Astrid ducked again as another arrow whizzed past her—she was almost too slow to react. No time to celebrate. She looked up, around, eyes wild, dagger ready.
There. In the corner.
Every day since Freya arrived in Torden, she had protected Astrid. It was Astrid’s turn to return the favor.
Astrid dove toward the source of the arrows. Back in the center of the room, Hrothgar cursed and Sigurd pushed past the barrier.
The crossbow came down over Astrid’s head. She swore, slashing at it with her dagger until she heard a yelp and a clatter. The crossbow, on the ground, smashed beyond use. Astrid stood over the orc who had nearly stolen Freya’s life. In the low light, Astrid saw Alvor’s eyes—feral and panicked. A rush of power flooded Astrid as she knocked Alvor to the ground.
Her fist made contact with Alvor’s face. Alvor drew a sword with one hand, a wicked-looking knife in the other, and leapt at Astrid. Astrid only parried in time to miss losing her head.
Astrid gripped the dagger clumsily as she parried the attacks, out of practice with wielding a weapon. The heavy weight of the dagger barely repelled Alvor’s wild blows. Exhaustion ran up her arms each time the weapons made contact.
Astrid was losing. Her opponent was too capable.
Hrothgar approached, but Alvor swung at them, too. Astrid took the opening to get closer to the knife and slammed her hand into Alvor’s fist. The knife clattered to the ground.
Alvor stepped back, sword drawn.
Astrid looked to Hrothgar. They nodded. Her muscles were warm, ready, and suddenly they felt sure. Her grip on the dagger became more natural, an extension of herself. But of course. Astrid had wielded dozens of daggers in her day. She’d used swords for most of her life. She fell into her old self, letting her overthinking drop away.
The muscle memory came back to her.
Hrothgar moved in on Alvor’s left, and as she parried, Astrid swung in, twirled the sword around her dagger, and disarmed Alvor once and for all.
“Search her,” Astrid said.
Hrothgar and Sigurd rushed forward. Sigurd held Alvor’s hands over her head as Hrothgar shook through her pockets. They extracted another small knife, the kind used as a last resort when all other options were exhausted. There were no other weapons.
Alvor squirmed out of Sigurd’s grip and lurched for Astrid. Astrid thrust her palm into Alvor’s shoulder and Alvor twisted, falling to her knees. Sigurd knelt to pin Alvor’s hands behind her back.
Astrid pointed the dagger at Alvor’s throat.
“Lucky you brought your priestess,” said Alvor, chest heaving. “You all would have been dead.”
Astrid pressed the tip of the dagger into Alvor’s neck. A bead of blood welled against the blade.
“You’re not wrong,” Astrid said. “It seems the goddess chose our side.”
To Astrid’s left, Hrothgar stood, holding their sword out. But Astrid had already won. Together, they’d disarmed her, neutralized the threat.
Astrid had protected Freya.
Her hand shook. She was not scared, not buzzing with adrenaline.
She was angry.
She had welcomed this orc into her castle, allowed her to integrate with Torden’s citizens, given her room and board and her husband a warm welcome despite the forced circumstances. She had been a good host, and Alvor had violated her home. Ruined the sanctity of the place that housed Astrid and the people she loved.
“I should kill you,” Astrid said.
There was a cracking sound, as if someone’s bones had broken. Astrid’s head whipped around.
Brenn had Freya standing, holding one of her hands. The skin of the hand looked fresh, bearing only its old scars but none of the new dark bruising. An on-the-spot bone healing, done so suddenly that Brenn swayed with exhaustion. In the doorway, Hedda had arrived and was trying to make sense of the scene.
“Don’t kill her,” Freya said hoarsely.
Astrid looked to her félag, to Brenn. Only Freya could have defied her. Only Freya could stop her from going through with this act of vengeance.
