The priestess poked the ground with her gnarled stick, the black cat-skin glistening with traces of frost.
"Our visitor appears to have fewer manners than you, my lad, as they have not shown up for our morning meal." Her age-faded eyes twinkled whenever she spoke as if a joke hid behind her speech.
"I don't believe we'd enjoy their company at any rate," Hallad replied as he stood, the aroma of Gisla’s herbed pork spurring him to grab a portion and gorge himself.
"Yet before our travels have ended, I expect to meet our mysterious friend," said the priestess.
At the smell of Gisla’s cooking, Swan returned. Even Hallad’s unjust treatment couldn’t stay her appetite. Half the hank devoured, Swan reached for second and third helpings. Ase winked at Gisla as she noted Swan’s enthusiasm for her meal.
"We'll be leaving the main road and traveling into the heart of the IronWood. Best wear your toughest cowhides as the ground is unfriendly in these parts," announced the priestess as she finished her food and set about packing.
"I have heard many tales of the dark forest." Hallad paused. "About valkyries."
"Tales is what you have heard. Probably to keep you close to your nana's nightshirt." Ase twiddled her stick in a circle. "Valkyries do not exist. They are a myth. The rumors trace back to drengmaers, warrior women. But they are not fictional creatures of a false god. These women dutifully serve the one true Goddess. There are many beliefs you hold that have nei bit of truth. Open your eyes, lad, and you will see what is real. Now, by the Norns, we've need to make haste and good measure before light fails us this eve."
*****
The day wore on, long and weary. A chill settled over the land, the sun unable to penetrate the haze hanging above them. The nordr wind whipped, causing Hallad's mantle to flap, an ocean of linen and leather strapped around his neck, held in check by his father's signet. He still considered the clasp as such—the godhi's, not his. Thor sweated under his load, the thick wool beneath his saddle soaked despite the pinch of coldness. Hallad took to leading the gelding for long stretches. Swan led Windrunner as well, keeping pace with the priestess and her apprentice, while Hallad lagged behind.
Ase rode aback a hearty mule, pointing her stick at different foliage, instructing Gisla in either seidr-craft or herbs. Hallad had no desire to know which; both crafts belonged solely to women. Swan kept her back to him without ever looking his direction.
They veered off the main road and took a path no wider than a deer track. Hallad worried that if his tracker still followed, the narrowness of the trail would allow for an ambush. The trail ended and they picked their way through undergrowth, all four leading their mounts between the trees. The depth of IronWood stretched onward, a maze of oak, elm and evergreens.
The light faltered the further they traveled into the dense forest, darkening their surroundings. Hallad’s skin pricked. Gisla jumped at every birdcall. Even Swan stiffened as she guided the gelding along by his reins. Only Ase seemed unaffected.
They traveled deeper. The trill of birdcall echoed. A chipmunk barked. A squirrel chittered. The ordinary noises should have calmed Hallad. Instead, his back stiffened and he imagined eyes upon their group. He searched the tangle of branches, spotting a ruffling of leaves. He tensed, unsheathing his sword from its scabbard with a smooth ring.
"Put that away boy!" Ase warned.
"We are being watched," Hallad replied, his hand steady on his hilt.
"Of course we are being watched. I said to sheath your sword."
Her order infuriated him. Even though the division between Swan and himself widened, he intended to honor his father’s command and protect her with his life.
The priestess rotated her head toward him, her scolding eyes calling him a foolish boy.
Hallad reluctantly encased the sword, but kept his palm ready on the hilt. The priestess raised her fingers to her mouth, the green of her sleeves blending into the forest around them. A high-pitched birdcall whistled from her lips, followed by a series of dove coos.
Within a blink, the forest livened. Fierce women materialized from the surrounding trees, moss paint smudging their faces. Dark leather trousers and jerkins studded in metal donned muscular bodies, while lioness skins draped as cloaks over powerful shoulders. All carried arms. The warrior women, drengmaers Hallad assumed, circled the group then stood in pairs, back to back.
The shortest and meanest looking of their number marched forward, approaching Ase. The woman’s cropped red hair spiked toward the canopy of trees, elongating her stubby face. Behind her shadowed a towering drengmaer, her ruddy freckles peering through the camouflage of tint smeared over her jutting cheeks and nose. Her breadth spread as large as any man’s. She hooked her hazel eyes on Hallad like she had spotted a prized pork on market day.
Despite all of Hallad’s mistreatment, Swan slid to his side without a sound, ready to leap at any of the drengmaers alongside him. The loyalty of his twin sunk in. Since departing from Steadsby, Swan had remained his only ally. His growing resentment toward her dissolved.
The leader grunted in a strange language. Ase answered back in the same clan-speak. After an exchange of unintelligible words, the leader bowed to the priestess, stretching her torch-colored hair toward her knees. The other drengmaers followed suit, bowing low. Then, all the women straightened upright and beat their fists to their chests in unison.
The leader shifted her attention to Hallad. A heated discussion erupted between the commanding drengmaer and Ase. Although Hallad did not understand their words, he figured the argument stemmed from his presence, since the drengmaer gestured in his direction and Ase supplied his name and lineage to the warrior. As the drengmaer’s tone peaked, Ase returned a level reply, stopping the woman mid-speech. The drengmaer examined Hallad, studying him head to boots. Her smirk caused Hallad’s muscles to twinge. Then the woman threw her head backward and snorted with laughter.
In response to Ase’s words and their leader’s amusement, all the drengmaers turned lusty eyes upon Hallad. He felt a pinch on his buttocks and jumped, spinning to find his attacker. The freckle-faced giantess stalked behind him, licking her lips at him like a wolf discovering a sheep wandering from its herd. Within an instant, the tip of Swan’s blade sliced in front of Hallad to block the leering women from him. A breath later, Swan followed with her body, placing herself squarely between Hallad and the drengmaers. She drew a quick arc with her sword until the tip pointed outward at his aggressor.
The slick sound of steel against steel followed, as the clan all drew their weapons and trained them on Swan. Hallad’s breath caught in his lungs, the stillness of the combatants accentuated by the silence of the IronWood.
Then the drengmaers exploded into hearty guffaws, snorting, howling, and slapping one another’s shoulders. The enormous freckle-faced woman crossed the short distance, placing her palms on Swan’s sword, her gaze reassuring as she lowered Swan’s weapon. Hallad felt a current of calmness enter his twin.
The massive woman turned on him. "Hallad, son of Avarr, Godhi of Steadsby, this is Rota, Head Drengmaer and Sword Bearer of the Lion Clan, honored Guardians of the Way, and sal drengmaer to Olrun." She waved toward the leader. She smiled, more fierce than friendly and thumped her fist on her chest. "The sal drengmaer that I speak of would be me."
Sal drengmaer. The female version of sal drengrs—the bond Ase had proclaimed for Swan and Hallad. Hallad studied the women while he bowed, unsure of how to react when introduced to a sal drengmaer, but his efforts were foiled as another woman prodded his behind, knocking him off balance.
Olrun bellowed again as Hallad’s face heated. Swan pressed closer to Hallad, arm against arm. Rota tightened her lips, her hard face like cracked rocks.
Rota gestured to another drengmaer, signaling the warriors to disperse. Hallad watched as a pair broke away and jogged off into the tangle of branches, disappearing into the forest. Then, as if they herded cattle, the clan pressed in around Hallad, Swan, Gisla and Ase.<
br />
"What goes on here?" Hallad demanded of the priestess.
"We travel to the heart of IronWood, to the Sacred Groves, Freyja’s Hearth."
"Why is that a jest?" Hallad asked.
"It is not," Ase replied.
"Then why do they laugh?"
"Nei ordinary man is allowed in the clan’s hearth. The general populace of the clan does not know of the importance of the Savior and her Guardian, and your existence is a legend. The knowledge of your birth remains secreted with the Priestesses of the Way." Ase's lips pursed, suppressing a smile. She leaned close, whispering, "I had to tell a slight fib."
Hallad frowned. "What kind of fib?"
"I told them you were to be the Serpent Mother’s consort."
"Her what?" Hallad asked, confused.
"Hush," the priestess replied, a bony finger over her lips. Her eyes twinkled like Loki after a prank on the gods. "Her consort, my lad, would mean her lover."
Hallad’s entire body sizzled with embarrassment. "By the gods, priestess, what humiliation do you have in store for me next?"
No sooner than Hallad stated the words, two drengmaers closed in behind him and secured a black cloth over his eyes. A surge of panic rose in his gut, but it wasn’t his own; Swan scuffled by his side.
"Now, now, my girl," Ase soothed, "all is fine. You wait and see."
Chapter 15
"Where are we going?"
Rolf stuck his nose high, surveying the miles of frosted grass crunching under their mounts’ hooves. Each morning the frost remained on the ground a bit longer, leaving rings of brown on the buds attempting to mature. Each morning Rolf asked the same question.
Erik growled under his breath, but in truth, he wished he could answer his little brother. His nights remained under siege with visions—visions he could not explain, visions he knew to be real—more real than his own flesh and blood. And Emma’s sweet face lingered in every one of them, calling him, crying out for him. Sometimes her wide gray eyes appeared before him swollen with tears, her soft lips mouthing his name in the darkness. Other times a distant glaze captured her gaze as if her insides were numb.
Erik also caught glimpses of the man. They called him Lord Lothar. The lord talked of war between lands Erik didn't recognize, and of his Lord, Master of the Shadow.
The dreams drew him toward Emma, so when he sank into the void of sleeplessness he sought them, even though they wore him down and dragged him into an abyss of tiredness and depression—in return, they allowed him to sense in his waking world which direction to take toward Emma.
Erik tightened his hands around his reins. Though his little brother infuriated him with his shenanigans, he wouldn't trade Rolf’s loyalty for all the gold in Valhalla. He closed his eyes for a long moment, riding blindly on his mount's muscled back, the steady rhythm of the black’s haunches thumping beneath him.
"I could use a warm bed," Rolf complained. "The nights have been nippy."
The younger brother tugged his scarlet cloak tight around his neck as the sun dipped, announcing night would soon follow. By all calculations, spring should have been upon them, yet frost still lingered on the fields and the days seemed no longer.
"Ja, brother, it would be a comfort."
Erik smiled, letting weariness roll from his shoulders. He reached over and rubbed his fist over his brother's ember-colored head.
"Watch it!" Rolf yelled, bobbing to escape his grasp.
Erik laughed.
"Perhaps we'll find a village shortly. There were herd tracks behind us and the path is well traveled in these parts."
Rolf scanned the skyline. The Skaggs jutted in the distance, mighty jagged giants.
"Smoke," said Rolf as he pointed a finger out to the vestr where a spiral of white lazily reached toward the clouds.
"Perhaps we'll have a warm bed after all."
The guilt of Rolf’s presence distressed Erik and in the same breath that he wished him home and safe, he was thankful his brother stood by his side—especially after Hallad’s betrayal.
In the days after leaving Hallad, Erik’s anger won over and he found himself exploding at Rolf for minor offenses, especially when he discovered Hallad had gifted his brother with a small silver coffer for supplies. Erik refused to use the coin, though, doubling back to Birka and forcing Rolf to trade his sculptures for bedrolls and provisions. Rolf soured at the suggestion until he discovered how much his artwork purchased. He had earned his bragging rights and was not shy about reminding Erik of his skill—comparing his ability to the mythic dwarves—making Erik wish they’d done without.
Once out of Birka's valley, Rolf had blurted, "Guess who I saw at the docks!"
They'd played this game on the way to the priestess's Temple, but no one had acknowledged him. Erik felt obligated by his brother's faithfulness to finally indulge his brother.
"Thyre!" Rolf had exclaimed. "The godhi's wife!" He had said again, waiting for recognition to spark.
"Was she alone?"
"She made a deal with a rough at the port. Saw her trading a velvet pouch. I'd bet the godhi's wife had a pound of silver. Probably spent her husband’s entire year’s profits on jewels and charms."
Erik had struggled with the desire to turn tail and tell Hallad, but in the end the drive toward Emma won out. Now they traveled toward the foothills of the Skaggs.
"Brother." Erik looked at Rolf sideways. "Have you ever heard of a magic that could see into the realm of the gods?"
"I have at least ten lays on the subject alone." Rolf swept back his mantle, but Erik raised his hand to stop him from launching into a tale.
"What have you heard?"
Rolf frowned. "Why?"
"Forget it."
Erik jabbed the black with the back of his boots, quickening his steed’s pace.
Kicking Idunn into sync, Rolf trotted up next to Erik, a perplexed frown creasing his lips.
"The tales speak of a place called Upsalla. Priests hold the ability to see into the land of the gods, to see across nations. Some say even to see into the hearts of men."
Erik listened, focusing on the column of smoke rising before them.
"Do you think it's true?"
"True? By a scald’s own words, I'd stake my life on it." Rolf paused, fingering his sparse beard. "But that's not the whole of Upsalla. Upsalla is ruled by a priest. The priest claims a man’s soul through blood sacrifice in exchange for the power to see into dreams and other worlds. They hang their sacrifices upon a tree before the bloodletting. It is said to be a gruesome scene."
The sun sunk over the Skaggs and a crisp evening breeze kept the horses at a quick trot.
"Is it like seidr-craft?"
"By the gods, nei! It's not women's magic, though I've heard of tales of valkyries who can touch dreams and shift shapes and such, I doubt it is the same. Why do you ask?"
"Nei reason," Erik assured him.
But Rolf’s statements confirmed Erik’s belief—his visions of Emma were real. Though the thought of possessing such a power sent a rivulet of revulsion throughout his body, the knowledge also provided hope.
A shabby longhouse appeared in the distance. The family of such a meager dwelling would have little to share, but Erik’s stomach fouled at the idea of one more night of Rolf’s burnt meals. Eating his shoe leather after a hundred league march held more appeal.
"Our host’s table will be modest tonight, brother. We’ll have to lend a strong arm for our accommodations."
Rolf frowned, lifting his long hands from his reins, examining them.
"You want these hands to do menial labor?" He raised his brow, acting as if Erik had asked him to clean the privy.
"It won’t kill you."
"You think not?" Rolf stretched his arms, palms forward, toward Erik. "These are the hands of an artist!"
The sides of Erik’s lips puckered until he burst into laughter.
"You think that is a jest?" Rolf tilted his nose to the breeze. "You didn’t think it
was so humorous when my carvings bought our bedrolls."
"Well then, brother." Erik squeezed out words between his guffaws. "Or Master Craftsman Extraordinaire," he said, with a mocking sweep of his arm. "What would you have us do for our dinner?"
"As any man. Buy it."
Erik’s brows shot up in warning.
"What would you have me do with all this silver?"
"I told you once. I will not use his coin!"
A pregnant silence swelled between them. The horses quickened their gait at the scent of burning wood. Two weathered longhouses with straw-thatched roofs sat in a clearing. Over a dozen head of cattle and sheep roamed beyond the structures, bowing their heads to the yellow grass beneath. A hungry dog barked at their arrival, positioned in the middle of their path.
"I will sing for my supper." Rolf cleared his throat, testing his voice with a resonant, "La, la, la!"
Erik chuckled again, and then conceded. "They wouldn’t get much entertainment in these parts. You may even do."
"I will at that." Rolf sang low in his throat. "I love to go swimmin’ with bow-legged women, and swim between their—"
"Rolf!" Erik yelled.
"What?"
"Stick to the classic lays!"
"Why?" He asked, still humming his bawdy tune.
"Because, I don’t want to be chased into the foothills before nightfall!" Erik arched his brows again.
Rolf gave in, letting his melody disappear into the air.
"Fine."
"Fine."
"I’ll stick to the lays."
"The lays," Erik confirmed.
Two figures appeared out of the longhouse: a middle-aged woman cloaked in stiff woolens, and a man bent from years of hard labor.
"Ho there strangers." The man raised his hand in greetings. "Where do you travel?"
"We are headed for the Skagg foothills, but require a goodly rest and warm ale, perhaps even a night’s rest before we move on," replied Erik.
The man grimaced. The woman clung to his side.
"Headed to the foothills, you say?" The man hesitated.
Bonded: Book One of the ShadowLight Saga, an Epic Fantasy Adventure Page 7
