Melissa Sasina
Available Now
Midgard Year 846. 13th day of the Blood Moon
Rain came down in a torrential downpour, collecting in puddles along the cobblestone street. The light cast by the lumini stones in lampposts flickered, making the street seem even darker than it already was. Heavy black clouds covered the moon, blotting out its silvery light. Lightning flashed in the distance, illuminating the looming houses lining the streets like threatening silhouettes. They gave the appearance of clawed hands ready to grasp whatever strayed into their path.
A woman ran through the dark streets, the dull red-brown of old blood splattering her clothing. She continued to glance over her shoulder at the shadows that shifted behind her, a small wrapped bundle clutched tightly to her chest.
Breath came hard to her tired lungs and her legs ached painfully. The streets were empty, there was no one to call for help, and the houses were dark. She had pounded on doors, but to no avail. She had only been greeted with silence in the thundering storm which drowned out the sounds of her pleading. She was utterly alone in the desolate storm and, through her tears, could hardly remember how she had come to be there in the first place.
Glancing over her shoulder, she was greeted with an empty street. Yet, something in the back of her mind told her to keep running. She could almost feel him behind her. That man in the darkness who dared to shed blood upon her. Her mind could not recall how long she’d been running from him, but she knew he was there.
A creature of evil.
Water splashed beneath her feet as they found deep puddles where there were breaks in the cobblestone road. Her foot found where a stone was missing, laying in wait along the dark road, sending her flying to her hands and knees. With that sudden fall, the weakness of her flight rushed through her legs and she found them unbearably heavy. Panic filled the woman to the core as a chill as cold as death crept up her spine.
A creature that hunts its prey without mercy.
“There is no need to run,” broke a voice through the rumbling of thunder. “There you are, sweetling.”
Her head shot up.
Tainted by darkness with a ravishing thirst for blood.
The man stepped from the shadows and advanced slowly towards her, knowing all too well she could no longer run as he watched her with eyes colder than ice. Flashes of lightning illuminated his hard features with haunting cruelty. “Now, be a good woman and stop running from me…” His eyes gleamed in the brief flicker of lightning.
They would whisper words sweetly before bearing their fangs and sinking their teeth into you.
Forcing her body to move, the woman shifted back away from him. Rain ran freely down her face and into her eyes, mingling with her own tears, making it difficult for her to watch his movements closely. She knew she needed to get away, but her body would not move as she wanted it to.
The man held out a hand. “Now, now, it didn’t have to be this way, sweetling,” he said firmly. “If only you were a good woman and did as your father wished of you, then this would never have happened.” His hand moved at his side, his fingers running along thepommel of his sword. “There is still time to change your mind and come back.”
Their eyes, filled with blood-lust, would watch you from the shadows as they lay in wait.
He was the reason her clothing was stained with blood. He was the reason she was running. He was the reason everything had gone terribly wrong. The words she uttered were cold and unfeeling, “Never.”
“I am sorry that you feel that way.” Unsheathing the sword, he rushed at her and twisted his wrists, striking her full across the abdomen. “I am afraid you have left me with no choice.”
As she fell back, her hand shaking with anger as she strove to cover the wound.
“Such a pity for Jarl Woden’s daughter to have taken her life in grief…” Turning, the man walked away.
The woman pulled her hand away from her wound, looking down at it stunned. What should have been clear rain was now marred with the undeniable tint of blood. Her own blood. The pain was unbelievable and she knew she’d been left to die slowly, with no one to hear her cries for help. She knew in the darkness lurked horrible creatures who hid their fangs from you to lure you in. Creatures who offered peace and then, when you least expected it, attacked.
Her eyes glowed lightly in the bright flashes of lightning.
They are beasts in human form.
Evil does exist…
* * * * *
Midgard Year 848. 16th day of the Barley Moon; Anka, Vigrid
The room was small with few windows, as were many homes in Anka, the small town which lay beneath the hill where Ragnarr was perched. Night stretched across the sky, leaving the only light given off the soft clear glow of the lumini stones adorning the walls, suspended by metal chains attached to a brace. The room was sparsely furnished, bearing only a few cluttered book shelves and a small table with a chair. An old, worn rug lay upon the ancient wooden floor. Yet, it was her place of solitude. The place where she would go to escape the world and ease her mind. But this day, her mind could not be eased so effortlessly. Despite the utter peacefulness the small room often offered, she felt unsettled.
Mæja stood at the table, her hand resting upon a very old, leather-bound book covered in dust. The pages were faded and brittle, but their words held so much history and sadness to them. Her blue-green eyes remained fixed upon the ancient volume, almost as if she hesitated in opening the book she already knew word for word.
“Am I the only one to feel a lingering sadness with the approach of nightfall?” she murmured to herself, running her pale fingers along the spine of the book. Her eyes shifted to the gold embossed runes adorning the cover. “Feel that something has been forgotten that should not have?” Mæja’s eyes narrowed on the book before placing her hand over the lettering. “Such is my every thought…”
“You speak in odd riddles, Mae.”
The woman turned in surprise, her fiery waves swirling with her sudden movement. “Ah, Ilario, I didn’t hear you come in.” The man had taken her completely by surprise. A feat she did not approve of.
His gray eyes flickered to the book on the table, looking it over intently. “So that is the book you guard so carefully?” he drawled with a small curl to his lips. “What secrets does it possess?”
Mæja turned away. “Nothing of importance…” she murmured.
“No?”
She did not heed the seriousness of his tone. “What is it you need, Ilario?”
“You know that I am in this for treasure,” Ilario continued. “I could care less about the Empire. Let them have Vigrid. Jarl Woden and his family are dead. All I want is the treasure hidden in the castle.” He ran a hand through his ash-brown hair. “Surely, you do not think that a ragtag band of former guards and servants can really reclaim the castle. Who would rule it?”
“I would rather see the castle fall into ruin than have the Empire continue to hold it,” came her cold reply as she picked a scarf up from the table and began to carefully wrap the book. They had this discussion several times before and each time it made her feel more and more uneasy, leaving her eager to change the subject. “And you should know very well that whatever treasure that remained in the castle has long been removed by the Emperor’s son. How can you, a former guard, be so neutral to their presence there?”
“I beg to differ, Mae,” Ilario said firmly. “How can we expect to reclaim Ragnarr for all of Vigrid if we don’t acquire the funds necessary to remove the Empire’s hold? You know as well as I that a few lowly guards and untrained servants are no threat to the Empire‘s brute force…”
“Enough nonsense, Ilario,” snapped Mæja, turning to face him in her anger.
“Then it would seem that we have a problem with meeting an agreement.”
Keeping her face set firmly, she turned away from him once again. “This discussion is over,” Mæja told him, hardly in the mood to argue with him about the
ir movements against the Empire.
She could almost feel the smirk in his smug tone when he spoke again. It was then she knew she had made a crucial mistake.
“Oh, I beg to differ, Mae.”
Before the woman could have the chance to react, Ilario wrapped his arms around her from behind and pulled her tightly against his chest. His voice was low and dark when he spoke, sending chills down the woman’s spine as an overpowering musky scent began to overwhelm her senses. “There is so much to discuss…”
* * * * *
Sleeping Vale, the High Wood
Golden rays of sunlight drifted through the thick canopy of breeze rustled leaves to warm the face of a man who slept down amongst the roots. Linkyn could easily be mistaken as half Álfar with his slightly pointed ears, but many would be sadly mistaken to discover he was something that was greatly feral. His sun-touched brown hair reached past his shoulders with an odd lock of copper red on the right side of his face.
A smile touched his lips as the wind rustled around him. The woods were quiet and serene, the song of the birds soft and lilting. Though, it would seem, this day was a rare exception as the loud snap of a branch caused Linkyn’s ears to twitch and his fierce sky blue eyes to peek open. He sat up, listening and following the rustling movement, narrowing in on the men who approached towards his place of sanctuary.
He could hear them. There were three, four at most. Very few ever set foot inside the Sleeping Vale, aside from traveling merchants or lost travelers. These intruders were far from peddlers ready to sell their wares, intruders with ill intent who were not welcome in his little village.
Linkyn rose silently to his feet. Voices drifted on the breeze, reaching his ears.
“Be quiet!” hissed a male voice lowly. “We need to make this quick and quiet.”
Linkyn reached to his leather belt, pulled out a throwing knife and held it in his right hand. Runes for Geri ran along the skin from his index finger to thumb.
“What do you expect to find in such a small village?” asked another.
His leather sandals fell softly with each careful step that Linkyn took. He did not see them yet, but he could practically smell their unwashed bodies.
“You fool,” snapped a woman’s voice. “An Álfar man in this village crafts the mythril weapons and shields that are used by the very guards at Starfall. If we can get our hands on those, just imagine the price we could fetch for them!”
He could see them now, standing in a cluster of trees along the edge of the small village. A frown crossed his face as his eyes narrowed on them. Bringing his hand up swiftly, Linkyn let the knife fly. It had barely left his fingers to land at one of the men’s feet before he had his sword drawn.
The three intruders turned to face him, their reactions to his presence mixed.
“Heh…one lone half-Álfar to protect the entire village?” laughed the man who had spoken first, a wide smirk crossing his lips. “Do you, one man, think you can stop the three of us?!”
Linkyn said nothing as he stalked slowly towards them. His hand was firm on the hilt of the old, battle scarred sword which had been forged by the very weapon smith the intruders spoke of. Circling them, Linkyn watched for even the slightest movement. He would not be the first to attack. He would wait like a wolf for the perfect moment to leap.
“You fear to strike us?” sneered the leader. “Well, then, allow me the pleasure of taking your head!” Drawing his blade, the man lunged at Linkyn without a trace of hesitation.
Linkyn braced his feet and waited. As the thief foolishly raised his blade high to attack, Linkyn swung his own up and struck the man hard in the torso. As the thief fell, Linkyn shifted his feet and spun to face the other two. Both hesitated and once again he waited for them to move first.
It was the woman who made the next attack. With a shout of outrage, she charged at Linkyn with naught but a dagger in her hand. Her steps proved she was skilled with such a meager weapon, but she would still be no match for a man like him. Even as she moved, he could read what actions she would take and was quick to side step and defend before launching his own attack. Linkyn knocked the woman’s dagger aside and struck her in the arm, successfully crippling it. With a cry of pain, she fell back, clutching her bleeding arm.
The third man hesitated, his hand shaking upon his own blade as his eyes remained fixed upon Linkyn.
Linkyn waited, his own blade held ready.
The man continued to hesitate, his reluctance clearly evident on his face. “Damn!” he cursed, turning suddenly to flee. “Forget this! They don’t pay me enough!”
The woman followed, leaving a trail of blood.
He did not follow them, merely sheathed his blade and bent to look at the first man to attack. Linkyn could tell by the man’s worn and poor clothing that he probably did any form of work offered to him for money. Most professional thieves were dressed in nicer clothing and armed with various tools of the trade bought with the money they acquired. But this man and the other two were dressed very poorly with weapons in ill repair.
Linkyn frowned as he straightened once more. There was something about the three that had gotten his blood flowing with a familiar feeling.
* * * * *
The first thing Mæja registered was pain. It filled not only her head, but her entire body with a sharp, aching throb. The second was the cold hard floor beneath her and the lingering musky scent. Opening her eyes, she forced her body to move and sit up, a strangled gasp escaping her lips. The tiny room was in utter disarray. Books, which had only a short while before been shelved neatly, were now strewn all about, scattered over the table and floor. Lunging to her feet as quickly as her body would allow, she dug through the scattered books in mild panic.
Many of them were open to familiar pages of Vigrid and maps of the castle itself, of Shilyka’s battle tactics, notes on the guard’s rounds and even shift changes.
But most important was the leather bound book that was missing. The one she had been reading shortly before Ilario had interrupted her. The one which had been written by King Sigurd’s wife herself. The fading words had revealed great hints of a past that had been long forgotten. Most was not understandable, as if Brynhild herself thought it best for Midgard’s past to remain shrouded in the dark. But there was something she had done that none other had. She knew the resting places of all the treasures of the gods and how to break the seal upon the Gates of the Einherjar. Something Mæja had never wanted the Empire to learn of.
Mæja cursed under her breath. Ilario had taken something that had been part of her family for years. A secret well guarded. “Ilario…what have you done?!”
Flinging the door open, she ran down the tight, narrow hall and into a room not much larger than the one she had just been in. A man stood with his back to her, another sat in a chair by the table, while a third leaned against the wall.
“Mikhail!” she called out to the man standing with his back facing her.
He turned to her, running a hand through his dark brown hair. His bright sky-blue eyes settled upon her, a mischievous light in them. It was his slightly pointed ears that made him stand out, making many think him half Álfar. On the left side of his neck was a triskle tattoo. On his left hand, running from index finger to thumb, was the name Freki in the elder futhark runes while hiding beneath his sleeve was a tattoo of the world tree Yggdrasil.
Mikhail looked at Mæja in concern. He knew the woman well enough over the past two years to know she did not panic easily. Thus the frantic look on her face drew his concern. “Mæja…what happened?” he asked with a heavy accent.
She hesitated, her eyes drifting between the two other men. She trusted him with her life, but the other two not so much with what she had to say. “We need to speak.”
He nodded and waited as the two men exited the small room. Though he trusted them, if Mæja wanted to speak alone, then they would do so, no questions asked. Mikhail waited patiently for the woman to speak again, watching her slende
r figure step past him to sit in the now vacant chair.
“We have been betrayed…by Ilario.”
The man slammed his fist down hard on the table, releasing a string of curses. “Ah, feckin’ hell…” muttered Mikhail in a heavy Airlann brogue that didn’t fit his name. “He knows everythin’. Our location, everyone in the resistance, our plans…”
“I do not think that will be the worst of our fears,” continued Mæja, shaking her head. “In fact, I do not believe we have to really worry about that at all.” She hesitated, rubbing her face wearily.
Mikhail frowned. “What is it, Mae?”
“He took Brynhild’s book.”
The man’s face remained calm, but his jaw tensed and his voice was laced with venom when he spoke, “Tha’ book not only spoke o’ the gods treasures, but their restin’ places as well. Possibly even the means ta break the barrier around Bifröst. If the wrong person were ta get their hands on it, then the Empire would be the least of our worries.”
“At least we still think the same.”
He looked at the woman.
“We need to retrieve the ring Draupnir and possibly the spear Gungnir and keep them from his grasp,” continued Mæja. “I do not know what power they may have held, but I am sure he will seek them out first once he‘s read through Brynhild’s book. If we can get them in our possession, we may be able to delay whatever he may have planned, at least for a short time.”
Mikhail nodded. “Perhaps ye're right, but just ta be safe, we should leave Anka an’ find a new place ta hide somewhere above in Ragnarr.”
Mæja shook her head. “That won’t be necessary,” she told the man. “Ilario could care less about our little resistance. I’m afraid he has higher goals in his head and it is those goals that we should truly be worried about.”
* * * * *
The Valley of the Fallen Star, the High Wood
The tallest and most ancient of all the trees in the sea of trees known as the High Wood were the ones in the Valley of the Fallen Star. Known as Starfall to many outside the High Wood, the Valley of the Fallen Star was home to the long lived Álfar race. The redwood trees were tall and proud, their massive limbs reaching high. Thick ferns thrived in the shade offered by the giant trees while large, woody bracket fungi wound its way along the thick trunks of the trees, forming a natural staircase which lead up to the homes situated in the boughs of the trees. The Álfar homes were made from the broad branches which had been bent and tied together, leaving it open and airy, but also providing shelter from rainfall. Sheer cloth swayed in the breeze in places that served as doors and windows, allowing some amount of privacy.
Defiance (The Priestess Trilogy) Page 30
