Scars (Time of Myths: Shapeshifter Sagas Book 2)

by Natasha Brown

  The thought of it turned her stomach and she made a face. “I do not feel well enough yet.”

  Elfa seemed concerned, but she walked to the entry. “If you are you ready to bathe, I have the soap.”

  “Be happy and healthy, my wife,” Torin said before she left the dark, smoky confines of the longhouse.

  The sun was above the horizon, although it was obscured by the clouds that had blown in from the sea. A chill was in the air. It would not be long before she would feel the need to wear her hat and mittens again to keep warm. She pulled her cloak around her shoulders to shut out the cold.

  Elfa spoke of the burial preparations for Leifur while Ásta kept her thoughts to herself. She did not want to be reminded of Gunnar, for the thought of him made her bitter. She wanted to be free of him once and for all. So, once they reached the steaming basin of hot water on the hillside, she changed the subject to collecting the sheep’s wool that had been shed around the farm. It was a sneaky thing to do, since she knew how much Elfa loved spinning yarn, but she could not be reminded of anything more that weighed heavy on her heart.

  While she sat in the bath and cleaned herself, Elfa sat nearby chattering about the items that needed replacing in the farm. “...The leather pouch I use to heat your morning milk has sprung a leak. I shall need to repair it when we get back.”

  Ásta smiled and nodded at her as she rinsed out her hair. Elfa handed her comb to her, which she took up and used to pick away the knots in her blond locks. She glanced at the fields, which had held yellow dandelions and purple lupines only a few weeks ago. The brightness of the grass had dulled, foreshadowing the coming winter, and the white tree trunks that ringed the empty meadow were like bones stuck up from the earth.

  “I hope you do not mind me saying, but marriage has been good to you,” Elfa said, cocking her head to the side in thought. “I do not know how you did it, since I have not seen you eat more than a bite at a time, but you have meat on your bones, which is a hard thing here.”

  Ásta looked down at her reflection. Ripples cast out from droplets hitting the surface of her bath, but she noticed her farmhand was right. Her cheeks were fuller, and below the shallows she could see her belly was rounding outward very slightly.

  “It seems you are right,” she answered.

  “Mistress, when was the last time you—” Elfa cut short and jumped to her feet.

  Ásta looked up, first at Elfa, then the hillside where she was gaping. A man stood no more than fifteen strides away, with his stony glare and his intricately embroidered cape. No longer did he offer her a sly grin.

  Elfa struggled to free her knife from the pouch that hung from her neck. Ásta set the soap beside the ring of stones that formed the bath, and without removing her focus from the unwelcome visitor, she said with as much force as she could muster, “Get Torin.”

  The rocks that lined the bath were slippery, and she doubted she’d make it far before he caught up to her if she ran. Fear trickled down her shoulders. A part of her was relieved to see him, hoping for a final end from his reign of terror. One way or another.

  The farmhand glanced down at her with a frightened expression. “Mistress—”

  Ásta shot a hardened expression at her. Elfa turned toward home and gave her one last worried glance before running over the hills.

  Steam rose up from the heated basin of water, a filtered veil between Ásta and Gunnar. She took a deep breath, waiting for him to move or speak while she noted the distance between herself and the blade Torin had sent her away with. It peeked out from beneath her piled clothing, the sheath a dark shade, hiding the shiny sword within.

  His eyes followed hers to the hidden weapon. He said with no trace of amusement, “You have something that is mine. I want it back.”

  She found her voice and said, “Outlaws own nothing but their shame.”

  He took a step forward, and she felt her throat constrict. She slowly stood up, preparing to get out of the basin, when Gunnar stopped. “That is my father’s sword. I will get it back.”

  Ásta didn’t say anything. She didn’t want to trigger him to move again. Not when the sword was a distance from her still. She held her breath as she stared at him.

  The corners of his mouth curled up. She didn’t like how he was looking at her. The smirk on his face reminded her of the times she’d seen the wolf and how it had grinned at her with its toothy maw. Gunnar spoke, deep and steady. “You are mine. I marked you so none would want you—so you would know what it is like to be spurned, to know unhappiness. Clearly, it was not enough. I should have done more damage to you then, but I still can.”

  He began to walk down the hill, and Ásta stepped out of the bath toward her pile of clothes. Goose pimples lifted on her skin now that she was fully exposed to the chill autumnal air. Steam rose from her warm body as she leaned down to pick up the sword scabbard. She eyed him warily, and he slowed to a stop.

  Gunnar chuckled. His grin was more disturbing than his sneer. “Have you not learned yet that you cannot stop me? I have power given by the Æsir. I do as I wish. And it is my wish to make you suffer.”

  He tilted his head to the side while he studied her dripping body before speaking again. “I tried to dispatch your husband like your brother and father before him and was surprised to find him alive when I came back to take away the last thing of value—your womanly faculties for bearing children— instead, if it does not kill you. No sane man would wish to remain with a barren female.”

  Ásta straightened, still clutching the weapon in her hands. She blinked, letting his earlier words filter in. “But my kin slipped from the cliffs.”

  “Quite right.” Gunnar sneered. His hand went to his side, where a sword was sheathed to his belt. He slid it from its case, revealing a gray blade. “They did fall.”

  “That is my father’s steel,” she whispered. Realizing the implications of his words, her stomach twisted in her abdomen. A wave of nausea hit, and she struggled to remain standing. Pushing past her body’s reaction, she withdrew the Ulfberht blade from its scabbard and held the shiny point toward her father’s murderer.

  Had she known at the age of fifteen when they were visited by their neighbors, Gunnar, his aunt, uncle and cousins that it was the start of her life unraveling, she would have done something more to stop it. “I remember your visit, years ago. You followed me around the farm with your taunts and sneers. I hated you more than any person I had ever known. I wanted to get away from you, so I went to my favorite place, the sea cliffs. Only you found me.”

  His amusement slid away, and his expression hardened. “You should have been mine.”

  Ásta remembered those fear-filled moments when she’d escaped him and run away. It was in that very place that the wolf attacked her a year later when his marriage offer had been rejected. She never knew why the beast had left her with scars instead of delivering her across the Rainbow Bridge to meet her mother in the halls of Valhalla. Gunnar’s hatred for her ran deep. She could see now how much he’d wanted her to suffer.

  “I went to make my fortune so you could see the mistake you made. I wanted to lower your position in life so you had nothing and no one—to beg me to allow you to stay on your land as my farmhand, or my wife.”

  He began to close the gap between them. She raised the tip of the blade toward him, experiencing the true heft of the length of steel. As Gunnar walked, he held her father’s weapon with its point behind him. “It is a sight, a bare woman holding a blade as fine as that, but I am sure it is not what its maker thought of when it was created. You tire from its weight because it was made for the strength of a man.”

  Her biceps, forearms and hands burned from the strain, although she didn’t care. She could have been lit ablaze, yet she would have remained in place like a birch tree, holding against the violent sea winds. The tendons in her neck strained while she waited for his approach.

  When he arrived at the foot of the bath, only two strides from her shaking body, he l
ifted her father’s blade. Each threatening the other with the steel of their kin. His eyes narrowed. “I have sacked and raided the lands to the east. I do not fear any woman. My life will not end this day, but yours may.”

  If she truly was moments from her last breath, then at least her suffering would end. She hoped she had not laid eyes on her husband and land for the last time. Thoughts of Torin’s hands touching her skin, his lips on hers and his eyes stealing glances her way were kindled in her heart. And hopes of children filling their longhouse with shouts and laughter. If she held them close, maybe she’d keep them forever when she passed from this earth.

  Ásta thrust her sword toward him. Gunnar brushed it aside with the edge of his blade and a smile. He waited for her to make another attempt or to tire out. She steadied herself again and tried once more to sink her steel in his heart. But like before, her efforts were thwarted.

  Over the hills came a call. “Áaasta!”

  Gunnar looked in the direction in which it had come, and Ásta took her chance. She lunged forward, holding the tip of her sword between herself and her attacker. Unlike the practice blade, it broke the skin’s protective barrier and drove through Gunnar’s chest cavity. She felt and heard the crack of ribs breaking through the steel. She gritted her teeth, not wanting to let go.

  Gunnar called out in surprise and pain, then stumbled backward. He fell to the ground, the sword still impaled in his chest. Ásta no longer gripped the hilt, for she had lost her hold. She glanced to the hills and saw Torin racing toward them with his round shield grasped in one hand, and in the other, his blade drawn and ready.

  Movement from the ground drew her attention. The man who’d fallen to the ground had begun to change shape. His tanned skin disappeared from sight as black fur took root and carpeted his body. His head rocked back, and his jaw and nose lengthened. Pointy ears lifted up while her father’s sword dropped from his fingerless paws. The hilt of the Ulfberht waved in the air, its point still driven into the chest cavity of the wolf.

  Ásta was quick to lean into the sword that began to slip from the wolf’s body. Her arms and shoulders flexed with effort while the blade sank deeper. The animal lifted its head to look at her one last time before collapsing, lifeless. A shudder ran from its legs down to its tail. Then a sudden burst of light and air blew her hair from her face. Chills traced across her exposed skin.

  She’d seen life pass from this earth, but never had she experienced anything like this. Never had there been a burst of enchanted light and a force of wind to carry to help carry the soul away. Maybe it was Gunnar’s fylgja, the spirit of the wolf, that had a magical part in that.

  She sank to the ground with a sob and began to cry as she realized it was over. No more would the wolf haunt the cliffs or claw at their walls. No more would it threaten her or her kin. She was free from Gunnar and his feud. Finally.

  Torin raced to her side and threw down his blade and sword so that he might take her up in his arms. He carried her away from the wolf’s dead body to the opposite side of the bath. His shaking fingers brushed her wet hair from her face. He caught her gaze to ask, “Are you injured, my wife?”

  Ásta shook her head in response. He took a deep breath while looking at the animal’s limp form. “Did he touch you?”

  “I am untouched,” she responded, calming herself.

  “I am sorry I was not with you when you needed me.”

  His voice sounded strange. She glanced at him to see his face pinched in sorrow. Ásta leaned in to touch her nose and forehead to his and whispered, “You were. Thoughts of you gave me strength.”

  “If I had lost you—” Torin brushed his lips to hers and held her tight. “My love.”

  Ásta pinched her eyes shut. Her heart swelled. Those were the words spoken in passionate sagas. She’d never thought they would be repeated for her own ears. “I thank Freya for you, my love.”

  “Are you sure you do not wish to keep such a fine blade for yourself?” Ingvar asked, staring at the sheathed sword that was being handed to him.

  Torin shared a private look with his wife before shaking his head. “We do not want any remnant or reminder of the outlaw, Gunnar.”

  Ingvar accepted the weapon and strapped it to his horse alongside his own belongings as well as the food and drink for his journey. “I will stop on my travels home so that I may make a trade for you. Silver for honey or bees. I know I am not the only one to look forward to tasting your mead again soon, Lady Ásta.”

  She stepped forward and kissed his cheek. He blushed and let out a short laugh. Ásta put her arm around Torin and said, “Have a happy and healthy journey. Thank your wife and Gothi Fólki for sparing you during the harvest.”

  Torin clapped his cousin in a rough embrace. “A man without a brother is vulnerable. I am glad to have you.”

  Rolf shooed away the milling sheep from the gate and opened it so that Ingvar and his kinsman could mount their horses and start off. Torin stood beside Ásta as they watched them ride over the hills until they moved out of sight.

  “Would you like to take Vindr out?” she asked him.

  Torin looked down. Somehow his wife had been able to find the gyrfalcon in the wilderness when he could not. “If you help me. Vindr trusts you, as she should. But first, I want to see you eat so that I know you are well.”

  “I cannot seem to stomach anything more than flatbread as of late. I thought I would see if the baby likes blue berries instead.”

  He frowned. It took a moment for her words to sink in. He spun her sideways, and Ásta blinked up at him. “We will be blessed in the summer with our own child.”

  “Could it be true?” he muttered.

  A smile touched her lips, which brightened her face. Despite the clouds and chill air, he felt warmth like the summer sun upon his chest.

  “We were too distraught with the harvest and wall repairs for me to notice earlier. You will be more than my husband, you are to be a father too.”

  Torin lifted her up and shouted. The farmhands glanced their way at the sudden bellow. When she was safe on the ground again, she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Is this is what it feels like to have luck on your side?”

  “No,” he whispered, “it is love.”

  The End

  Chapter 1 of Tides

  Moans filled the dark room. Cathal lay prostrate on the wooden table, which had been cleared of green leaves and the bowls of a half-eaten meal. Eilish examined her patient’s shoulder, pressing her fingers into his flesh in search of bone placement. In reaction to her touch, the man moaned again.

  “Where is your father?” the carpenter asked with a strained voice. “I want him to do it.”

  The setting sun through the doorway and the hearth fire in their home provided enough light for Eilish to see by, although she didn’t need light to be able to put his shoulder back in place, she’d done it so many times.

  A shadow moved through the threshold of the dark home, and her father hurried to her side. He placed a heavy stone in her hand and tsked loudly while he looked down at the man on the table. “I would have thought after so many times, Cathal, you would know she has the gentler touch. She is better at it than even I, and I taught her how.”

  “You know what to do,” Eilish said, tucking her long brown hair behind her ear. She waited for her patient to comply, knowing full well that he would make a gamut of complaints before she could begin.

  Cathal lifted his chin from the table and winced. He let his arm hang free from the edge, muttering, “Domnall, do you pleasure in my pain?”

  Eilish’s father rubbed the long dark hairs on his chin. “I do not think it would be proper for a man in my post to relish another’s discomfort. Then again…”

  “I always knew you never forgave me for taking your favorite horse carving as a child. Now you take your price from my pain,” Cathal grumbled at the floor.

  Domnall tilted his head to look at his cousin. “If that were so, then I would take you on myself
. Go on, Eilish. He will not likely stop throwing insults until he is out of pain.”

  She nodded and leaned down to place the stone in Cathal’s awaiting hand. His fingers wrapped around its surface, and he let out a loud cry. Eilish, still bent over, took a gentle hold of his shoulder and elbow. Pulling very slowly, she drew his arm downward at an angle. More cries pierced the air, but she didn’t allow them to distract her. She felt the bone in his arm move. A loud clunk sounded, and his shoulder jerked into place.

  “Ooooh!” Cathal moaned. “You have it.”

  He began to adjust, but Eilish held him still. “How many times must you revisit this table? Let your arm rest so it does not happen again so soon. Father, get him the sling.”

  “Ugh. Must I wear that thing? It is a bother to do my work with. How can I cut wood with one arm?”

  Eilish and Domnall helped right their grumbly patient and get him to his feet. He held his bad arm with a frown on his face. A strip of cloth was wrapped across his shoulder and chest with his forearm held in the loop.

  “I suppose you will want the last of my rye stores just for happening to be in the right place,” Cathal said defensively.

  But they all knew the truth of the matter. He’d come hurrying to their home, holding his arm like a broken wing, insisting he was only out for a walk and fresh air. When the offer to come inside and inspect his arm was made, he’d made sure to say he was only doing it to make them happy.

  She could hear her father respond as he escorted their patient out of the home. “I would not want to take food from your mouth. Eilish and I will make do from the kindness of the monks for taking care of their flock. We help who we can, Cousin.”

  Eilish picked up the plants from the floor that had been swept off in haste. Their limited space and furniture meant the table served many purposes. She adjusted her brat, a green woolen cloak, around her shoulders so the broach that fastened it was centered on her chest. Her form-fitting tunic went down to her calves and was fastened around her waist with a leather belt.