Rise of the Pendragon (Islands in the Mist Book 3)

by J. M. Hofer

  “Yes,” Freya confirmed.

  “I sang in Hraban’s hall while he was among the living. He will attest my skills as a bard. If the Allfather is pleased by his report, I would be most honored to sing for him and the noble warriors who share his table.”

  Freya gave a few slow, ponderous nods. After a moment, she smiled again. “I shall do as you suggest. If the Allfather agrees, my brother and I shall accompany you. It has been too long since we have celebrated together, the Vanir and the Aesir—and that is a worthy cause alone.” She clapped her hands and began giving orders to her Valkyries, one of whom was to see that Bran, Uthyr and Taliesin were found lodging in the village until she received an answer.

  “We’re in,” Uthyr said to Bran on their way back down the hillside.

  Bran looked at him with raised brows. “What makes you so certain?”

  Uthyr laughed. “She’s never been refused a request in all of eternity. I’d bet my life on it.”

  Bran nodded. “You’re probably right.”

  During their stay in the village, they did their best to earn their privileges and win over the hearts of Freya’s people—Uthyr and Bran with their willingness to roll up their sleeves and help with work needing to be done, and Taliesin by entertaining each night in the tavern to an ever-growing crowd. Some days later, Bran’s mother came to let them know Woden had agreed to grant them an audience and host a feast as Freya had requested. “We leave for Valhalla tomorrow at dawn. Present yourselves at the gates of Sessrúmnir at that time.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  She turned to go, but stopped just before she reached the door and looked back at him. “Do not be late.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Valhalla

  The stars still lingered in the sky when Bran, Taliesin and Uthyr made their way back up the great hill to Sessrúmnir. Many of the village men were already there, piling fine goods into horse-drawn wagons by lantern light. The moment the first blush of dawn began to illuminate the sky, the gates of the hall opened. Out strode Freya, wearing a flaring cloak of falcon feathers, the Brisingamen about her neck, flanked by her cats and followed by her entourage.

  “Gooooooooods,” Uthyr whispered under his breath.

  Though Bran said nothing, he, too, felt stunned by the sight of her.

  “Ah, my guests,” she cooed, stretching her arms out like a peacock displaying his feathers. A moment later, however, her attention strayed to something behind them. They turned around to see a man arriving in a chariot, followed by a company of riders. He rode right up to Freya and smiled, leaping out like a stag to take her up in his muscular arms. He beamed down at her, took her face in his hands, and kissed her on her forehead.

  Uthyr let out an audible sigh of disappointment. Bran glanced over and gave him a reassuring pat on the back. Before he could say anything, Freya took the man’s arm and led him over to where they stood. “Son of Agarah, Lord Uthyr, Master Taliesin, may I introduce my brother, Freyr.”

  Uthyr’s deflated chest rose up again, like a sail filled by a sudden gust of wind. He smiled widely and bowed his head. “I’m honored.”

  A horn sounded before Bran and Taliesin could pay their respects. All heads turned to see a woman riding a beautiful chestnut horse up the road. She looked about, searching, until her eyes landed on Freyr. She smiled and rode toward them. Her hair flew unbound and windblown about her face, and her cheeks were flushed as pink as the sky. Unlike nearly everyone else in this land, her clothing was modest and simple, made of undyed wool, and she wore no jewelry at all. She reminded him of Lucia, who came riding into the village looking like that most every afternoon. He felt a wistful pang in his stomach. I miss my wife.

  Freyr ran to lift her off her horse. He kissed her as well but not in a brotherly way.

  “Husband,” she said, reaching up to caress his cheek.

  Freyr smiled at her, and then presented her. “This is my wife, Gerda.”

  Bran was the first to step forward and introduce himself. “Bran of the Oaks, my lady.” He took her hand, gave her a bow of his head and then gestured toward his companions. “This is Uthyr, brother to the future king of our lands, and Taliesin, the finest bard I have ever known.”

  Gerda leaned into her husband and nodded toward them with a shy smile as if they had caught her undressing in her bedroom. She gave them a quick nod. “Welcome to Vanaheim.” She then averted her eyes and returned to her horse. Freyr helped her back into her saddle and kissed her hand.

  “Let us depart!” Freya called, stepping into her chariot. Where horses should have been hitched, however, were her two Skogkatten. Her Valkyries spread their wings and took to the sky above them, circling like hawks.

  “Chariots pulled by giant cats, women with wings...” Uthyr remarked, shaking his head. “Every day is stranger than the day before.”

  Bran agreed with a nod, looking around them.

  Uthyr grinned. “I never want to leave.”

  Their conversation was cut short as a boy approached with three horses in tow. They were large beasts of a flaxen color, bearing saddles of fine leatherwork. One of the horses walked right up to Taliesin as if it knew him. Taliesin smiled and stroked its muzzle before swinging himself astride. Bran and Uthyr were left to charm the other two. When all were settled, they joined the glorious procession, winding down the switchbacks of the hill like a long string of precious jewels.

  They rode back through the village and meadows of Folkvangr to a wide and busy road, passing through several other villages. In each, all the locals cheered and waved as they went by, or quit working altogether to accompany them down the road. The children squealed with delight at the bright colors and beautiful chariots, Freya’s in particular. She smiled and tossed flowers and fruit to them, fawning over every child with equal enthusiasm.

  The road led to a harbor town where they were greeted in the same way and accompanied down to the water’s edge. There, Freyr halted the procession.

  “Looks as if it will be a sea voyage from here,” Uthyr remarked, regarding the procession surrounding them with a critical eye. “But there’s no ship large enough to carry all this.”

  “No, there isn’t,” Bran agreed. The harbor held nothing but a few fishing boats, able to carry nothing more than a small crew. “I pity the captain of the ship who was supposed to be here to greet us.”

  Regardless, everyone began to dismount, so they did as well. Taliesin walked over, squinting toward the water. A moment later, he pointed something out. “Look.”

  Bran looked in the direction his finger was pointing to see Freyr had waded out into the sea. “What is he doing?”

  The crowd pressed forward, craning for a better look at Freyr, and mumbled to one another in excited whispers.

  “They seem to know what’s going on,” Uthyr remarked with a shrug of his shoulders.

  Due to his height, Bran enjoyed a fairly unobstructed view of Freyr, who was now in the water up to his neck, holding aloft a strange piece of cloth. He set the cloth upon the surface of the water and unfolded it. The smiling crowd began to chant, “Skidbladnir! Skidbladnir! Skidbladnir!” emphasized by thrusts of their fists in the air. As they did, the cloth stretched and grew, spreading out across the surface of the sea.

  “Who the hell is Skidbladnir?” Bran wondered aloud.

  As if to answer him, from beneath the cloth rose something so massive that he would surely have drawn his sword and readied for a fight if the crowd had not been so eager for it to appear. Without warning, a mast shot up into the sky like a giant arrow that had been loosed. The crowd went wild, cheering and yelling, hoisting their children up to sit on their shoulders. The cloth Freyr had unfolded now hung fixed upon the mast as a tremendous sail. The rest of the ship emerged from the water, like a giant blue whale surfacing, until the entire craft stood creaking majestically alongside the dock in the harbor, awaiting its passengers.

  “By the gods,” Uthyr said, shaking his head. “If only we could manage s
uch things.”

  “Surely, that’s the only way we could,” Bran answered.

  “What?”

  “Manage such things.” Bran pointed to the sky. “By the gods.”

  “Ah,” Uthyr nodded absently. “Yes.”

  Of all the ships Bran had seen over the past fifteen years, Skidbladnir was the most impressive. It would easily hold all of them, as well as the animals and goods. It boasted fifty oars on each side within a covered rowing galley. The luxurious quarters upon the deck would surely be for Freya, Freyr and whomever they chose to join them. Most captivating of all, however, was the prow—a masterpiece of woodworking, intricately carved in the shape of a dragon’s head.

  Freyr helped his wife and sister aboard, and then bid Bran, Uthyr and Taliesin follow them. The women led them to soft benches, wide enough to lounge upon. Bran recoiled. He knew how much work it was to sail a ship of this size so looked around for some way to be of service. To his dismay, every job was handled. With an inner sigh, he sat down, resigned to entertaining the women.

  “Would you give me the honor of sitting beside me?” Freya asked Uthyr.

  Uthyr looked as if he might burst from excitement. “It would be an honor. I’ll do my best to be the most pleasant company I can manage.”

  Bran chuckled, but he could not fault Uthyr for his boyish enthusiasm. Freya’s beauty was enough to turn any man into a boy. That, paired with the way she always requested what she desired rather than demanding it, which was more than within her rights, made her irresistible.

  “I am certain you shall not disappoint me,” Freya replied, languidly caressing one of her Skogkatten. She looked up into the clear sky, now filled with sunlight. “I am already so happy,” she added, smiling, “and we are not even in Valhalla yet.”

  Mead and fruit were brought out for them to enjoy while the ship was prepared. Before long, they were sailing away from the harbor, waving to the townspeople lined up upon the dock and along the shores until they could no longer see them.

  “Why don’t we have some stories?” Freya suggested. “Uthyr. You, first.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know many stories, save my own,” he said in an apologetic tone. “Taliesin’s the bard among us.”

  Freya waved her hand, dismissing his reservations. “Then tell us your own.”

  Uthyr gave her a nervous smile. “Very well.” He told them about his childhood in Armorica, and how Vanaheim reminded him of the countryside he and his brother played in as boys.

  “Ah, yes—your brother,” Freya interrupted, her face changing. “Tell me of him. He is the High King of your land, you say?”

  This was the second time Bran had witnessed a mercurial change in Freya. For the most part, her behavior was sensual and girlish, yet, when the matter at hand was one of politics or spirit, the powerful wisdom she possessed became evident. Though she enjoyed flirting and delighted in simple things, only a fool would assume she could be easily seduced or manipulated.

  “My brother has united the western chieftains of Brython,” Uthyr proceeded carefully. “Together we will hold our lands against the advances of Hengist and the Saxons or die in battle defending them.”

  “Ah, Hengist.” Freya nodded slowly. “He is fierce in battle.”

  “Fierce, but without honor,” Uthyr quipped. For a moment, he looked as if he might spit on the deck in disgust, but settled for a silent curse under his breath.

  “I know of what you speak,” Freya acquiesced, “and you speak true. Such a victory is no victory. For this, he shall never see Folkvangr or Sessrúmnir.”

  Uthyr looked relieved at her comment. “It gives me joy to hear you say it.”

  She met his eyes. “I want no warriors who scheme for their victories—in love or on the battlefield.” Seeming to have had enough talk of war, she pointed at her brother. “Look at him.” She smiled. “How he loves the sea. I often wonder why he does not simply live aboard the Skidbladnir and sail from land to land forever. He is never happier.”

  “He comes home for me,” Gerda remarked, looking up from her needlework. It was the first thing she had said since they had embarked.

  “Yes, of course. Forgive me, sister,” Freya said, looking sincere.

  Bran noticed Gerda looked wounded by Freya’s comment. After a minute or so, she put down her needlework and turned away, curling up against the edge of the ship, her chin resting upon her hands, gazing out at the horizon as if she desperately wished to be elsewhere.

  He went and sat near her. “Do you enjoy sea voyages, my lady?”

  She glanced his way. “I would prefer to never make any voyages or journeys of any kind.” She gave him a polite smile and looked back out to sea.

  Bran sat there for an awkward moment, then excused himself and walked over to the opposite side of the ship, motioning for Taliesin to join him.

  “Yes?” Taliesin asked.

  “The Lady Gerda seems a lover of nature. Perhaps you could attempt to make her feel welcome? I tried and failed.”

  Taliesin nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

  Bran returned to his original place, and Taliesin sat down near Gerda. Moments later, he pointed something out to her. “Oh! Look!” Gerda cried. She jumped up like a young girl, beaming. “Dolphins!”

  Amidst the excitement generated by the pod of dolphins swimming alongside the ship, Taliesin glanced over at Bran and winked.

  Moments later, Freyr began calling out orders to the crew, diverting everyone’s attention. The ship changed course, moving at a new angle toward the sun. A magnificent rainbow came into view.

  “The Bifröst,” Bran heard Gerda tell Taliesin. “It’s the way to Asgard.”

  The arc of light spanned the sky in front of them, one end hidden in a bank of clouds and the other dancing on the sea, straight ahead.

  “What will happen?” Bran asked Gerda.

  “You shall see. No need to fear. Though it has been known to set the stomach churning.”

  Freyr continued barking orders at his men, who, in turn, yelled to those in the galley. Their efforts kept them sailing directly toward the ever-widening beam of light, until it encompassed the Skidbladnir completely. In that moment, there was nothing but light and an unnerving silence. Bran found he could not move, nor speak, until the ship sailed out of it. When the ship emerged on the other side, the temperature plummeted. As Gerda had warned, nausea gripped his stomach. He ignored it as best he could, wishing he had refused the mead earlier. He put his efforts into moving his sluggish limbs until his blood flowed freely again. He stood up and took long, slow breaths, filling up his lungs with the cold sea air. It helped to clear his muddled thoughts, and soon, the nausea passed.

  He felt the light touch of a woman’s fingers on his arm and turned to see Gerda standing beside him. “Better, now?”

  He nodded, glad to see she had warmed toward him somewhat. “Yes, thank you.”

  She went and sat back down with Taliesin, leaving Bran to regard their surroundings alone. They now sailed upon a different sea entirely, headed for a rocky shore at the base of tall, sheer-faced mountains that cleaved the heavens. Dark storm clouds cut themselves on their rugged peaks as they rolled across the sky, bleeding snow and ice upon everything below them. Bran found his cloak and wrapped it tightly around his shoulders.

  When the ship neared the shore, there was no crowd of seaside villagers to greet them. Instead, a lone figure stood at the end of a long dock. Freyr waved to him, and then guided the ship expertly along the dock.

  “That is Heimdallr,” Gerda whispered to Taliesin. “Guardian of the Bifröst.”

  Once the ship had been tied fast, Freya stood up. “Welcome to Asgard, my friends.”

  The ship was unloaded in virtual silence, chariots and all. No one in their party had spoken above a whisper since disembarking. Bran wondered if the journey through the Bifröst had frozen their tongues or if it was the somber, sacred quality of the place. When everyone was in a saddle or a chariot, Freyr took the
lead, disappearing into a thick, dark forest. Freya and Gerda followed, and then the rest of them.

  The air smelled of pine and loamy earth. Occasionally, a mist floated across the trail, obscuring them from one another’s view. It grew steadily colder as they climbed. One by one, they donned more furs or blankets against the chill. Flasks of a strong brew were passed up and down the trail to keep the cold at bay, warming the body from the stomach to the hands and feet.

  The trail wound through densely wooded foothills to the base of the tallest peak in the range of mountains they had seen from the sea. From there, the road became a seemingly endless series of switchbacks rising thousands of feet up the mountainside.

  Uthyr stared up at the rock face looming over them. “How far up do you think it goes?”

  “The mountain or the road?” Bran asked.

  “Both. Either.”

  Bran squinted and looked up, following the switchbacks with his eyes until they disappeared into the clouds. “To the moon, it seems.”

  Before Uthyr could comment, the procession began moving again. Though the steep trail made for slow progress, the views of the fading world below astounded the senses, keeping everyone alert. As they climbed, the once towering pines became mere brushstrokes, and the clouds they had craned their necks to see at the beginning of their journey now roamed alongside them like a flock of enormous sheep.

  ***

  With every passing hour, Taliesin retreated further into his private world. There, as always, memories of Nimue awaited him. They haunted his thoughts like ghosts, ever eager to rise from the shadows to torment him. Like an itch that insisted on being scratched, thinking of her felt so satisfying at first—but the more he did, the worse he felt. He soon felt numbed by a deep state of melancholy. He stopped fighting it, until he felt as if he were adrift on a sea of loneliness. No one will ever understand me the way she does. No one. And I’ll never love anyone as much as I love her. He felt overwhelmed by the idea that he might never see her again. He shook his head and clenched his fists. He was glad of the privacy his large hooded robe gave him, for it meant the tear that had escaped his eye would not be seen by anyone.