Magic Underground: The Complete Collection (Magic Underground Anthologies Book 4)

by Melinda Kucsera

  With the recital of the laws, the Thing was officially started. Torhild took front and center before all, a pillar of strength and confidence in her blue linen underdress that made the red of her overdress that much more startling; her amber and colored beads about her neck gently clinked as she took her place. The light of the fire made her golden-red locks glow as if they were alight, and her broad cheekbones looked stark and sharp.

  “Dear citizens of Darlthveit, as you have seen we are under a grievous attack. What is worse, we have no tools or weapons at our disposal to be able to defend ourselves. We are not being attacked by flesh and blood warriors, but by the unseen. Our minds and bodies have been put to the test these past few days, and I shall be upfront; neither I nor the council know how to protect Darlthveit.”

  I scanned over the crowd from my place on the raised dais and listened to the people as they murmured to each other and shifted nervously at Torhild’s stern, dark tone. Faces, already tight with strain, blanched, others silently dripped tears, and a few of the most stalwart tightened their jaws defiantly at the announcement. For Torhild—the Jarl of Darlthveit , the most glorified shield maiden the village had ever seen, the woman who never backed down from a challenge—to admit she was powerless, was a shock to the entire community.

  “As many of you know, people have also been taken to never be seen from again; hale men, smart women, and bright children. People who wouldn’t wander or get lost; some of the best among us. We will be enacting a curfew in all of the villages and advise people to go out in groups of twos and threes until we know more. The floor is now open. Please, if anyone has any knowledge on how to help our situations come forward now.”

  “What could we have done to anger the draugr?” Young Hilda asked from the front. Small and pale, Hilda had always been a frail child. However, what she lacked in physical prowess and constitution, she made up with her intelligence and relentless personality.

  “Nothing, dear Hilda. We honor the gods, properly bury our dead, and we live good lives. I promise you little one, we are going to do everything in our power to fix what is happening,” Torhild said; a gentle smile graced her face as she kneeled in front of the child. Hilda boldly met the older woman’s eyes with a stubborn jut of her slim jaw.

  “Well if we are being bothered by something we can’t see, we should find someone who can.”

  “From the mouth of...” Torhild shot up and pointed to a few of the oldest elders in the village. “Please honored elders, join me. Everyone else, if there are no other voices that wish to speak I shall dismiss tonight’s Thing. Anyone? Then return to your homes, stay together, and may Odin watch over all of us.”

  The gathering and its people dispersed with a low hum of anxious whispers, as if everyone was afraid to raise their voices lest they drew the attention of our unseen aggressors. Torhild waved me over to a table where we were joined by three elders; Trygve, the old widow Solveig wrapped in the bear furs she had hunted herself five years past, and ancient Lokison with his skin so shriveled one could hardly see the features of his face.

  “I remember hearing tales as a child of the völva. Is she-“

  “Torhild, I can’t believe what I’m hearing!” I pushed myself down the bench so I could turn and face her, my brows pinched in disbelief. “Völvas are children’s stories told to the unruly ones to make them mind. We need real solutions, to track who summoned Loki into our midst, not some herb addled crone that lives in a hollow somewhere like a troll!”

  “That is not a kind way to speak about your grandmother, child,” Solveig’s soft, gentle voice had a rare edge to it as she silenced my rant. “While you may be married to her, Torhild is still your Jarl and this is not your hut. Speak to her how you would like in private, if she does not like it she can easily leave your marriage bed if she so chooses, but while she is Jarl you shall treat her with the respect and honor she deserves or I will switch you on the rear myself.”

  I wasn’t sure which caught me more off guard: the implication that my unknown grandmother was a völva or the idea of this withered woman, who was maybe a third of my bulk and half my height, whipping me with a switch. Torhild’s shoulders shook with restrained laughter even as her jaw went slack with shock. She quietly and quickly smacked her leg with her hand, one of her tells that belied her attempt to contain her excitement. The merriment was probably from the idea of the old woman taking a switch to me.

  “The old huntress is right,” Lokison said with a toothless smile, his ancient voice still powerful and deep even though it wavered with age. “There is more to your lineage than you know boy. When I first came to this village as a battle-hardened man, your grandmother was a blossoming woman and already had a reputation for being fae touched. Her husband tried to tame her when she finally did marry, but she soon left him, your infant mother, and her husband’s beatings to live in the woods. You remember your grandfather’s scarred face?”

  “Yes,” I responded, my brows knitted together in confusion. “But that was from the bear attack that nearly killed him.”

  “Yes, a she-bear named Magnhild. Skin like polished bronze, hair as inky as a moonless sky, body as curved as the rolling hills. Your great grandfather brought her mother back with him when he went viking down south. Where do you think you get your tree bark hair, your coarse features, your broad build? That’s from your grandmother’s southern stock.”

  “Trygve?” I turned to the speaker of the laws, the wisest and most learned person in the village. “Is this true? Why has no one told me?”

  “There was something very wrong with your grand-dam and her dam my boy,” Trygve shook his head slowly. “A madness. Both were touched by Loki, both knew things that could not be known, and both saw things that could not be seen. The wasting sickness took your great grand-dam while your grand-dam was young thankfully, lest her níô infected others. She did not pass on soon enough to save her daughter though, and Magnhild was infected by her mother’s níô. Your mother and you have been raised right, away from that distortion, and were both properly discouraged when there were any signs of Loki’s touch upon your minds.”

  “There was nothing wrong with either woman you old rock,” Lokison countered. “You just haven’t seen enough of the wide world or the wonders to be found in it Trygve”

  Widow Solveig had piped up at this point but I was no longer heard the voices of those around me. I had always known I was different. I was just as tall as the other boys but always a stone heavier. My hair was never the shades of sun and gold that I was surrounded by, but a darker, earthier tone. My skin didn’t blend in with the others either, I was always the color of good oil even in the dark months of winter. It wasn’t necessarily unusual to have mixed blood. Part of our culture was trade and raiding, being merchants or going viking, and sometimes the goods that were returned were in shield maiden’s bellies, people taken as a spouse, or slaves. Even in my younger days I enjoyed a few viking trips and saw for myself how I was fawned over by the women from other cultures. Something about bathing?

  To find that my grandmother was a völva... being a foreigner was one thing, but a gods’ cursed völva?

  My grandmother was a völva. That knowledge made my childhood and the horrors that happened during it make sense. Why other children were able to play with their minds, make up stories and scenes. Other children weren’t beaten for picking herbs in the forest. Other children weren’t beaten for dancing around fires and howling at the moon, reenacting old tales the elders passed down.

  I pushed my end of the bench away from the table as I stood abruptly and marched towards the door. The mead hall, a huge and spacious one-room building with vaulted ceilings and smoke-stained beams all of a sudden felt cramped, like the walls were going to squeeze me until I popped like overripe fruit. I needed air. I needed to escape.

  I burst through the door and started to walk. Then I started to walk faster until I was in a full run, as hard as I could and as fleet as my knörr across the sea waves.
Buildings flashed past me, people hailed me as they saw me run, and a few started to run themselves. I wasn’t sure where to, they didn’t follow me, thankfully. The street laid before me like the Bifröst, and led me through the village and beyond.

  My personal Bifröst led me to an ancient, gnarled ash. Its limbs twisted and wound towards the stars, its trunk was wider around than three men’s reach, and its roots undulated like sea waves. Here I finally stopped and panted with my hands on my knees. A sob ripped itself from my chest and ended in a roar that echoed my aggravation, frustration, confusion, and confliction. I gave it all to the old tree, and as always it patiently absorbed all of my raging emotions and emanated an aura of gentle calm in return.

  Bonelessly, I dropped to a hollow within its crooked roots; all my effort and energy had left me. I didn’t know how long I laid there in an exhausted stupor before Torhild searched me out. Gently, she ran her cool hands over my heated face, brushed the wisps of my brown hair from my face, and murmured quiet words of comfort. I reached up, grabbed her by the waist, and wrapped her in my arms on me, just breathing in the scent of her. Sunlight, sea, and raspberries. How she smelled like raspberries year-round was beyond me, but there she was in my arms and my nose didn’t lie.

  A sad smile graced her lips as she continued to tuck my unruly hair behind my ear and traced the rough, wind-burned features of my face. Her hands and eyes studied every detail, from my square jaw, my broad nose, her fingers running through my rough beard to trace my thick brows and wide cheeks. One hand came to rest on my valknut, three triangles of Damascus steel intertwined with the other. It was a warrior’s symbol, and had been passed down from father to warrior-son for generations. It signaled the Valkyries to pick up the warrior’s soul if they died in battle so our souls could reside in the halls of Valhalla.

  “Alas my love, I must ask you to do something that you do not want to do, but you are the only one who can,” Torhild sighed as she rested her head on my muscular shoulder.

  “You need me to go see my grandmother, the völva.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why me?”

  “You have the best chances of her being receptive to seeing you; you’re her flesh and blood. Secondly, you have the best chance to make it to her unscathed.”

  I raised my head and leaned back to look Torhild in the eyes. The waxing crescent in the clear sky gave enough light through the limbs and leaves to make her eyes sparkle with moonbeams. She looked deeply, intently, back into my own eyes. It was as if my soul was laid bare for her to read, and she lovingly poured over every rune of it.

  “Have you not noticed? Maybe it’s because you came after everything started, but since your return, there have been less...” she paused, her head bent slightly as she searched for the right word. “…horrors happening, less frightening things, less disembodied screams and objects moving on their own. None happen at all when directly in your presence, except for that one stone when you first arrived. I’m not even sure if it was aimed at you or if you happened to be in its way.”

  My blank stare of shock was enough to send her into a fit of giggles. They soon transformed into a full fit of laughter at my continued shocked stupor until her laughing infected me. We laid there, her lean form curled on my broader one, and laughed among the roots until we both had tears in our eyes. It took us a while to regain control but both of us were thankful for the release the spell offered.

  “I guess I don’t have a choice, my beloved,” my fingers followed the chain of amber beads until I found her matching Damascus steel valknut hidden among the folds of her under and over dresses, and rubbed my thumb over it to borrow its strength and hers. “You and the elders speak truth, and how it crushes my heart to admit it. I just wish I could bring you with me, my shield-maiden, even if it was just to have you by my side.”

  “You know I need to stay with the village. To have you and me both gone at such a delicate and stressful time would be detrimental to the morale and sanity of our people.”

  I reached down to rest my hand on Torhild’s still flat stomach.

  “I’ll go. For you, for Darlthveit, and for our child. Someone needs to teach them how to face their fears and be a mighty warrior, and since they won’t learn it from their gentle mother,” a grin spread across my face as Torhild’s brows pinched and her jaw went slack from the audacity of my statement. Quick as a whip, her hand snaked up and smacked me in the chest before I could even attempt to block the playful blow.

  Soon we were giggling all over again as we rolled on the ground amongst the roots, wrestling like children in the dirt until my lips met hers in a lightning charged kiss. Part of the night drifted away in each other’s arms before we started back to the village, hand in hand, and finally able to breathe again.

  The roosters crowed too early for my taste the next morning.

  Torhild rose with me and helped pack after we washed up and combed each other’s hair. We were well practiced from our times viking together, both of us selecting the items, food, and clothing needed for a few days trip without a word to the other. My war axes hooked to my belt, flint and steel, fire starter, dried food enough to last a week, herbs and a variety of beads to offer my völva grandmother, a change of clothes, soap, a comb, blankets, a small tent, my cloak, my chain shirt, and my dagger. All too soon I was packed and ready to leave.

  “Lokison told me, last night, to have you visit him before you leave the village,” Torhild reached out and drew my right hand to her cheek. She breathed in deep as she closed her eyes, she looked like she was drawing my strength into herself to help steel her resolve. I realized she didn’t want me to go as much as I didn’t wish to go. I pulled her into a tight embrace, our foreheads touched as we stood in each other’s arms until a sharp knock on our oak door interrupted us.

  “Who is it?” I boomed in annoyance.

  In response, Orm opened the door and walked in with his own pack slung over his shoulder.

  “Oh, would you two stop! Your Freya-blessed love is sickening to watch,” Orm chided with crossed arms and a rueful smile. Torhild answered his admonishment with a sharp, predatory smile.

  “Freya also rules over war and death,” Torhild’s voice rang with steel. “Which would be good of you to remember before you decide to enter MY home again without an invite. And no, asking who it is does not count as an invitation, no matter how long you and my husband have been friends.”

  Orm at least had the decency to pale and hunch at the not-so-veiled threat. He mumbled something along the lines of “hurry up” as he sulked back out like a whipped dog. No one with any sense wanted to get on Torhild’s bad side because even Odin himself wouldn’t be able to save them from her wrath, but if she liked them she would bake the most delicious desserts and sweets anyone had ever had. Anger her and she would cut the throat of the poor sap before they could blink.

  No one ever wondered why she was voted Jarl.

  I kissed Torhild goodbye and reluctantly followed Orm outside. He leaned against a nearby tree, arms crossed as he glared at the front door. As I walked past he popped up and stepped into stride with me, our long gait easily strode us down the dirt lane.

  “You don’t need to go with me, if anything you really shouldn’t,” I told Orm. “You’re needed here and I don’t know if I’ll be welcomed where I’m going, much less you.”

  “I won’t be making the entire trip with you, I’ll be going with you until this evening, camping out, then heading back,” Orm answered gruffly. “You could use a friend after last night and in preparation for who you’re going to face.”

  “Torhild said-“

  “Your lightning-toothed banshee of a wife can take a trip to Niflheim for all I care. You’re my friend, and I’m going to be there for you.”

  “How do I manage to find myself befriended by such stubborn people?” Orm laughed at me as I waved my hands to the sky in my search for an answer.

  “You’re the nice one and we chose you. You’re also the ma
n I want to have my back in a battle,” Orm paused, lips pursed tight and head bowed. “The only person I’ve seen more blood-thirsty and fierce than you is your wife, and she is terrifying to watch with her as an ally. For some reason, you were Loki-touched enough to think it a good idea to marry her.”

  “There is a certain appeal to being struck by lightning, if you can survive the strike,” I laughed. “Well if you won’t be talked out of staying, then we need to stop at Lokison’s place before we leave.”

  “That old bag of bones is the son of Loki if any human ever was. Do we have to?”

  “Yes, I believe he knows more than he was willing to tell Torhild after I left.”

  Orm gave a resigned sigh as we both continued to the northern edge of Darlthveit. Lokison’s home was a small stone hut set at the edge of the woods and well away from the rest of the huts, byres for the animals, and halls that made up the myriad of buildings of the village. He was sitting outside on a carved chair, slowly whittling away at a piece of wood into the shape of a bear. At our approach he waved to the bench to his left and to the plate of nuts and fruit on a low table between his chair and the bench.

  “Sit boys, and if you haven’t already, break your fast with me. I may not be able to hunt anymore, but the nuts and berries are slow enough prey for even this old man to catch,” Lokison’s wavering baritone sounded strange originating from the toothless, wrinkled, and hunched old man. “Oh, I almost forgot. Brandur, be a good lad, go inside and bring me the green box on the table. Quick, quick, I don’t want to hold you up!”

  I shot the old man a look of annoyance as I rose, almost as soon as I sat, to walk around to the other side of the old man and into his house. It was a dark one-room affair with a fire pit in the center, a bed to the far left corner, shelves along the right side stacked with various items, and a table to my immediate right. On the table was an ornately carved box with a green stone inlay and the wood was painted a deep forest green that was slightly larger than my hand. I picked up the box and inspected it closer, surprised at the weight and quality of the work, the stone proving to be a high-quality jade.