Joseph Lewis - Freya the Huntress

Thick green grasses hid the edge of where the island met the lake, and as they pushed through them and emerged into a shallow lagoon, Freya looked up at the two great ridges to the east and west of them. The rock faces were gray and barren, but the center of the island sloped down to form a gently curving bowl where lush grasses and untended fields of barley and wheat waved in a riot of greens and golds.

Just ahead near the shore of the lagoon, Freya saw a smooth mound of mossy earth and stone, the telltale shape of two long houses built back to back, with several small gardens with low stone walls of their own nearby. And looming above the man-made earthworks was a single finger of stone, a tall gray spear of rock with ragged edges but a smooth face, and on that face Freya could already see, even at a distance, the long lines of runes carved into the stone.

Wren glanced back at her. “Have you heard the story of the rune stone of Delver Island?”

“No.”

“The Allfather himself carved it.” Wren nodded as she turned back to her paddling. “It was in the ancient days, long before Woden made war on the demons and the giants. The Allfather walked the earth in search of power and wisdom, speaking to serpents and birds. But he learned nothing, and he despaired. So when he came to this island and saw that rock spire, he climbed to the top of it and hurled himself upon it, impaling himself on it, sacrificing himself to the world in exchange for its secrets.”

Freya frowned, only half listening to the girl’s story. Her eyes kept straying to the open waters of the lake and the unseen shore where her husband and her sister were waiting for her. Somewhere.

“For nine days and nine nights, the Allfather cracked his spine and spilled his blood on the stone, hanging upside down. The ravens gathered to drink his blood and to whisper their secrets to each other. And Woden heard them speak of the runes, so he grabbed two of the ravens, one in each hand, and they screamed.” Wren spoke in a reverent whisper, her face turned up toward the rock spire. “The other ravens attacked him, tearing his flesh, even tearing out his eye. But he held the two ravens fast, crushing them until they revealed the secrets of the runes and the seidr-magics to him. And they made a pact, Woden and the ravens, to share their wisdom together and to never make war on each other again, and they swore in blood, and carved their oaths onto that stone there, for all time.”

“I don’t see anyone,” Freya said. “Your family, I mean. It looks deserted.”

The girl glanced around. “I hope so. I hope they left a long time ago.” Wren let the boat coast into the thick reeds and tall grasses at the shore before stepping out into the knee-deep muck and slogging up onto dry land.

Freya followed, and took her two knives from her belt. The sharpened bones felt strong and solid and certain in her bare hands. The blades were still fresh, still new, taken only a month ago from the legs of a mountain goat high in the hills above Logarven.

A month ago.

Freya squinted at the empty houses in the shadow of the rune stone.

A month ago everything was fine. And there were no reavers. At least, not in my world. My world was perfect a month ago.

Wren jogged into both houses and came out again just as quickly. “There’s no one here, and no sign of people living here anymore. My parents must have taken everything with them. Clothes, tools, food. A long time ago, I think. A year at least.” She nodded and heaved a sigh. “That’s good. They must have gone south. I just wish they’d told me.”

Freya nodded. “Sure.” She glanced around the small island again, but there was nothing to see or hear but the wind, the grass, and the stones. “We should get going.” She put one of her knives away.

A frog croaked.

Wren hesitated in the open doorway of the one of the houses. “I used to play here and watch my father come in with the day’s catch.”

Freya put her other knife away and waded into the reeds toward their boat. “Wren?”

The girl paused a moment, then turned back toward the lagoon with a glum nod.

Freya swatted a few flies away from her face and heard another frog croak. It was a very loud croak. She turned slowly to look down into the thick reeds and grasses. A few paces away in the shallows there was a round, wrinkled lump. Gray and green, it looked like any other slimy rock at the water’s edge. The lump shifted and she saw that it was indeed a very large frog, at least as large as her head, with stiff clumps of wiry black hair standing in a line down its spine. It swiveled its eyes.

Freya swallowed.

Those aren’t its eyes.

“That frog has ears,” the huntress said calmly. “Why does that frog have ears?”

Wren sloshed to a halt in the shallows and peered into the tall grasses at the green-gray mound with the wiry hair. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

The frog waddled slowly around to face them, swiveling its bulbous black eyes and its triangular black ears toward the two women. It croaked again, very loudly, and a second croak answered it from a few paces farther down the shore, and a third one answered that. Soft, wet, sucking sounds echoed down the beach as the frogs shifted and crawled about in the shallows.

Freya reached down to the boat and turned the floppy thing around, replacing it on the green-scummed waters beside her leg. “Come on, let’s go.”

Wren nodded as she waded out the last few paces and took hold of the boat’s side.

“Ow!” Freya whirled around as a sharp pain invaded her thigh, and she saw the long pink tongue of the closest frog stretched out across the marshy waters and stuck fast to her soaked trouser leg. The tongue pulled on her gently, tugging on her clothes, and the frog began to float closer to her, dragging itself through the tall grasses as it folded its hideous tongue back into its head. But the tongue popped free with a soft squirting noise and then raced back to its mouth. Freya pulled a knife free as she glared at the frog.

The frog lifted its body up a bit higher in the water, focusing its gold, unblinking eyes on her and flicking its hairy ears free of the clinging algae. Its throat bubbled out and in, heaving another loud croak across the lagoon, and a dozen more answered it, and the answers sounded very close, and came from every side.

“Into the boat, move, move,” the huntress said softly.

Wren tumbled gracefully into the front half of the boat, which bent and flopped around her body as she folded her skinny legs in front of her. “Okay, your turn.”

But Freya didn’t move. She didn’t dare take her eyes off the huge amphibian squatting in the muck just a few paces away, and it stared straight back at her with its flat golden eyes. Its whole face was prickled and spined with wiry black and white hairs, there was something hideously wrong with the way it bent its long spotted legs as it rose up a little higher out of the water, standing so that its belly just barely broke the surface. The frog slowly parted its fleshy gray mouth, opening it wider and wider, until its lips curled back to reveal its red, bleeding gums and the rows of yellow fangs ringing its soft jaws.

Freya stumbled back and grabbed the side of the boat as the huge hairy frog leapt at her with its fangs dripping around its open mouth. It flew up out of the water toward her chest, and then its tongue burst out and flew at the huntress’s face.

“Don’t let it bite you!” Wren shrieked.

Freya ducked and slashed at the frog with both knives, one flashing up to skewer the creature’s mouth shut and the other slashing down to hack off one of its long, crooked legs. She whipped her arm back and hurled the frog off of her knife, throwing it over her shoulder into the water. Freya straightened up in time to see Wren let loose three small stones in quick succession from her sling, each one whipped from the woven strap with only a moment’s pause to reload and re-clasp before the next stone was whistling across the lagoon.