"How fairs my kin?"
"Kin? Is that what you’re calling her?"
Olrun’s features blurred in the cold haze. Farmers would be on their knees to the Goddess this morning, asking her to quicken summer. If the harsh weather held out much longer Hallad feared starvation would befall many of Scandia's people.
"Rota will escort her back to the Hearth today. There she’ll be taught as one instructs naughty puppies." Olrun pricked Hallad with the point of her sword. "Speaking of training . . . "
"Not now. After I take care of something." Hallad had no intention of letting them cart Thyre off to the Hearth without speaking with her first.
"Not so fast farm boy." Olrun blocked Hallad, running the metal of her broad sword against his bare chest. "We’ve work to do and I’ve nei intention of being shamed further on your account."
"Shamed?"
"Where there’s a man . . . "
"I know. There’s trouble."
"Getting wise, I see."
Hallad swiped at Olrun’s sword with the back of his hand and replied, "I’ve nei time for games this morning. Maybe later."
He turned, but with a lion’s speed Olrun jumped in front of him, her sword a hair’s breadth from his throat.
The fog thickened—a kiss of Loki's cold breath. A figure appeared behind Swan, grabbing her with a length of rope, pinning her arms to her body. His sister dissolved into the haze with her captor.
Hallad pressed forward, only to meet Olrun’s point.
"What goes on here?"
"You’ll have to figure that one out yourself farm boy. Or is it godhi’s son? Or is it Guardian?" She laughed like a coyote and disappeared into the mist, her voice trailing behind. "You decide."
Hallad threw up his hands.
"Is there anything that isn’t a game to you women?"
He reached for his sword, the smooth metal meeting his skin like an old comrade, and dashed into the haze. He dodged trees, narrowly missing front on collisions as they materialized before him through the mist.
"This better be a game," he muttered as he slowed his pace, feet fumbling for sure footing.
The world swirled about him, a haze of whiteness. He stopped, catching his breath. Listening. A bird cawed directly in front of him, to his left a squirrel chattered. Suddenly swords clanked, hard and furious, sounding as if the gods themselves warred.
He rushed toward the melee trusting his instincts to deliver him through the fog. Three figures emerged, misty shadows of whiteness. Olrun’s broad-shouldered mass thrust forward, her metal flying, clanging, and beating. Opposite of Olrun a shorter figure clanked along in the rhythmic dance. Rota, Hallad assumed, though with the fog wrapping around the figures, he could not be positive. The two figures sandwiched a central fighter, accosting her with thrusts and jabs.
The only thing Hallad knew for sure was the central warrior was Swan. Not because her long ice-white hair swayed with her sword strokes, or the way she glided without making a sound. She appeared as just another blurred figure against the haze. But as sure as he knew himself, he knew it was her. He felt her—there, inside that spot within him. Swan opened to him again, only this time her emotions didn’t feel like boulders crushing his chest. She rolled over him like water—a free flowing falls gushing through him. Instead of letting the force of her suck him under, he joined with her, rushing to her side.
Together they parried, crossed and jabbed at their opponents. The clank of their metal warmed his blood. His arms tensed with anticipation of the next attack. The drengmaers’ heavy swords caused devastating blows. Yet each time he rose up to meet metal, he felt Swan rise too. If his stroke fell short, hers filled the gap. If hers failed, he instinctively moved in, delivering the blow.
The drengmaers crowded the twins, circling them, attempting to force them apart. Olrun stepped through the center, pushing Hallad aside. Swan’s back opened up and Olrun screamed as her sword zeroed in, "Never let your opponent divide you!"
Swan tucked into a ball and rolled. Hallad didn't need to see her; he sensed her movements, felt her skin tighten, her muscles reel. In those few candle-flicks, his body melded with hers. And he reacted. He flipped around, pushing Olrun's bulk to the hard ground as Swan escaped her sword point by a thread's distance. Hitting the earth with a thud, the drengmaer rolled over to meet Hallad's steel, pointed with deadly accuracy at her breast.
Hallad's muscles quivered, wanting to release the sword into Olrun’s chest, but he stayed his arm.
Olrun’s freckled face split into a smile. She laughed, snorting on her hearty intakes of breath.
"Perhaps you are sal drengrs after all."
Hallad loosened his grip on his sword, letting it fall aside to find the ground. The mist had dissipated at some point during their exercise, though Hallad couldn't recall when.
Rota tucked her sword into the scabbard strapped over her back, her lips tighter than a royal maiden in the king's palace as she crossed her arms over her chest. Olrun, still chuckling, stood and dusted herself off then slapped Hallad flat on his back.
Hallad’s gaze settled on Swan. He searched her icy eyes. He felt her pain, her loss of him. She too, had a secret space inside her where she kept him close. And he had ripped that away from her.
Guilt rushed him, through his limbs, his breast—into every corner of his soul. How could he have blamed her? His blood and hers mingled more closely than any he had ever known. He wanted to grab her, tell her he would always be her brother, but his limbs would not obey and he remained paralyzed in place.
I understand you brother.
Swan's words danced in his mind like a song, a melody from the gods themselves, woven with threads of bird song, morning dew, and azure skies—everything divine. Hallad could not fathom how beautiful her voice sounded inside his head.
"Ja, ja. I’ll admit. You two fought well together." Olrun snapped her fingers between brother and sister. "But that’s no reason to slack. We've work to attend to."
With the moment broken, Hallad’s attention returned to Thyre. He shook his head at the freckled drengmaer.
"I have business of my own to attend to."
Olrun sprung to block him, but Rota stayed her, pulling her back by her arm. Understanding his need for solace, Swan disappeared into the IronWood, her whiteness blending with the receding mist. Hallad proceeded toward the Lion Camp where they had left Thyre to sleep for the night.
Chapter 2 3
Thyre was nowhere to be found. Hallad hoped the drengmaers had not already taken her back to the Hearth. He couldn’t imagine a camp full of drengmaers allowing their intruder free reign, so he asked the twins of her whereabouts. They told him the prisoner was allowed to clean and relieve herself in a nearby stream, motioning in a general direction. When Hallad asked if they worried she might escape, they laughed, telling him a rabbit in the midst of a lioness den could never break free of the lioness’ reach.
Hallad pushed through the brush, seeking Thyre’s path since she had said she would mark a trail. He could hear the drengmaers in the distance in every direction and wondered how many women populated the Lion Clan; it seemed the entire forest rustled with their presence.
As he hiked further into the forest, Swan’s presence weakened. The renewed bond they’d achieved during their skirmish with the Headwomen unraveled, loosening like split twine as if his twin undid their threads at will. Hallad heaved out a breath. Swan must be able to control her connection to him. He wondered if he could stifle her access to him as well. Twin or not, some mysteries should remain private. He didn’t like the fact she manipulated his access to her, but he remained as open as the sky in an endless plain. Would bonding as sal drengrs strengthen this communication, or the ability to control it? Or would the bond bare his soul?
A piece of material tied to a branch marked the path and Hallad continued, listening for clues.
"Thyre," he hollered, though calling her by her given name instead of mother left an ache in his chest. Her lie
s rumbled through his mind. His father had taught Hallad to weigh all sides of a situation before passing judgment. By his father’s wisdom, Hallad owed the woman the courtesy of his ear. Had her accusation been so terrible? Hallad wondered if he would have done the same had his own daughter been threatened. He shook his head.
Nei.
Even so, he did not possess the right to pass sentence on actions Thyre made out of grief.
"Thyre. Are you here?" he called again as he spotted more broken branches.
Mist still swirled here, clinging to tree trunks and limbs; it created a canopy of low clouds, impeding the view. A chill ran the length of Hallad's back. He wished he had taken a moment to don a shirt before seeking Thyre.
The nip seemed unnatural, reminding Hallad of the cold they encountered the night Emma disappeared. His blood pumped in response. A heartbeat later, the air burst as if a hole ripped through the forest, sending an icy blast from Nilfheim. Hallad spun, reaching for his sword, only to find himself weaponless.
The base of a pine tree blurred. Hallad wiped his eyes, but the distortion continued as if his sight remained unfocused. A man slipped through the trunk, bounding directly toward Hallad.
Hallad squeezed his lids again, hoping to clear the image, but the man persisted as if he emerged from inside the tree. He charged toward Hallad, an arrow nocked in his bow. The projectile released, spiraling toward Hallad. Jumping sideways to dodge the oncoming point, Hallad dropped, tumbling, but heard the thump of the arrowhead hit flesh.
Hallad turned. Not a foot from where he’d stood, Thyre grabbed at the shaft driving straight though her chest. A bright flow of blood seeped from the wound, staining her dress with a bloom of crimson. In her right hand, she heaved a knife turned on Hallad—meant for Hallad. Thyre’s strength gave out. She crumpled to the ground, dropping the blade from her limp fingers.
The arrow-bearing stranger, his sleeves embellished with a mighty ash tree digging into the ground—a signet similar to Hallad’s father’s—bent to one knee in front of the godhi’s son. He bowed, as if he addressed a king in his court and kissed the hem of Hallad’s trousers.
"The strength of the Mighty One be with you Guardian. The Mother herself relies on your strength." He handed Hallad a gold medallion, pressing it into his palm. "When you cross into Alvenheim, watch yourself Guardian. The Conspirators will be waiting for you."
Without another word, the stranger jumped through the nearest bushes and took off running. Hallad tried to call him back, but the forest seemed to open up and swallow him.
Thyre gasped at his feet, her hand grasping at his boot. Hallad dropped to the ground, pulling Thyre’s head in his lap. She coughed, blood dribbling down the corners of her pale mouth.
"Why?" Hallad asked, unable to form any other word.
"My fault." She coughed again, weaker this time.
Hallad sucked in his breath, running his palm over her tangled hair.
Defeat wore in her eyes. "You . . . "
"Shush."
All of Hallad’s contempt for the woman released. Her blood warmed his hand as he tried to cover the seeping wound on her breast.
"My dear husband, Avarr. What have I done to you?" Between coughs, tears flowed. Whiteness spread over her face. "He fought bravely. So proud of you. So proud."
Her chest heaved underneath Hallad's bloodied hand.
"I will go get a healer. One of the seidr-wives will be able to take care of you." Even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t the truth.
"Nei. It’s better this way." She opened her eyes wide, struggling with the effort. "Promise. Promise you will return. Write the runes on your father’s gravestone. Promise."
"I promise." Hallad’s words felt heavy, bricks inside his mouth. The confirmation of his father’s death crushed his chest, pinning air inside his lungs. Thyre’s blood pooled on the ground of the IronWood as Hallad ran the back of his hand across her cool cheek.
"Evil." A possessed look struck Thyre’s eyes, as if Loki seized her mind. "He is evil!"
"Shush now." Hallad attempted to sooth her.
"He has her. Your sister. Half-blood or not, still your sister."
"Who do you speak of? Who has Emma?"
Thyre’s shoulders shook in silent sobs.
"My fault. Oh, Emma. Mamma's fault." Then her eyes focused, clearing, turning to pinpoints. "You must save her. Take her from him. You don't know what he's capable of. Promise me. Promise."
"I promise."
"You mean that truly?"
"On my life and honor."
Her lips formed a queer smile then her head lulled in the crook of Hallad’s arm. Her eyes stared as the wan shadow of death seized her. How many promises had he made? How many could he keep?
Swan stood behind him. He didn't need to turn to know she was there. Her presence grounded him, lifted him as he held the lifeless body of the only woman he had ever known as mother.
Chapter 2 4
"It is done as you said. Thyre is dead and the dyrr has been delivered to the false Guardian so he may cross into Alvenheim." The liveried man bowed, inclining his head to the floor.
"Very good, Weyland," replied Lothar, cracking his lank fingers at the knuckles. "You are sure he gave his word?"
"On his honor," said Weyland as he rose to face his master. "He swore to save his sister."
"On his honor." A lupine smile spread across the Lord’s face. "This so-called Guardian will have reason to seek me and bring the girl in tow. Now that they have been reunited, nothing can keep her from following her twin."
Lothar rounded the table and poured himself a goblet of wine, savoring a sip before swallowing.
"I will entrap the girl and kill this man. With the girl’s power our Master can finally break free from his prison in the shadows. Since it will be me that delivers this power to him, I will become his right hand when he reigns. No longer will our kind hide and squabble over scraps. And those with the Mother’s touch will be punished for our years of subjugation."
Erik viewed the exchange, entrapped in a gray void. Though he had tried to wake he failed each time. The dream sucked him in, deeper and deeper, until he no longer struggled for consciousness. He only sought to maneuver through the shifting grayness, discovering windows to peek through to his sweet Emma.
The black wolf picked up his head, sniffing the air in Erik’s direction. Lothar responded to his beast’s action by following the line of the wolf’s gaze.
"My Lord," interrupted Weyland. "There is other business we need to attend to."
"Agreed." Lothar waved his waxy fingers in a come hither gesture. "Bring in the supplicant."
The ward crossed the polished floor, his sleeves fluttering with the banner of the tree digging its roots into the ground. He paused, hummed and passed his palm over a carved symbol in the wall. The door slid open.
A waif of a figure waited in the hallway. Weyland gestured for the man to enter. The supplicant stumbled through the door and across the floor, barely able to keep upright, his body thin from malnourishment. His bones protruded, sticking out from under his tattered clothing. Gaunt, pale lips broke into a heartfelt grin when his sunken eyes caught sight of Lord Lothar. He dropped on his bony knees, grabbed the folds of Lothar’s cloak and kissed the hem. Lothar reached down and took hold of the man’s forearms, raising him to full height.
"Please. Stand."
Erik watched, unable to fathom Lothar as kind or a man so ruined as to seek his hem.
The man’s eyes rimmed with water. "My Lord, I thank you. My wife thanks you. My children thank you. They would have killed us, you know. Children. They would have killed our children."
Lothar kept the man in his grasp, steadying him.
"It is not your fault."
"I realize our crime is an offense to the Mother, but what could we do? Starve?"
"I know your pain. You are safe now."
"You are a gracious lord."
"My staff will see you fed and healthy before
you leave my care. I have arranged for a place for you and your family in the New Lands past Ginnungagap where others like you flourish without persecution."
The man leaned his head forward, resting his forehead in the cradle of Lothar's outstretched arms.
"What can I do to repay you?"
"There is nei need." Lothar lifted the man’s chin. "Only tell others like yourself there is a place for them. Do not give out my name as the Palace knows nothing of my work, but I have eyes all over Alvenheim, watching and saving those in need."
"I know what I have done is an atrocity, but what can I do? I was born from her breast without the Mother’s touch. Helpless. And they shame me. They cast looks upon me like I've been cursed from . . . " His voice trailed to a whisper.
"You have been blessed by Master Loki," Lothar corrected. "The Shadow Master is your new lord, and I swear an oath on my ancestors he is a gentle lord, unlike those who worship in the Mother’s name."
The spikes of fear glinting in the man's facade receded at Lothar's oath. He bowed, releasing a sigh.
The maid, who attended Emma, entered and directed the man to follow her. The man abruptly prostrated himself upon the floor at Lothar’s slipper adorned feet.
"When I was a child, I swore my oaths to the Mother, to serve her, to care for her. Now I give those oaths to you."
A smile erupted across Lothar's face.
"The Shadow will honor and protect you and yours. Now rise. Grovel for scraps nei more. A long past meal awaits you. Bera will tend to you and your family."
When the man stood he seemed taller, as if the fear of starvation and humiliation had disappeared. He strode behind Bera as they exited the room, his shoulders straighter, his cheeks gaining in color, his legs stronger.
Lothar crossed the room and seated himself. His wolves padded next to him, their noses working the air as if a foreign scent caught in their nostrils.
"How many were rescued?"
"Ten, including the man and his children. The Palace is in an uproar. They were under judgment from Glitner itself for two offenses. After killing a deer, the father had started a fire to cook the meat. The blaze raged out of his control, burning half of an apple grove."
Bonded: Book One of the ShadowLight Saga, an Epic Fantasy Adventure Page 11
