The gothi gave him a condescending smile, which I thought rather brave even if Bjorn deserved it. I myself was struggling not to roll my eyes despite knowing that Bjorn was acting out of desperation, not vanity. “I’m afraid you did not give your name when you introduced your lady. But regardless of your battle fame, you must pass through the gates. It is the will of the gods.”
Bjorn’s jaw worked back and forth, then he gave the gothi a smile of his own that had the man taking an alarmed step back. “Fine. Freya, let’s go.”
After we’d gone a distance, Bjorn muttering increasingly colorful curses under his breath, I said, “What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to have a look to see if the gates are under guard. Perhaps the gods’ favor will continue, and we’ll walk in uncontested.”
Given that this was supposed to be a test, I thought that unlikely but didn’t bother saying so.
We followed the narrow trail around the mountaintop, cloud and mist obscuring the view, though I could feel the breathlessness of altitude. It made me wonder if the placement of the temple was to get us as close to the sky, and the gods, as possible, but when I looked up, it was to find only more cloud. My stomach growled as the smells of cooking food washed over us, those already inside the confines of Fjalltindr’s borders laughing and playing music with seemingly no care in the world. Except there was no way to reach them, for both Bjorn and I tested the invisible barrier every dozen feet and never found a break. He even had me stand on his shoulders to reach as high as I could, but the barrier reached into the clouds. When two massive stone pillars finally came into view, I was starved and cranky and ready to toss anyone who got in my way off the cliff.
Catching hold of my hand, Bjorn pulled me behind some brush, both of us peering through the leafless branches. This was my first glimpse of the path up the southern slope. From what I could see, it was a difficult climb up a steep and dangerous trail, the final paces requiring travelers to cross a narrow span of rock that stretched over a chasm to reach the open ground before the gates.
Before said gates loitered eight warriors. More stood on the far side of the chasm, where there were signs that a camp had been created, which suggested more permanence than just waiting to be admitted to the temple grounds.
“Do you know who they are?” I whispered.
Bjorn gave a tight nod, pointing to a big warrior with a bushy red beard and shaved head. “That is Jarl Sten.”
Jarl Sten was built like a bull and carried an axe I’d probably struggle to lift. “I don’t suppose he’s on good terms with your father?”
Bjorn cast me a sideways glance, suggesting that to have hoped for such was idiocy.
“Fine,” I muttered, casting a glance skyward. The sun was drifting downward, which meant we had only a matter of an hour or two until the moon appeared. “We kill them and then cross through the gates and get on with what we came here to do.”
Bjorn’s eyebrows rose. “Perhaps as well as possessing the blood of a god, you are also descended from the Valkyries of old.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You’re starting to see violence as the best solution.”
That wasn’t even close to the truth. I saw violence as the answer because the alternative was to see violence enacted upon me. “How is it not the solution here?”
“Because,” he answered, “my understanding is that to get through the gates into Fjalltindr, you must get on your knees and honor each of the gods by name.”
I stared at him, realizing with a start that having lived most of his life in Nordeland, Bjorn had never been to the temple before, either. “Which gods?”
“All of them.” When I blanched, he laughed softly. “Not all battles are won with steel, Born-in-Fire—some are won by guile.”
“What do you propose?” I asked, simultaneously worried and curious, because Bjorn’s grin was wide, his green eyes gleaming bright. And I knew what that meant.
“I propose that we go see how the gothar are doing in gathering their gold.”
Not an hour later, Bjorn and I once again approached the gates, though this time we were dressed in the hooded robes of gothar, the deep cowls serving the double purpose of warmth and deception.
It had not been difficult to get the clothing, for as Bjorn had anticipated, the gothi and one of his fellows had immediately ventured into the tunnels in search of the stolen wealth. After extinguishing their lantern, Bjorn had then informed them he’d leave them alone in the dark unless they gave up their clothing, which had them stripping faster than men on their wedding nights.