Page 3 of Heart of Fire
Slipping into a pair of her father’s old trousers, she belted them tight and dragged her boots on. An oiled sealskin coat went over her shirt to keep the rain off, and she dragged her father’s bow out of the chest by hisbed.
The storm was blowing itself out by the time she ventured forth. Loki scrabbled at the door behind her, yipping to be let out, but Freyja ignoredhim.
She strode with cold purpose across the plains behind her house, feet sure on the mud-slicked sides of the hill. Her anger boiled beneath her skin like a storm of her own, frequently sending belated strikes of lightning down nearby. A crater still smoked as she passed byit.
The terrain grew rocky, and soon she was striding past the enormous standing tors no farmer dared remove. Goodwives whispered that trolls lived there, lurking beneath their rocky bases. Freyja had never seen one, but the hairs on the back of her neck tingled as ifsomethingwas watching her. Glancing around, she loosened her grip on thebow.
Come on, she thought.If you dare. For anger was her ally tonight, and though the storm was abating, she could summon its fierceness to life again if shewished.
But nothing confronted her. She was almost disappointed as she set her body against the long climb ahead ofher.
Stubby grass soon gave way to rock, and then ice. No matter how much she wanted to hold on to it, her anger waned as exhaustion began to tax her heavy limbs. Her father wasn’t the only one dining on broth thesedays.
Lightning flickered in the distance, highlighting the smoking caldera of the volcano. Steam billowed from fumaroles as though hell itself rested beneath the mountain. Though she ached to rest, the sight urged her on. She had to hurry, or it would be too late; perhaps it already was, but somehow her mind was set on saving her ram. It couldn’t be too late. It simply couldn’t. She wouldn’t believeit.
The Great Wyrm had haunted the depths of Krafla for over three decades, plundering what it wanted until the villagers agreed to pay it the tithe. Nobody knew where it had come from, though rumor whispered there were more throughout the center of Iceland and the southern coast, following the volcano trail, for that was where theylived.
Cold-blooded creatures they were, difficult to kill, and incredibly dangerous. She could remember the tales her mother used to tell of them. The fableddreki. Constantly hungering for heat and slumbering close to the volcano’sdepths.
Freyja’s favorite tale had been that of Marya, the virgin shepherdess who had been staked out for the tithe of the mighty Beirammon, back when wyrms still thirsted for human flesh. Instead, a young soldier named Alvar hunted the wyrm and his prey back to the volcano, and killed it in a dangerousduel.
Her mother had rolled her eyes as Freyja tried to enact the sword blow that lopped the mighty wyrm’s head off. Helga much preferred the story of Anika, who had enticed the localdrekiinto mortal flesh and become his lover until the village had turned against them, and she’d flown off on his back, never to be seenagain.
“He probably ate her,”Freyja had said, practically ruthless even at the age oftwelve.
“No. No, I don’t think he ate her, my little one.”And then her mother had laughed, as if she knew something Freyjadidn’t.
Thunder rumbled around the peak of the mountain as she climbed, her thigh muscles aching. Slipping on moss, Freyja scrambled up over the last rocky hill and stared for a moment at the gaping caldera. Sulfurous fumes leaked from crevices, and bubbling mud pools threatened to drag in the unwary traveler. Freyja avoided them as easily as if she had been this way before,listeningto the earth’s trembling beneath her feet, the aching groan of its bowels and the blistering hiss of itsexhale.
Any local knew where the opening to thedreki’s lair was. As lightning flickered, Freyja stubbornly dragged herself up over the ice-crusted rocks. There was no trail, for the wyrm had no need of it. As she climbed, the smoldering coal of anger burned to life in her chest again. She almost fancied she could hear something bleating, but then thunder rumbled, low andominous.
Her very own battlecry.
Finally, she dragged herself onto the ledge that opened into a fissure into the volcano. It was warmer here, though not unbearably so. Krafla had not erupted for many years, and no doubt the wyrm would not have returned if it were going to do so in the near future.Drekihad ways of listening to the earth’s rumblings; the same sense Freyja herselfhad.
Right now the earth beneath her creaked, but it was not angry. No, that was allher.
Leaning under the overhang of the cave mouth, Freyja knelt and untied the small lantern from her belt. She dragged her gloves off and cupped her hands around the wick.Come. Dance for me.Her breath stirred the small wick and then a tiny flame sputtered to life, flaring up and almost singeing herhands.
Something shifted in the darkness; a sense of the mountain listening, as if it felt her small magic. Freyja placed a hand on the barren ground.Easy. She soothed it, stroking it with the awareness within her, feeling it tremble beneath hertouch.
An alien presence brushed against her mind and Freyja froze, sucking in a sharp breath. The pressure was almost overwhelming, a mountain leaning down upon her. Then suddenly it wasgone.
Freyja closed the small glass door on the lantern, and stared into the darkness of the lava tube. “That is right,” she whispered in Norse. “You know I amhere.”
The lantern guided her into the heart of the mountain. The air reeked of sulfur and burned cinnamon, smoky spices. A scent that was incredibly appealing. She breathed it in, feeling it sweep through her, warming her from within. Somehow she knew it, though she had never breathed its likebefore.
The scent drugged her, luring her ever deeper. Ice gleamed in a thin sheen over the entrance floor, melting with each passing step as the air warmed. The walls were smooth, with rough bands at interval heights where lava had flowed, like the tidemark on the caves by thesea.
As she turned a corner, taking careful, stalking steps, something gleamed white and stark at the corner of hervision.
Freyja spun, holding the lantern high. A leering skull stared back at her, the owner slumped forever against the wall, his pitted armor tarnished and rusted. A sword hung clasped in bony fingers. Swallowing hard, Freyja crouched beside it, and tugged the skeletal fingers away from the hilt as she exchanged it for thebow.
She could feel that other awareness watching her, listening as if it could hearher.
You won’t frighten me.Youwon’t.
The tunnel opened into a larger cavern, enormous stalactites stabbing sharp fingers down from the roof, some touching the floors in dripping columns much like melted candlewax. Piles of gold coins glittered in the darkness, heaped at the sides of the cavern as if the press of the enormous wyrm’s body forced them there. Winking gemstones. A dozen rubies at least. For a moment Freyja couldn’t think. She could only stare at the veritable hoard in front of her. Wyrms were said to be voracious for treasure, guarding it with their fierce tempers, but here was coin enough to see her father fed forever. The entire village. Perhaps even all ofIceland.
