Europa by Joseph Robert Lewis Page B

put her hand on her sister’s cheek. Katja’s skin was hot. Very hot.
    At the north end of the lake they found the decaying ruins of a tiny village of three dozen stone cottages. The roofs stood open to the sky and the doorways gaped dark and empty like toothless mouths. One of the houses close to the water had partially collapsed, tumbling and sinking into the warm mud at the lake’s edge.
    But one structure still remained in good repair. A small tower stood in the center of the desolate village. It rose three times the height of the cottages, a squared-off block of crooked black stones, its cracks and gaps filled with rotting brown grime that dripped and trickled down the dark faces of the building.
    Freya pulled Arfast to a halt well back from the tower and frowned up at the ugly pile of stone.
    Erik stopped next to her, his pale blue eyes sweeping the lifeless remains of the village. “Be careful,” he signed. “There are a lot of strange tracks around here.”
    She glanced down at the churned up mud in the lanes. It looked as though a troop of men had run through the village.
    Or a pack of beasts.
    Looking up at the tower, she called out, “Gudrun of Denveller! I’m Freya Nordasdottir, and this is my husband, Erik. We’ve come from Logarven to speak with you.”
    Her words echoed through the empty lanes and across the open waters. A raven screamed and hopped across the ragged grass roof of the tower and peered down at the intruders and their white elk.
    “Maybe she’s gone,” Erik signed. “Or dead. I’ll go take a look around.”
    “No, wait.” Freya pointed up at the tower. “Someone’s there, watching us.” She called out again, “Mistress Gudrun! We come in peace to ask your wisdom and help. My sister is ill.”
    “You say you’re from Logarven?” a very young woman’s voice called down from the tower.
    “We are,” Freya answered.
    “There used to be a vala in Logarven. Couldn’t she help you? Or is she dead?” the voice asked.
    “She’s not dead, she’s right here,” Freya said. “Our vala is my sister, Katja. She said to bring her here to see Gudrun. Are you Gudrun?”
    “What’s wrong with her?”
    Freya frowned. She had no time for games. There could be anyone at all hiding in that tower, and the voice was not that of a wise old woman. “She’s sick, and if you’re a healer we need your help, and if you’re not a healer then I’m going to come in there and put my spear through your belly for wasting my time!” She slammed her steel spear’s butt down on a stone and the impact echoed through the empty village. She rested her other hand on one of her bone knives strapped across her belly, and waited.
    There was a muffled banging and shuffling inside the tower, and then a bundle of woven grasses flopped up from the roof and a figure emerged, silhouetted against the pale gray sky. The wind whipped up the girl’s hair, a long curling nest of dark red locks. She stepped up onto the roof and peered down at her visitors. The slender leather strap of a sling hung from her hand. “What’s wrong with your sister?”
    “She was bitten by something. Is Gudrun here or not, little girl?”
    “Little?” The girl smiled. “Well, I suppose I am little compared to some, but not compared to all. The good lord Woden never minded walking the earth as a fellow of modest size.”
    “Woden also lost an eye, as I recall.” Freya shook her spear. “If you’re looking to be more like the Allfather, I’d be happy to help.”
    The girl laughed. “Oh, thank you, but I am merely a humble apprentice and not worthy of such a holy offer.”
    “Apprentice? To Gudrun? So she is here?”
    “Of course she’s here,” the girl said cheerily. “Where else would she be? The good lord Woden has seen fit to unburden my mistress of the use of her legs, so she’s less inclined to wander the moors of late.”
    Freya frowned and glanced at Erik, who merely shrugged. She said, “Can we speak to Gudrun