Have you seen enough? Frigga’s gentle voice asked.
No. Not yet. There may be more.
“Imagine being so loathed by one’s own people, war with another kingdom is all that might unite them under you,” Gunnar said.
Frode issued a high-pitched, obnoxious laugh. “He doesn’t deserve our aid. You are right. I sensed desperation in him. All of his sorcery is not enough to earn the trust of his people.”
“Sitting on a stolen throne will do that,” the king replied, chuckling.
“Yet he foolishly believes we will help him. Come, brother. There are more pressing matters to address. If we are to lead a war against Jotunheim, you will need a queen to command the shield maidens. Those beasts aren’t an enemy you can defeat with berserkers alone.”
“Blast. You’re right. But who? A thousand beautiful women, but who could compare to Brynhildr?”
“Two thousand,” Frode corrected him. “No queen has ever inspired the women of this dynasty more than Brynhildr. The numbers have doubled under her direction. Perhaps Lagertha will make a just replacement for your broken queen.”
Bryn could not reach through the miasma of their goddess’s spell to throttle him as she desired, though her heart yearned for it.
“No,” Gunnar said. “Too loyal to Brynhildr’s memory. My next bride must be as distant from her as possible. I desire a woman of the west to lead beside me.”
“Ah. Good point, brother. Once again, you show true wisdom.”
Take me away, Lady Frigga. I have seen enough.
Chapter 7
A warm beam of sunshine bathed Sigurd’s face and dragged him from the depths of dreams. Blinking, he rolled onto his side and came face to face with his horse. The stallion snorted, hot breath sweetened by grass and wildflowers washing across Sigurd’s cheek. Geri lipped at his hair then went back to ripping up clumps of emerald grass.
“This isn’t where we were…”
Someone had tucked him into a small hollow on a bed of thick moss, and judging by the forest around them, they were miles from the site of his ambush. The last coherent thing he recalled was speaking with the woman who had saved him.
No, not a woman. A goddess.
Once Sigurd rolled from the cozy shelter and rose, he stretched, surprised by how much a night of rest on the ground had restored his flagging stamina. Green-gold rays of sunshine slanted through the verdant leaf canopy above them, illuminating a narrow track winding through the trees. Geri bumped his head into the small of Sigurd’s back, nudging him up the gentle sloping trail.
“I guess this is what she meant about knowing my path?”
Geri bumped him again.
“All right, we’re going. We’re going.”
After taking the horse’s reins in hand, Sigurd led the way on foot. Their upwards trek lasted over an hour before the trees thinned and the path ran along a cliff ledge. When he glanced down, Sigurd spotted a road winding through a mountain pass. Even farther beyond that, the thatch rooftops of Akranes’s longhouses dotted the hills. A farmer with a wagon passed below on the level plain, as did a group of hunters. Sigurd moved back from the edge and into the cover provided by the trees.
He couldn’t be seen. By anyone. Only the gods knew whether Gunnar would send more assassins after him, and in his worst nightmares, he imagined the party of men down below were hunting him at the king’s command. It didn’t matter if Odin had given his blessing to Sigurd a year ago. If the man wanted his rival dead, it would be done.
The overgrown trail showed no sign of recent travel. From that, he gathered that the goddess must have set him on an unknown path.
Why couldn’t she cut to the chase by placing me in front of the bloody crypt?
Because it would have been too easy.
The incline steepened over the next mile and he worried for his companion, fearing they’d reach a climb the horse was unable to conquer. Once, Sigurd lost his footing on loose rocks, only for Geri to grab him by the arm with his teeth, steadying him.
“Thank you, friend.”
Most of the morning waned by the time they reached the apex of the peak. The royal crypt was surprisingly simple from the outside. Blue-hued stone framed the entrance, the doors carved with elaborate depictions of Valkyries flying to Valhalla. Sigurd stared at the carvings, suddenly hesitant to breach what was considered holy ground.
Then the memory of the old woman’s shadow came to him, and the timeless wisdom in his mystery rescuer’s eyes. The divine had set him on this path, which meant treading within the sacred tomb would be no act of disrespect.
Or so he hoped.
Stone scraped against stone as he pushed the heavy door inward. Cool air drifted outward, the scent herbal and almost sweet rather than the expected musk of decay. Leaving Geri resting in the shade, he lit his torch and made his way inside.
The entrance led deeper into the mountain, a straight passage for a few hundred feet before the corridor split in three directions. He paused at the junction, looking for some indication of which way to go. The last thing he wanted was to lose himself in a maze. To help track his way, he lit torches on the wall as he passed.
With no symbols he could see, he continued forward down the central path, which appeared to have been traveled most recently, judging by the scuff marks on the dusty floor. Each time a passageway branched off, he crouched and examined the floor.
A scraping sound echoed through the crypts somewhere behind him. He spun around, straining to listen, but all he heard was the pounding of his own heart. Certain he was imagining things, he took a right, wondering how far into the mountain he had traveled.
The corridor opened into a wide room with a small ship set in the center and four statues against the wall. Each one depicted the same man in various poses, capturing pivotal moments in the departed king’s life. He wondered what moments Bryn’s tomb would show, or if hers would have any at all.
Another sound made him spin around, this time an unmistakable hiss. Something clattered down the hall farther ahead followed by a strange, deep-throated trill that made his hair stand on end. Ducking aside, he squeezed behind one of the statues in the room and discarded his torch, tossing it aside to burn out on the ground.
Not long after, a creature slithered from the shadows on a legless body. Tough red scales glinted in the light cast by the single torch on the wall, and dark spikes protruded through its dirty mane. Not daring to move, Sigurd flattened himself against the wall, holding his breath in an effort to make no sound.
A basilisk. His sister had shown him enough illustrations for him to recognize the strange beast, but he couldn’t understand how it was here. The deadly creatures lived in the humid jungles of Liang, not in the frozen mountains.
How was it even alive in the cool and dry tomb dedicated to deceased Ridaeron kings?
Snout to the ground, the basilisk moved across the room. It climbed onto the burial ship, sharp spurs carving deep grooves in the old wood. It tasted the air with a serpentine tongue, eyes shining like mirrors in the flickering light. Its gaze could turn a man to stone, if Cara’s books were accurate. Immediately, Sigurd shut his eyes tight, counting himself lucky that the creature hadn’t seen him—hadn’t made eye contact. One split second, according to his sister, was enough to permanently petrify a man.