Siren Slave (15 page)

Freya spread her wings and leapt down the stairs. This was, of course, the most opportune time for her wings to return to being arms. She tumbled down the worn stairs, to land on her knees at the bottom, covered in mud and chill water. Heat and stickiness flowed over her leg from her newly acquired wound. She let fly a string of curses and forced herself to her feet.

She did not know how long she could remain standing. Her knee wanted to give out. Her knee wanted a soft bed, a fireplace, and blueberry ale.

She shifted her arms back to wings and continued to flap and leap along the winding path. The few seconds of relief for her knee was well worth the risk that she’d fall again.

Her breath froze when she saw light up ahead, light from torches in clawed metal hands on the walls. Why would anyone want clawed metal hands jutting from a wall in a dank corridor? She could see it now, someone requesting of the builder, “Ah, yes, boney hands with talons to hold the torches will give us an air of refinement.”

Someone had to light the torches, too. Probably the people who had decided the ugly torch holders were a great idea.

Given that she was in a damp, underground place that probably did not have maids, there were probably lots of creepies, like gargantuan spiders, meaty centipedes—

Bad thoughts. Very bad thoughts. At least I’m not getting the lightning bolts anymore. Is that something crawling on my leg? Or is that blood? Both? I better not think. What I wouldn’t give to be under the influence of the potion again and questioning how platypi came to be. How did they get a duck and an otter to mate? Is it platypi or platypuses?

She couldn’t remember more than the picture Chiron had showed her of the strange creatures. Well, she was considering that already, wasn’t she? Back to replacing her fear with random musings.
Who cares if it works? Balder was right. The circumstances aren’t going to change if I’m about to piss myself or thinking about how an otter might have decided to swive a duck. Or was it the other way around?

She turned back but heard footsteps and muttered words from the stairs. She ran again, well, more skipped. Tears pooled in her eyes from the pain in her knee, worse each time she landed. The ceiling was low here. If she shifted, there would not be that much room for her to fly above the heads of anyone pursuing her, but it might be high enough for her to stay out of reach, if she could truly get airborne.

As she hobbled forward, she saw other halls leading in other directions. She stayed on her present course lest she become lost. Her knee screamed, and she tried to flap her wings to keep her off the ground longer.

She glanced over her shoulder to see more hooded figures swarming from the corridors she’d passed, even more than she’d seen above. Yes, this had been a stupid decision. What did they do down here? This seemed as if it might be their base of operations. The damned assassins. She’d been right about them hiding in the Dark Wood.

She howled in frustration and fear when the corridor ended in a wall. Why would anyone make a dead end like this? Probably to frustrate her. They’d probably told the builders, “Dead ends. Lots of dead ends, just to watch someone try to escape and piss themselves. Even better than the clawed hands in the sconces.”

Hah, designers of this weird little place, I’ve foiled your scheme. I did not piss myself. I am Freya the Brave, Swan the Bane of Romans.

She whirled around, her back against the stone. She stared at the dark hoods before her. She could not see faces, only the gleam of blades in the firelight. What if there was nothing but blackness under those robes?

Wings grow from my back. From my back.

She shifted. Completely. She was a swan. She rose to the ceiling. She really hoped the ceiling would prove high enough. It was barely wide enough to accommodate her wingspan. She flapped her wings, trying not to think of the faceless mass below and the sharp things that would pierce her if she failed.

This is amazing. I’m holding my swan fo— Damn it. Bloody, damn it.

She tumbled from the air, changing to human form. She landed atop some of the Druids, and the others closed in on her.

“Prepare her,” she heard someone say. The voice was strangely human in this place. She’d been expecting a raspy, grating voice, maybe even with sibilant s’s.

Arms grabbed at her, tore at her clothing. She tried to fight them with the few self-defence skills until a fist slammed into her jaw. Her teeth rang together, but she hit someone when she spat. A knife dug into her shoulder, and she began to bleed. But it burned, really burned. Silver glinted in the torchlight, and her thin gown was slashed right down the middle.

She was hauled through the labyrinthine passages, the turns dizzying her.
Blood
. The smell was so powerful she immediately recognized it. The hands forced her onto a wooden table. It was wet and sticky…she guessed with blood.

“What is this place? What are you going to do? Why haven’t you cleaned this table?” she demanded as her arms were forced into damp leather straps. The metal clasps were cold against her skin. “More importantly, how can you see with those hoods on? Oh, never mind. If you don’t release me, you’re all going to die and you won’t like it.”

She tried to use the Blood Call then, but nothing happened. Why? Why, when it had been so easy before?

When the Druids backed away, she was almost completely naked on the table, save for the cloth around her breasts and crotch. A woman, looking exactly like Morrigan, looked down upon her with eyes that had no pupils. The face was cold, expressionless. A great sword was in her right hand, held above Freya’s head. In fact, the figure was a beautiful, wicked sculpture. What if the fragile-looking arm broke and the stone sword crashed right through Freya’s neck?

Well, then you’d be dead. That’s a dumb question.

Some of the Druids began to chant in words she didn’t understand. Others made sounds of confusion, even muttering over what the chanting Druids were saying.

One stood below the sword of the Morrigan statue. As he spoke, Freya began to understand the words. “Strip the body, bare the soul, strong will turn to clay, a sacrifice of what is most dear, blade of steel, blade of iron, pare away not flesh but pride and vanity, strip the body, bare the soul, strong will turn to clay, the Beast howls in the storm, seeking its master.”

“I’m not a Beast,” Freya said. “Are you talking about the capitalized Beast?”

The man repeated this again and again until it was memorized, the words swirling in her head, meaningless and meaningful at the same time. A clawed instrument was raised, made of black metal that didn’t shine. She readied herself for the pain. She was used to pain from all her falls and scrapes and burns.

Not used to that kind of pain though. She should close her eyes. She should absolutely not look at the instrument that seemed poised to peel her face from her skull. She began to scream, unable to remove her gaze from the wicked prongs.

Damn it, she wanted to use the Blood Call. She’d soon feel hot blood down her cheeks. But no, she felt nothing, just coldness as the claws were raked along her face. They didn’t cut her, did they? Then what in the hell was the purpose of this? To scare her? She still hadn’t pissed herself. There was that.

She laughed hysterically. “Oh, this is some weird little ritual that has no meaning. Like when some of you paint yourselves and run naked through the wood.” Druids were always doing strange rituals. “Surely some of you must fall and end up in the nettles, which would hurt if you’re naked and—”

She got no further, because a strangled sound came from the man standing over her. Another hooded figure was at his side, holding two blades under his chin. “Release the woman or your high priest, leader, whatever you call this man, is dead.” The voice was as stern and commanding as when he’d addressed Pompey.

“Etainen,” she cried. Now she did feel bad for kicking him in the ribs.

The straps were undone by the cloaked figures around her, and she was free. Etainen kicked the Druid leader away, dropping to the ground to sever the tendon at the back of his leg. Freya shoved herself off the table and ran to Etainen, fighting her nausea.

“It’s going to be difficult getting the hell out of here,” he said, staring at her oddly. She dimly realized there were sounds of fighting coming from elsewhere. Or everywhere, the way sound carried here.

“Get them,” the Druid leader shouted from the blood-caked stones. “The ritual must be completed. We need time.”

“What powers do you have?” Etainen asked, holding his two swords as the Druids closed in.

But it was happening already. That weird part of her was fighting. Why had it been dormant, inaccessible when she’d needed it earlier?

She could hear the blood pulsing through the veins of her captors. This came as easy as the afternoon with Pompey. She felt the blood flowing, the heartbeats a thousand drums that would play whatever tune she demanded. She willed the blood to slow, then to seethe. The drums became a deafening crescendo. She felt every tremor in the bodies of those nearest her, as they gurgled and wept.

She leaned against Etainen to steady her, lest she fall. Despite the threat of death, she’d’ never felt more alive. Her laughter echoed eerily along the dank halls, the vocals for the drumbeat thudding from the chests of her enemies.

More Druids came for her, and she focused on one. His hood fell back, exposing a bald, tattooed head and face. He spluttered, tears of blood brimming in his eyes, flowing down his cheeks to obscure the tattoos. The blood that fell from his nostrils dribbled onto his mouth. There was more leaking from his ears. She pushed her powers further, harder. Why wouldn’t this work faster? The man’s head bent backward as he vomited a stream of crimson, as if he were some macabre fountain.

So that’s what this place had been missing. It was just the right touch with the dead end corridors and torch holders.

“Stay back,” she said. “I don’t want to do this, but I will.” She really meant that, because that had been more than disgusting enough to make her vomit, which she did. The threat or action of vomiting in a crowd always did seem to work, because the Druids moved away.

Etainen didn’t care. He only lifted her into his arms. “I might need you to keep spilling their blood until we get out of here. I can’t carry you and fight.”

When he picked her up, she noticed the chained corpses amidst the dead Druids. Prisoners Freya had seen brought into the palace, yet hadn’t seen in the dungeons.

Etainen carried her through the winding passages. At least he seemed to know where to go. Soon, they emerged from the dungeon. While she breathed fresh air, she heard a man gasp. Balder, her sort-of-brother.

Balder wielded a blood-stained lyre. “Are you well?”

The drumming had ceased, the song of death ended, leaving her exhausted in Etainen’s arms. She let her head fall against his chest. He held her face against him. When she shivered, something warm wrapped around her, something that smelled like game and musk, forest and salt. Someone even thought to cover her feet. It was so peaceful, regardless of the rain, that she drifted off to sleep. At least the rain cleaned her of sweat and blood, filth and fear.

Chapter Five

Siegfried had dismounted Enbarr with the still sleeping princess when they neared his destination. Enbarr had traveled swiftly, knowing where he wanted to go. The remains of the fire he’d built while camped here still remained. That seemed an eternity ago, another lifetime, when he’d read that letter from Swan before going to Folkvang.

“You’re really going to take Freya to Vercingetorix, aren’t you?” Balder transformed from blue songbird to man in front of Siegfried.

“We aren’t there yet,” Siegfried said, trying to hold back his surprise at the ease with which the fey transformed. “But we need to make camp.” They could have gotten to rebels tonight with Enbarr’s speed. But he had wanted time to prepare Freya and give her time to grieve over the parents who raised her. He didn’t ponder how Enbarr had known where he wanted to stop, but it was near, though just out of view of an abandoned village with a few wooden huts that would do well for shelter.

“You might want to suppress her magic,” Balder said. “I saw how easily she was using the Blood Call, and I don’t think she’ll be pleased about it.”

“How?” Siegfried had recalled her laughter as the Druids had crumpled around them, the joy she’d taken. It was the same joy Siegfried had when he slew Romans.

“Human metal. But be careful with that. If she’s cut with it, her skin will burn.”
Human metal? That was the downfall of gods?
“We can find her a necklace of human metal…or something.” That was why she hadn’t used any powers when the Druids had her restrained.

A gold or silver necklace might be difficult to come by in the small villages, but Siegfried knew what would serve the purpose.

Freya had been Marked, like the Beasts in the tales, like the Romans had marked their slaves. The marks were called stigmata. It would only make the princess,
former
princess now, more difficult to recognize. Siegfried remembered the illustrations.

“Is she going to go mad?” Siegfried asked.

“You saw how easily she wielded
that
power. There was no guilt.”

He wondered how Freya would feel about her new circumstances. He stifled any pity he felt for her. She’d supported the loss of lives and the loss of freedom for so many others. It was rare that fate repaid those who did such wrongs. Why didn’t he feel more satisfied by this? He’d have her pledge herself to him, give him control. He pushed away an image of her laid bare beneath him, hands chained above her head, eyes half closed as her hips raised in invitation.

“Balder, why were all those texts sent to me?” Siegfried stopped walking, needing to know. These people knew his identity if they’d sent him this information. “Why does Hecate want me to take Freya?”

“That is for her to explain.”

Siegfried did not press further; he would not expect the bard to cross Hecate.

The rain was coming down in sheets, and Freya murmured in her sleep as they approached the small grouping of leather and wood huts. Probably a nightmare, hence the storm. Both the men were covered in mud at least to their knees. Siegfried started for a ramshackle hut with a leaky roof, because it was one of the few with a roof, but stopped when lightning flashed and the light went to Balder’s hands, filtering through his fingers and becoming cloth. The cloth fell neatly over the hut.