop! They’re human! They’re cured! They’re cured and coming home. Stop slinging and open the door!”

“No! Wait!” the fisherman grabbed her arm and pointed at the bay.

The first swimmer to reach the shallows and stand up was a young woman. She moved awkwardly in the deep water, which still rose to her breasts, and she paddled with both hands to help drive her forward. She was gasped and choking and now they could hear her crying out, “Help me, please! Help!”

The woman was shivering, her head shaking from side to side, her teeth chattering visibly in the starlight.

Freya shook the fisherman off her. “Let her in! Open the door!”

A reaver burst up from the water just behind the naked woman in the water and sank its claws into her shoulders and chest. Snarling and barking, it drove the woman under water with its sheer dripping weight, and both vanished beneath the surface. The woman’s head and chest surged up out of the water, and she screamed, and was suddenly silenced as the reaver tore her arm from its socket and plunged its fangs into her bare throat.

Freya screamed, “Slingers, loose!”

The stones flew, battering the water and the beast standing waist deep in a black pool of blood and floating limbs.

The other swimmers were coming up to the beach as well, all naked and exhausted, all gasping and shivering and barely able to speak. They cried out weakly, “Help me! Save me! A rope! Please!” And one by one they were set upon by the reavers swimming along right behind them. They were crushed and shredded and torn apart within throwing distance of the wall.

Freya raised her spear and moved to the edge of the wall, but Erik pulled her back and signed, “We can’t save them. We have to hold this line.”

Freya stepped back. “Slingers, faster!”

The rocks slammed into the waters and the reavers, and the beasts yelped and whined and howled as the stones smashed their arms and chests and faces. But still they came, killing the fleeing swimmers every step of the way.

And from across the dark waters, a gravelly voice thundered, “KILL THEM! CRACK THEIR BONES! SHRED THEIR FLESH!”

Freya and Erik exchange a worried look, but there wasn’t time to wonder who was hollering over the bay.

The reavers staggered up out of the surf and shook the cold salt water from their fur, but they only paused a moment before dashing toward the seawall door where they began leaping and snapping at the warriors. The slingers aimed upward so their rocks would sail over the men and fall straight down on the beasts, and the spears and harpoons swung down to stab at them.

Freya counted eight reavers on the beach below, with one or two more still in the water.

It isn’t fair. They shouldn’t have to die like this, not with the cure so close at hand. If only they had stayed away for a few more days, then no one would need to die. But we can’t let them kill us either.

“This is the last battle, the last night of blood!” she cried out to the grim-faced fishermen. “After tonight, there won’t be any reavers left in Ysland, one way or another!”

The men shouted, “For Ivar! For Rekavik!”

Springing upward from the beach, the reavers could just barely reach the top of the wall and the boots of the defenders. Freya took her time, readying her weapon just beside her eye, and when a reaver leapt up right below her, she drove her steel spear straight down into its shoulder or eye or even into its open maw. Erik stood at her side, striking swiftly and then yanking his blade free before the weight of the dead reaver could pull the spear from his hands.

After a few exhausting minutes, four of the reavers on the beach were dead, and one of the survivors had turned its attention to the task of gnawing on the bodies on the ground.

“We’re halfway home!” Freya shouted, and the slingers behind her cheered.

Two of the reavers on the ground stopped trying to scramble up the wall and began slamming their shoulders and heads against the iron door.

“Brace the door!” the fishermen shouted.

Freya moved back from the edge of the wall to catch her breath and feel the pounding of her heart in her chest. Erik tapped her shoulder and he pointed out at the water.

The last ripple was reaching the shore, but the dark shadow rose from the surface far sooner than any of the swimmers had. It rose, and rose, until it was wading waist-deep still far from the light of the torches. The driving snow wind obscured all but the creature’s dim outline. And then it roared a deafening, thunderous roar.

Freya stepped back, and so did every man on the wall. “That’s impossible! We killed Fenrir, we brought back his head!”

But as the monster came closer, she saw there were subtle differences from the reaver-king that Omar had beheaded on Thaverfell. It was enormous and completely covered in red fur, just like Fenrir, but this reaver’s fur was a bit thinner and browner, and when its hips rose out of the water it had only one tail, not three. Its muzzle was shorter, its features almost vaguely human behind a fox-like mask of fur and fangs.

Erik signed, “Look at the neck. A collar?”

Freya saw the silver shining in the starlight through the snow. “It’s a torque. That reaver’s wearing a silver torque. What does that mean?”