Europa (43 page)

Across the courtyard she saw Leif sitting in the dirty snow, his hand still bound to his foot. The youth glared at them. “Let me go! Let me fight, damn you! You need me! I’m the best sword in Rekavik!”

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?”

“Nine hells,” the old fisherman beside her muttered. And then he shouted, “It’s Prince Magnus!”

Freya spun to face the slingers on the roofs. “Run to the other door, and get Omar. We need his sword here, now!
RUN!
”

Three of the boys dashed off their perches, crashed to the snowy street, and took off at a dead sprint for the other door in the eastern seawall where the bright light of the rinegold sword was still clearly visible through the falling snow.

Freya stared at the huge creature coming toward her.

What was it Ivar said? He wanted to bite me again and again, until I was a god like him. This is what he meant. How many times did he bite his son? How much of the fox’s soul did he give to Magnus to change him into this monster?

The reavers at the foot of the wall stopped snarling and beating on the door, and they turned, whimpering and whining, toward the monstrous prince. The huge fox demon waded up out of the water and came straight toward the wall and Freya realized that the top of its head was only a few hairs shorter than the wall itself.

“Back, back, back!” she cried and the warriors all moved to the back edge of the wall, spears and harpoons raised in a bristling array of bloody steel.

The feral behemoth strode up to the seawall and swept one huge claw along the beach, smashing two of the small reavers aside and sending them flying down the strand. The other two bolted in the opposite direction, but the demon prince caught one around the legs and hurled it back into the bay. And then it turned its enormous golden eyes to Freya and the men on the top of the wall, and parted its fiendish jaws in a hideous grin.

“Slingers!” she cried, and the rocks flew thick and fast, but the beast only flinched and growled as they pelted its head and chest. She glanced north along the dim line of the wall to the crowd of defenders at the next door, but she couldn’t see the light of Omar’s sword.

The huge reaver slammed its shoulder into the seawall, and the ancient stones crackled and crunched and shuddered. The fishermen stabbed with their harpoons at the beast’s head and shoulders, and it drew back sharply, snapping its fangs as trickles of blood ran down its face, glistening in the torch light. And then the hulking monster stepped back and locked eyes with Freya, and growled, “You. Murderer. I come for you, girl. You die now.”

The men on the wall all looked at Freya.

“It speaks!?”

“It wants the girl!”

“Slingers!”

But the boys on the roof were at half their number since the others had gone in search of Omar, and those who remained were running out of stones to hurl. The rocks still flying across the wall were fewer and slower, and the beast ignored them entirely. And the men went on murmuring, “It wants revenge for Fenrir! It wants the huntress!”

But the salty old man at Freya’s side shouted, “Woden shits on what it wants. It’s not getting her or anything else. It’s getting killed, is what it’s getting, and we’re the ones killing it! We’ll bleed it dry and break its bones! And we’ll eat its black heart before midnight comes!”

A dark and bloody humor settled on the men. They all began muttering curses and threats and boasts and promises of the depraved and vicious things they were planning to do to the beast’s corpse when it laid steaming and rotting under their boots. Freya almost reminded them that the beast was their own prince, their own Magnus, just another man who fell victim to the plague. But she couldn’t imagine how many of Omar’s bloodflies would have to bite this creature to bring back his humanity, or how long the change would take.

Too long.

The demon charged at the wall again and threw one long, clawing arm at the warriors standing just above its head. Freya jumped left and Erik jumped right and the powerful limb crashed down between them, cracking the stones of the wall. They both lunged, driving their spears into thick fleshy muscles of that arm, and the beast whipped it back again with a bestial snarl.

It pulled the spear right out of Erik’s hands, but he had his steel knife out in a flash. The claws crashed down on the wall again, with the beast snapping its sword-like fangs right at the lip of the wall, right at their boots. The men leapt back again, and attacked the arm again with harpoons and stones and hammers. The arm ripped away from the wall again, but a single hooked claw caught Freya’s foot and yanked her leg out from under her.

She fell down flat on the stone wall, but kicked hard two times, and her boot came free of the claw before it could drag her off the wall entirely. She rolled onto her stomach with her spear under her, and pushed herself back up.

Erik felt naked. His borrowed shirt and trousers were too thin for the wind and the snow and the night air. The armored warriors and fishermen looked like iron gods beside him, heavy and solid, and most of all,
warm
. Erik was freezing. Even with his blood roaring and muscles burning, he was freezing.

Somewhere down below on the dark pebbled beach was his spear.

Gone. Useless.

The knife in his hand felt tiny and just as useless as he stared into the huge stinking maw of the beast below him. It was impossibly big. Twice as tall as a tall man, at least. And probably four times as heavy.

Is this what I turned into?

Did Wren see me like this?

Did Freya?

The monster pulled its arm back, yanking Freya’s foot out from under her. Erik darted forward, but she kicked free before he could take a second step, and she started to get back up. He held his knife at the ready, though every instinct in him was screaming to rip the harpoon away from the man next to him so he could do more than wait for something to stab with his little blade.

Freya stood up, her back to the beach.

The huge reaver shot its claws forward, not swinging them down onto the wall as before, but driving them straight on as a hunter drives a spear into a boar.

Freya!

He felt his lips and jaw moving, instinctively forming her name, screaming at her to run, to jump, to get down, and his free hand was waving, fingers signing as fast as he ever had signed in his life. But he made no screams and no one heard him. He beckoned madly with his hands, but she was looking at the old fisherman on her other side, and not at him.