“I think my friends and their extremely sharp weapons would really be happier if we were to come with you,” I said, following him as he left the room and started up a flight of stairs, the Vikings collectively muttering under their breaths as they trailed behind.
He said nothing, but led us to a small room done in shades of olive and muted red. At a giant desk that dominated the room, he removed a small red box, holding it for a few seconds while he gave me a piercing look. “How do I know this is yours?”
“I know where you stole it from, and approximately when. I can also describe it to you. But more important, the valknut knows me. It doesn’t like anyone else touching it, which you probably found out if you took it out of the velvet bag it’s kept in.”
He grimaced and held up one hand. Like mine, his fingers were marked, but his held an angry-looking burn. “Unfortunately, I did. If you don’t mind, I’d like to see you hold it. Just to be sure, you understand.”
“He will not give it to us,” Eirik growled, stalking forward. “He intends to keep it for himself.”
“I never wanted it in the first place,” Ulfur said frankly.
Eirik suddenly halted, an indescribable look on his face. He spun around to face the now solid equine face of Ragnor, who I could swear was grinning as he munched on a piece of black leather, obviously nipped off of the baldric Eirik wore on his back.
“Your horse can ground himself?” I asked Ulfur.
“For short periods of time, yes. Ragnor, stop that. I’m sorry,” Ulfur apologized to Eirik. “He has been moody ever since I told him the master wasn’t going to have him returned to life, too.”
“Wait a second . . . You’re alive?” I asked, distracted by that idea. “I thought you were dead.”
“I was.” He sighed and sank down onto the edge of the desk, still holding the box with the Vikingahärta. “I was quite happy as a spirit, too. We had lots of tourists in our village, and although it was sometimes boring in the winter, the summers we all enjoyed greatly.”
“We? Your family are all ghosts, too?”
“Yes. My village was destroyed by a mudslide about a hundred and fifty years ago. We were all trapped there until Pia rescued us.”
“Is Pia your master?”
He looked appalled. “No! Pia is the Zorya who was sent to take us to Ostri, our heaven. But then she met Kristoff, and he didn’t like us much, especially Ragnor, who admittedly bit him once or twice, but when the reapers tried to kill Kristoff, I was left behind, and so the Ilargi got me.”
“It’s kind of sad when my life needs a glossary,” I said to no one in particular, then recalled where I was, and what I was doing, and held out my hand. “Could I have my Vikingahärta, please?”
He looked at my gloves. I tsked and peeled them off, then held out my hand again. He stared in horror at my hand.
“That’s not from the Vikingahärta. It’s from touching a table you touched,” I told him, noting absently that the saffron was already starting to fade. “Which reminds me—if you could keep from touching my hands, I’d be grateful.”
He withdrew the small gold velvet bag from the box, carefully undoing the strings, and just as carefully upending it over my open hand. The Vikingahärta hit my hand with a warm glow of familiarity. I smiled at it, holding it up to admire the runes so delicately carved into the three linked triangles that the old Norsemen referred to as a valknut. “Hello, Vikingahärta. Do you know what a valknut is, Ulfur?”
He shook his head, not looking particularly interested. “My father would know, but he is in Ostri now.”
I felt so adrift in the things he had told me, I figured it wouldn’t hurt if he saw that I knew a few things, too, and traced along the three heavy gold triangles. “A valknut is the knot of the slain, a symbol of the afterlife. It has nine points, which represent the three Norns, who, centuries ago, the people in Scandinavia believed were weavers of fate. This one belonged to Loki, and is imbued with his power, but it’s mine now.”
“I can see that it is.” He gave me an odd considering look for a moment, then added, “My master may well destroy me when he finds out what I’ve done, but I will let you take it if you promise to do something for me.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know anything about liches or their masters, so I wouldn’t begin to know how to free you from him—”
“No, it’s not that,” he interrupted. “Or rather it is, but I don’t expect you to help me. The Zorya I mentioned, Pia, will help me. If you could get word to her and her Dark One, Kristoff, I would be very grateful.”