*****
Before long they had stabled their horses and found lodging and a meal in Merchants’ Row along the wharf—a rough part of town willing to serve travelers without references. Rolf gulped at the warm mutton stew. Erik merely twirled his spoon in the bowl, his mind adrift in a tortured space. For all her grace, Swan wolfed as many portions as Hallad. Open stares met with the young woman, dissecting her appearance—her sword, her armor, her beauty. Swan’s tightening muscles showed that she sensed the threat, but her outward demeanor remained icy. Hallad knew better, though. In the past few days he had come to recognize that the emotions swimming through him often belonged to the woman, though he did not know how or why he had entered into such a connection with his charge.
A weathered man approached their table, wearing sailors’ britches and a yellowed shirt, darned with multi-colored stitches.
"Ho strangers."
The din of the crowded room eased as heads turned to gawk. The man leered at Swan, rubbing his hands together as if he were just invited to a feast.
"Ye look like fine sorts," said the man as he stared at Avarr's signet. Hallad had taken to wearing his father's clasp to pin the top of his mantle closed. "What say ye for the woman? I got ten coppers. Aram coppers at that."
"Klur, she ain’t your sorts. Leave ‘em be," said a husky serving woman as she scuttled over and whacked the man’s bottom with her rag.
Raucous laughter spilled over the smoky room.
"Jealous, are ye?" He winked at the serving woman, grinning. "I’ve got enough for the two of ye."
With a meaty hand, he bent and squeezed the server’s rump. Another chorus of howls broke out from the spectators.
Rolf smiled, lifted his mug and pronounced, "My kind of place."
Hallad searched under the table for his knife, feeling the cool end of the hilt meet his palm.
The plump server stretched her neck down.
"Sorry sir, they ain’t got manners down here."
She eyed the signet on Hallad’s mantle as well, lingering too long for comfort, and then scuttled away. She pulled a serving girl aside, whispering into her ear. The girl glanced at the group and nodded, then scampered to the door and disappeared.
"I don’t like this." Erik shot up from his seat, gathering his cloak.
"We should purchase our supplies and find the Temple," Hallad suggested, pushing his chair back to rise.
Swan, quicker than Hallad and without making a sound, already stood by his side.
"Not so fast! I made ye an offer. Me Lord’s been a looking for this woman. I’ll buy her to save the trouble of fighting ye." The man’s breath stank of fermented honey.
"What do you mean? Who’s looking for her?" Hallad asked.
"He’s drunk," offered Erik. "Come, let’s leave."
"Nei, friend. Won’t be that easy. See, me Lord’s had me on the lookout for a pair like ye. Is the woman he wants." He poked a dirty finger at Hallad’s chest. "Ye be disposable."
Klur grabbed Swan’s wrist, pulling his sword from his scabbard to brandish at the group.
"I’ll be taking her now. So’s ye three back off and ye don’t get hurt."
Before Hallad and Erik had a chance to contest, Swan swirled. In one fluid movement she grabbed the man’s forearm and flipped him over backward, slamming him to the ground. Her sword appeared in her other hand as she jammed the blade under the man’s chin, nicking his flesh with the tip. A trail of blood trickled over his skin, sinking down to the mead-soiled floorboards.
Klur threw his hands over his head, pleading.
"He didn’t say ye was dangerous! Ye ain’t worth the bounty. I give!"
The hall clamored. Men laughed, pounding their mugs against their tables.
"Klur! Klur!"
A man from the crowd yelled, "Got yourself a valkyrie you idiot!"
More laughter overflowed. Swan stepped aside as if she danced, releasing the pressure of her blade’s tip. Klur rolled over and slunk back to a nearby table, rubbing his neck and receiving pats on the back from a group of men, their faces red with merriment. Klur growled at their abuse, causing an even louder uproar.
"So much for you protecting her," Rolf said as the group took the short reprise to flee before the mob changed their mind.
Chapter 10
They hurried, losing themselves in the narrow streets of Merchants’ Row, twisting through the throng of sailors, thralls and riffraff.
What happened back there? Hallad thought.
As if to echo his question, Rolf chimed in, "What did he mean by his Lord was looking for her?"
"He was drunk," said Erik. "A man speaks foolishness when brimmed with mead."
Hallad didn’t agree. Keep the girl safe at all costs. Death follows in her wake. Pain tugged at Hallad’s gut. Their travels from the Steadsby had remained uneventful aside from the constant strain between Erik, Rolf and Swan. No danger had threatened until now. The realization of battling an unknown foe seeped into him.
"Did you see how she dispatched that rough? Flipped him like a sack of grain!" Rolf reenacted the scene as they hustled through the streets. Swan’s unease nudged Hallad, a bundle of energy ready to spring to his defense if need be. Protect her with your life. His father’s words buzzed through his head again. Clearly, the girl had done the defending. Embarrassment pushed in on Hallad. Once more, I have failed.
Hallad slowed their pace once he realized no one followed.
Rolf lagged behind, fingering wooden sculptures displayed at a merchant’s cart.
"Look brother. My carvings are as fine as these."
Rolf gained the skills of handiwork from his father, and though his father used the talent for shoemaking, Rolf applied the ability to endless hours of whittling, turning sticks into figures.
"Brother," Erik pulled Rolf forward, crumpling the edge of his crimson mantle, "we move."
"Nei, Erik," Hallad interrupted. "We need to stock our supplies."
Hallad reached for two bedrolls amongst metal pots, knives and cutlery.
"We don’t have coin or trade," Erik replied.
"Nei need. I hold enough coin for us all."
Hallad flashed his blood sworn a smile, but his grin met with Erik’s refusal. Erik had shadowed his little sister since childhood and the young men had spent years lounging on the Green, attending Ostara, the Plow-Blessing and Frey’s Festival with one another, in an attempt to hide Erik’s interest in Emma from Thyre. They took the oaths of blood sworn after Erik had rescued Hallad from two wolves hunting the Great Wood. The bond they had shared had been as close to brotherhood as Hallad had ever known. But since the night they’d lost Emma, everything had changed between them. Every annoyance incited Erik; he no longer looked toward Hallad with camaraderie. Instead, his gaze was filled with distrust and heartbreak.
"Nei, Hallad. I will not receive your charity." The angles in Erik’s face deepened, his jaw fluttering as he ground his teeth. "We will manage without."
Erik turned his back, stiffening his shoulders to Hallad as he combed Merchants’ Row for Rolf. Hallad returned the bedrolls; he gathered stocks of dried meats, cheeses and breads in their stead and paid the merchant.
"Which way to Freya’s Temple?" Hallad asked the merchant as he slung the bundle across his back.
The merchant’s face stiffened at the mention of the Temple and he turned away, busying himself with another customer. Hallad inquired of another passerby, who eyed Swan’s attire then moved along without an answer. Even after gathering their horses from the stables, no one offered up the Temple’s whereabouts.
The group turned nordr, weaving through the streets and pulling their leads behind them, ignoring hostile looks from pedestrians.
Abruptly, Hallad leaned down and whispered into Erik’s ear, "We’re being followed."
"By who?"
"Someone in a blue cloak."
Erik stopped, pretending to adjust the cinch of his black mare’s saddle. A figure, swathed in a blue cowl fr
om head to toe, trailed in the distance; it hid behind groups of people as they stopped.
"You’re right."
"You stay here with Swan and Rolf."
Erik nodded.
Hallad slipped around their horses and into a side street. He jogged until he found an adjoining path, then made his way back around until he spotted the figure. Slowing to a walk, he stepped behind the blue-cloaked figure, drew his knife and poked it into the figure’s backside. He restrained the follower’s movement with a steady hand on the stalker’s shoulder.
Hallad leaned in to the side of the cowl.
"Why are you following us?"
The figure turned, allowing Hallad control, and then flipped back the hood. Doe colored eyes peered up at him, guarded with heavy black lashes. Round cheeks stretched into a frightened grimace.
"My apologies. I didn’t realize you were," Hallad fumbled with the knife, sheathing the blade within his belt loop, "a girl."
Swan’s earlier heroics caused Hallad to overcompensate and, instead of feeling triumphant, the familiar choke of defeat stifled his throat. Within seconds, Erik emerged.
Abruptly, Swan appeared behind the girl, causing both Erik and the stranger to flinch.
"Do you have to sneak up on people all the time?" Erik snorted.
Swan ignored Erik’s comment, standing behind the girl, awaiting Hallad’s movement.
The girl batted her thick lashes at them.
"I am Gisla."
She immediately turned and reached up to Swan’s face. The girl caressed the iron woman with her hand, as if overcome by her features.
"I never dreamed I would ever meet the Savior."
She blinked again, as if fixing the moment in her memory, before snatching her fingers back. Swan remained still as an oak.
The two young women stared at one another for several uncomfortable moments before Gisla announced to all three, "I am to be your guide."
Guide to where? thought Hallad, though his mouth failed to speak.
When no one answered her, Gisla planted her hands on her hips in frustration.
"Ase Jorrun, Second Priestess of the Way and Daughter of the Temple, awaits your arrival."
Cart wheels creaked as they passed, horses nickered and dust swirled about the earthen roads. Hallad remained stupefied at the girl who appeared from nowhere to lead them to their destination.
Gisla studied her silent guests.
"Well?" She waved for them to follow as she turned and strode down the street, her indigo cloak fluttering in the breeze. She yelled back over her shoulder, "We must hasten our steps. Mid-day fades and night follows fast in this part of the city."
Erik plucked at Hallad’s linen sleeve.
"Where’s Rolf?"
Both young men turned, inspecting the merchants’ wagons and stands squeezed within the narrow street, neither catching view of Rolf. Hallad moaned between his teeth. Gisla strode far ahead of them, her barley-brown hair bobbing in and out through the crowd of strangers.
"We have to go," Hallad said.
"Not without Rolf," Erik insisted.
Gisla called back over her shoulder, "Come."
"We’re missing one of our party!" Hallad hollered back.
Gisla stomped back to meet them, planting her hands firmly on her hips again—her youth apparent in her bright eyes and supple skin, as she attempted to muster the authority to command them. Hallad figured someday she would make a good wife for an unsuspecting lad.
"We haven’t time for nonsense, my Lord. I beg you. My Mistress waits."
Rolf finally materialized, bending over to accommodate Erik’s grip on his ear, as Erik dragged him down the street. Hallad couldn't help but laugh at the odd spectacle.
"What did I do?" asked Rolf.
Erik exhaled, air escaping through flared nostrils with a snort. "Let's go."
Hallad nodded back, concealing a smirk.
Rolf dislodged himself from Erik’s grip, brushed off his red cape, straightened his tunic and primped his hair.
"Go where?"
When no one answered Rolf, he continued, "You are not going to believe who I saw at the docks!"
"Probably the King of Birka," replied Hallad.
"Nei," added Erik. "It was the queen and her fine young daughters."
Rolf persisted. "It’s not a joke. I swear it on Odin’s tree! You’ll never guess who I saw!"
"Rolf, we haven’t time for your jabber." Hallad waved toward Gisla. "We are expected at the Temple."
"But . . ."
As Rolf caught sight of the girl his lips split into a white-toothed grin. He swept into a bow, bending to one knee. With his long fingers he grasped Gisla's hand, pressing his lips to them.
"My lady," his tenor voice rang as if he sang a fine tune, "it is an honor. I am Rolf Sigtrigson."
Gisla giggled with a flurry of batted eyelashes.
Hallad moaned. Erik rolled his eyes. Swan surveyed them with a slight up-turned crack of her lips.
"I am Gisla, apprentice to the Temple of Freya," she returned, allowing Rolf to hold her hand. "Now, we must hurry, as the priestess does not like to be kept waiting and I’ve nei intention of scrubbing extra pots on your account."
She attempted to sound stern, but her young voice broke as she gushed back at Rolf.
They hustled through the bustling streets. Rolf pranced like a stallion at Gisla's side, reciting bits and pieces of lays and flattering her with absurd compliments. Hallad couldn’t fathom any woman succumbing to such obvious overtures, but Gisla seemed taken with him.
The throng of people lessened as they passed through the center of the city. Towers rose skyward, waving the flags of the King of Birka high on the apex of each spire. Crimson and gold adorned the gateways that led into the castle grounds. The massive doors depicted the great All-Seer, Odin, god of all nobles.
Rolf's pace lagged as they passed, studying the elaborate paintings—the first time he managed to peel away from Gisla since they’d met. He reached out and touched the design, awe striking him until a guard hollered for him to move along.
The group wound their way through the city until another gate released them from Birka. They traveled a well-trodden road upward. Oak trees, bared from winter, dotted the valley's landscape. As they approached the peak of the hill, incense permeated the air. They crested the top of the mound and the land spread to accommodate a birch temple larger than his father's longhouse in the village of Steadsby. In the center of the path lay a wide-open pit, emitting alder smoke from its depths. The path split in two around the pit and joined again as a landing for a massive door, carved and painted with the figure of Freyja, donning an ornate necklace and driving a carriage pulled by a fierce black cat. The cat's jewel-green eyes glinted in the firelight, reminding Hallad of Erik.
Gisla hurried around the fire and excused herself, disappearing behind the painted doors, hefting them with surprising strength. The smoke wrapped around them, entrapping them like prisoners.
The silence must have worn on the young would-be scald, because he interrupted it.
"Now guess who I saw? Hallad, you’ll be particularly interested."
Hallad shooed him with flick of his hand.
Erik replied, "Hush, Rolf."
Gisla reemerged, announcing, "Ase Jorrun, Mistress of the Temple of Freyja, will receive you."
Chapter 11
Swan led the group through the temple doors. The men followed in her wake like water in a pond rippling behind a majestic bird. The chamber opened to reveal a hall adorned with paintings of women, cats, boars and moons, favoring the colors crimson, emerald, silver and onyx. The licks of flame at the center pit jumped, producing wild shadows that tricked the eye into believing the depictions on the walls danced. Gray smoke swirled around them, pungent with amber and alder. At the end of the hall, an immense statue of the goddess Freyja had been erected and bedecked with silver and scarlet pigment. A huge black cat carved in wood accompanied the Goddess, with her hand
resting upon his head.
In front of the statue sat a woman in a carved chair. She stared down at them with a smirk, fine lines etched around her eyes and lips. A shock of silver-gray hair entwined with light brown was pulled tightly into a knot situated on the crown of her head. She pounded a gnarled walking stick on the ground twice, the flaps of her pine green robe rustling with the movement. The woman rose from her seat.
Visions of a seidr-wife filled Hallad’s head. Only once did such a woman visit Steadsby. Avarr had prohibited anyone who possessed any level of seidr-craft—be it prophecy, spell casting or the ability to view into the land of the gods—in his village even when the villagers had begged for one of the Goddess’ seidr practitioners to rescue their crops from failure after three long years of starvation. Many died in those seasons, but his father still refused the aid of seidr-craft.
Rumors remained of the one-time visit from a seidr-wife. They said his father and the Goddess’ enchantress fought behind closed doors until the woman burst through the longhouse, flung herself on her horse and yelled back to Avarr that he would rue his foolishness. The godhi had cursed the woman as she galloped away and the villagers feared the seidr-wife’s retribution for years to come. But it never came and no one, save the godhi, knew what the argument was about.
Now Hallad stood face to face with such a woman. A seidr-wife. One who called the power of Freyja. One who could see through the veils of truth, predict the future and see into other lands by her talent in seidr. The priestess held out a silver horn to him, in the customary welcome of Scandians. He reached for the horn and gulped, studying her over the edge of the cup.
"It’s about time you got here." A mischievous twinkle caught in her eyes. "I’ve been waiting for years!"
Hallad exchanged a puzzled look with Erik. Ase Jorrun poked Hallad in the ribs with her walking staff and he jumped nervously at her assault. Gisla giggled in the corner, covering her mouth with her hands. For the first time Swan smiled—a full, tooth-showing grin.
Bonded: Book One of the ShadowLight Saga, an Epic Fantasy Adventure Page 5
