Bjorn left them in the dark anyway, loosely trussed so that they could get free and find their way out.
Eventually.
I’d felt guilty walking away with the echoes of weeping pleas filling my ears, and had muttered, “Leaving them down there in the dark was cruel.”
“It was not cruel. The bastards planned to pocket some of the wealth before anyone else knew of it, which might well have seen them turned to draug by the gods they claim to serve. We saved both men from themselves. Now walk faster, we’re running short on time.”
Bjorn led me down the path at a trot until we were nearly in sight of the gates, then slowed to a sedate stride.
I mimicked him, keeping my head lowered as we approached the waiting warriors.
Never suspecting that their target might be coming from this direction, none of them paid us any attention. Neither did they make room for us to pass, forcing Bjorn and me to weave among them. My heart thundered, my stomach twisting into knots, and I feared one of them would notice my rapid breathing. Would know that it was Bjorn and me, not a pair of hapless gothar.
But they only grumbled about the cold, half of them seeming to believe this was a fool’s errand and the other half seeming to believe I’d come striding across the bridge, shield ablaze. Not a one suspecting that I stood right next to them, which meant that in a few paces, we’d reached the gates.
An elderly gothi with tufts of white hair on his head waited, and I dropped to my knees in front of him, Bjorn following suit. The old man blinked at us in confusion, and I lifted my face to meet his gaze, saying softly, “The draug are vanquished.”
His eyes, clouded with cataracts, widened, then skipped to the warriors standing only a few feet behind me. I tensed, watching as he pieced together my identity, praying to every god that he’d not sell me out to those who’d see me dead. Instead, the old gothi smiled, then intoned, “Do you submit to Odin, Thor, Frigg, Freyr, and”—he winked—“Freyja?”
“Yes,” I croaked, curbing the urge to look behind me, the sensation of having my enemies at my back while I was defenseless on my knees infinitely worse than meeting them head-on.
“To Tyr, Hlin, Njord, and Loki?”
“Yes,” Bjorn answered, even as I willed the old man to speak faster. There were dozens and dozens of gods left, and each passing second risked discovery.
I barely heard the names of the gods, only mumbled my assent with each pause, every part of me certain that the warriors behind us would hear the hammering of my heart. Would smell the sweat of nerves and fear rising to my skin, or notice that Bjorn’s scarred hands, visible where they pressed against the ground, were not the hands of the gothi. Or worse, would question why gothar of the temple were on their knees performing a submission to the gods at all.
It wasn’t until shouts filled the air that I realized my fears were misplaced.
I twitched, lifting my face to look through the gates. Beyond, two men stripped to their undergarments strode toward us. As I stared, horror filling my guts, one of them pointed. “It was them! They vanquished the draug, then accosted us so they might sneak into Fjalltindr!”
Those people lingering just inside the gates heard, whispers of interest racing like wildfire among them, several turning to see who the men were pointing at.
“I should have killed them.” Bjorn sighed. “This is Tyr punishing me for abandoning my better instincts.”
If I weren’t about to drown in a flood of panic, I’d have smacked him, but the warriors behind us were stirring at the commotion, which meant that we had a matter of seconds. A crowd was gathering inside the gates, the pair of gothar pointing at me as they repeated their story.
The old man rattled off the names of the gods faster now, Bjorn and I muttering our assent, and my brain scrambled to remember how many were left. Too many was the number I came up with a heartbeat before a hand closed on my hood and ripped it backward.
“It’s her!” a male voice snarled.
Bjorn was already on his feet, robes cast off and axe burning in his hand. “Is this a fight you truly wish to pick?” he asked the warriors. “Are you so certain a child of a minor god is worth your lives?”
I wasn’t worth it. None of this made sense. Yet everyone seemed ready to slaughter one another over me anyway.
“Girl,” the old man hissed, drawing my attention back to him. “Do you submit?”
I had no notion which gods he’d just named, and I prayed those in question wouldn’t feel disrespected as I blurted out, “Yes, I submit!”