Bjorn opened his mouth to speak, but Ylva interrupted him. “If you fail to make it by the full moon, Freya, you will cease to be of value. As will your family. Am I clear?”
I pressed my hands flat against my thighs because the alternative was to strike her. Hard. And I didn’t think I’d be able to stop with one blow. Didn’t think I’d be able to stop until her face was pulp beneath my fists. “The gods see all, Ylva. There will be a reckoning for this.”
“Foretellings are the words of the gods. Of Odin himself,” she answered. “They’d not have set us on this path if they did not intend to reward us for doing whatever it took to reach the end.”
I was tempted to point out that neither she nor Snorri were the ones who had to face the draug, but instead I said, “Then I’ll go alone.”
“No!” All three of them spoke at once, and all, I thought, for different reasons. Ylva, because she hoped the draug would kill Bjorn and clear the way for Leif. Snorri, because he feared losing his destiny. And Bjorn…I wasn’t entirely sure what his reasons were, only that his no had been more vehement than the others.
“It makes sense,” I said.
“It does not make sense.” Bjorn crossed his arms. “You don’t know the way. Going at all is insanity, but going by yourself is blind stupidity.”
“Agreed,” Snorri said. “Hlin wishes for him to see you through to fulfill your destiny, which means he must be with you through each test.”
Part of me thought that I should argue. Another part of me wondered if Snorri was right. “Fine.”
Holding his fingers to his lips, Bjorn whistled, and a heartbeat later, his ugly roan horse emerged from the trees, walking toward its master. “Pack only what you need. And what you’re willing to carry.” His gaze met mine. “Leave behind anything you don’t want lost to this world.”
My gaze instinctively went to the sword I still held, sticky with the blood of the men whose lives it had taken. It was the last thing I had of my father’s, and if I died, it should go to Geir, not be left to rust in a cave.
A dark voice whispered inside my head, Why? Because he valued it so greatly?
My jaw tightened, for the voice spoke true. Wiping the blade clean on the body of one of the fallen, I sheathed it at my side before turning to Snorri. “I want my own horse.”
Conversation was impossible as Bjorn led me through the forested paths, my attention all for guiding my horse, a small bay mare that Snorri had chosen for her even temper, for I was not the most experienced rider.
We did not ride alone.
Steinunn galloped at my horse’s heels, along with one of Snorri’s men. The jarl had insisted the skald come with us to witness our trial and the warrior to take the horses back to the main group, retreat apparently not an option. Given what the skald had told me about how her magic functioned, I didn’t see why her presence was necessary, but Snorri refused to hear my argument that the woman remain with the main group.
The air grew colder as we climbed, patches of snow clinging to the shadows of the pine trees, the horses’ hooves crunching in the bed of needles and filling my nose with their scent. Ahead, Hammar loomed.
The mountain was indeed hammer shaped, the north, east, and west sides near-vertical cliffs, though Bjorn said the south side possessed a gentler slope. As we approached the north-facing cliff, Bjorn slowed his pace, reining his mount around something on the ground. I tugged on the reins of my own horse, and my heart skittered as I saw what he’d been avoiding.
Bones.
Once I saw the first bleached lengths, I saw them everywhere. Fleshless bones of all sizes and sorts.
And not just from animals.
Sweat broke out on my spine as my horse passed a human skull sitting on a rock, a gaping hole in the side of it. To its left, the rest of the skeleton was tangled in some brush, the breeze causing the bones to shift and move as though life yet remained.
“Wolves?” Steinunn suggested from behind, and Bjorn only cast a disparaging snort at the skald over his shoulder before pressing forward.
Wind blew through the forest, the branches of the trees creaking and groaning. Another sound joined the mix, a strange hollow clacking that made my skin crawl. “What is that?”
Bjorn lifted a hand, and I followed the line of sight to the source. Bones had been hung as wind chimes from the trees, femurs and ribs rattling against one another to create terrible music.
“Steinunn’s wolfpack enjoys decorating, it seems,” Bjorn said, resting a hand on his horse’s shoulder as the animal shied away from the awful creation.