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

by J. M. Hofer

  He was startled from his reverie by a man in front of him, who turned around and cried, “The Lady Freya wishes for a song to pass the time.”

  Taliesin felt relieved to be rescued from the heavy burden of his thoughts. “Of course.” He began with a melodic song in the language of the Saxons, knowing it would lighten the somber mood. Those around him joined in, singing with enthusiasm. When the song ended, someone started another, and so on. This is how they passed the time until the road came to the imposing fortress of Valhalla, Hall of Woden, the Allfather. Its carved wooden gates stood open, easily a hundred feet tall. Soaring, free-standing arches rose as tall as the gates, with windows of rainbow-colored glass between their ribs. There were so many of them, they disappeared in the distance. Two deep trenches of fire spanned the length of the hall on both sides, providing heat and light. The wide banquet table was laden with countless gold pitchers of mead, platters of roast boar, mutton, fish and fowl, overflowing bowls of fruit and baskets of bread. The chariots and horses were left behind, and they continued in on foot. The Valkyries flew into the hall, high overhead, and the men cheered. They descended one by one. Each chose a warrior, stood behind him and folded her wings.

  Freya gestured down the hall with a graceful hand. “These are Woden’s chosen. My Valkyries have the honor of serving them.”

  “May the Lord forgive me,” Uthyr whispered to Bran, “but I dare say, at this moment, I wish I’d been born a Saxon.”

  Bran nodded without judgment. He had never seen a more imposing gathering of warriors. He saw the many scarred faces and broad backs he expected to see, but many young boys sat in the hall as well—some not yet ten years old. He found himself imagining what brave deed they had done to earn their seat at Woden’s table—perhaps they had given their lives protecting their mothers or sisters, or trying to help their father fight off thieves. He remembered the day Gareth nearly lost his life trying to fight men twice his size and pictured him there, feasting among heroes. He caught the eye of a young man and nodded at him in a sudden rush of respect.

  Freya led them down the hall to where a massive man sat upon a throne. He had a long spear in one hand, and a drinking horn in the other. For a god, he was dressed simply, wearing a heavy woolen robe with a wide leather belt and boots. His only ornaments were a wide gold band around his head and two about his wrists. Two enormous ravens the size of eagles perched on the back of his throne, peering down at them with cold, blue-black eyes as they approached.

  Woden’s eyes sparked as Freya stepped forward and kneeled down before him. He stood up, a formidable figure with the body of a man in his prime and at odds with his grey hair and beard.

  “Allfather,” Freya lilted. “We are so pleased you have received us. There is no honor higher.”

  Woden looked upon Freya with both adoration and desire. After a moment, his eyes left Freya, reluctantly, to glance at Bran and his companions.

  Freya beckoned her guests forward. “Allfather, this is Bran—son of one of your chosen—Hraban, Son of Rothmar. His mother is Agarah, one of my beloved Valkyries.”

  Woden gave a slow nod.

  Freya whispered, “Kneel,” and pushed Bran forward. Bran did as she instructed, going down on one knee. He kept his eyes downcast but was startled by the sound of a large bird taking flight. He felt a gust of air against his face, and, seconds later, felt heavy talons grip his shoulder. He could not help but cry out in surprise. He looked sideways to determine what had assaulted him and saw it was one of Woden’s ravens. The next thing he felt was the bird’s powerful beak pecking at the silver mark upon his neck as if it were trying to remove it. The pain was unbearable, but Bran refused to cry out again.

  “You have walked the lands of the gods before,” Woden said.

  Bran could not tell by the god’s tone whether he considered this a good thing or not.

  “I know whom you serve. My ravens have been to his realm.”

  As if responding to the mention of its name, the raven abandoned Arawn’s mark and launched itself off Bran’s shoulder. Bran winced as he felt a stream of hot blood flow from where the bird’s talons had gripped his shoulder down his chest and back. He looked up just in time to see the raven land on Woden’s outstretched arm.

  “Rise, Son of Hraban, and tell us why you have come.”

  Bran did as he was bid. He felt the heat of a thousand eyes burning into his skin as he stood. My father is out there somewhere. He summoned his courage and spoke loudly and clearly. “The god I serve, the Lord Arawn, wishes to learn of you and those who serve you.”

  Woden’s eyes pinned Bran to where he stood. After studying him awhile, he said, “Tell your master that his lands will soon belong to my people, who will rule them from mountain to shore. He is destined for the shadows.”

  Woden stated his decree without evidence of malice or pride. His lack of emotion sent a chill down Bran’s spine. The cold definitiveness of his statement made it seem a foregone conclusion, impossible to avoid or deny. Bran wanted to say that Arawn had always lived in the shadows—that the shadows were his domain—but he refrained. “Even so,” he said instead, narrowing his eyes, “our sons and daughters shall give yours a long and bloody fight for it.”

  Woden’s serious manner broke at Bran’s comment, and he smiled for the first time since greeting Freya, albeit a bit cruelly. “I sincerely hope so, Son of Hraban.”

  ***

  Freya put her hand on Taliesin’s shoulder, guiding him forward. “Allfather, I have one more guest I would like you to meet. One I think will please you very much. This is Taliesin. He served as bard in Hraban’s court while the great earl yet reigned among the living. He has played for us in Vanaheim. Though he is but a mortal, he has astounded us all. As you so love music and poetry, Allfather, I have brought him here to sing for you.”

  Woden peered down at Taliesin, studying him. After a moment, he smiled at Freya and beckoned her to his side. “Then let us hear him, for never have your gifts disappointed me.” He looked at Freya in a way that confirmed his statement, and then addressed Taliesin. “My warriors wish to sing and make love to Valkyrie women. Play something that will drive us all to that end, bard.”

  Taliesin smiled, for such a thing was easy for him to do. “It would be an honor and a pleasure to play in your hall, Great Woden of the Aesir.” He borrowed a drum from one of Woden’s musicians to set the tempo, for his harp was still in the darkness of Nidhoggr’s lair. Thinking of its loss brought on a pang of despair, but he shook it off as best he could. He would have to charm Woden’s people with his voice.

  Charm them, he did. It took but two measures for them all to join in. So powerful were the voices within the hall that the sound of the music seemed to resonate within the very wood of the structure itself. Even the ravens were moved—they abandoned Woden’s throne and flew toward the rafters, soaring overhead.

  A harp was brought to him, and, from the moment his fingers touched it, no one was able to resist falling under Taliesin’s spell. He began the evening with rousing epics of heroes they knew who fought noble battles, vanquishing their enemies and leading their people to glory against all odds.

  Once the men were filled with courage and pride, he moved on to tunes with a strong rhythm, clever rhymes and suggestive lyrics that got everyone in the hall on their feet. The warriors, now full of emotion and mead, confidently pursued the Valkyrie of their choice.

  When most were paired, Taliesin again changed the mood. He sang romantic ballads that left a sweetness in their wake, encouraging love-making. He sang of the heart and stomach leaping with excitement at a lover’s first touch, warm hands keeping winter at bay, lips yielding to desire, and the bittersweet torment of impossible or unrequited love.

  The night grew long. Couples retired, arm in arm, drinking slowed, and a stillness descended upon the hall. For those who remained, Taliesin sang of what he held most dear—the Great Mother’s gifts. He praised the sun melting the ice and snow of winter, awakening
the seeds from the sleeping earth and coaxing their jewels toward the light, the innocent grace and perfection of every bird, fish and animal, and the call of the sea and stars. One by one, listeners fell asleep upon the piles of furs near the fire trenches, until none but Taliesin and Woden remained awake.

  Woden beckoned to him. “In all eternity, never have I heard such music. You have blessed my hall tonight, Taliesin. I would have you stay and live here in Valhalla to entertain my warriors every night, but they would be useless in battle the next morning.” He looked around the hall with grimaced disdain. “See now how they lay about, drunk with mead and love?” He shook his head and smiled. “No, it would not do.”

  Taliesin surveyed the hall. Everyone did indeed look like they would need a good portion of the day to sleep off the revelry he had instigated. He could not help but chuckle. “I beg your pardon, mighty Woden.”

  Woden laughed. “No. Do not apologize. It was a good night. One I shall not soon forget.”

  “It pleases me greatly to hear it, mighty Woden.”

  Woden beckoned him closer yet. “Before you return to the world of men, I should like to grant you a favor for the joy you have brought to me and my hall. Is there anything you desire?”

  Taliesin was surprised by the offer. He considered his answer carefully, realizing he had just been given the opportunity to possibly fulfill Bran’s obligation to Arawn. But will he be offended? He felt torn. He did not know this god or his ways. He had no way of knowing how he would react. I’ve no choice but to ask. “Lord Arawn wishes to trade the souls of your slain for the souls of our own. It would please me greatly to return to him with your consent.”

  Woden stared at him, his smile fading. Taliesin grew anxious. Oh, no. I’ve angered him.

  After a long silence, Taliesin figured the damage was already done, so pressed for an answer. “Would that be agreeable to you, great Woden?”

  Woden took yet another moment but finally responded. “I am only interested in the souls of the courageous, who died honorably in battle. I shall not trade brave souls for those of cowards, or those who died of disease, or of old age in their piss-stained beds. Those Arawn will keep.”

  “Understood,” Taliesin said, pleased by Woden’s consideration of the request.

  “How does your Lord Arawn propose we make such a trade?”

  Taliesin was at a loss. That was something he had no clue about. “I don’t know, but I’m certain if you agree, he will make a suggestion.”

  Woden cocked his head. “No. I will. Tell him to send my dead to your Grove, and I shall send his to the Yggdrasil, which you know well. The souls he sends me that I deem worthy of Valhalla shall be received. In return, I will send an equal number of souls to your Grove.”

  “I have no doubt our Lord Arawn will find such an agreement both fair and reasonable.”

  “So be it, then,” Woden replied dismissively. It was clear he had no real interest in the souls of Brythons. “Now, is there nothing else you would ask of me? Something that would please only you? What you requested was for your Lord. I wanted to thank you, not him.”

  “Well,” Taliesin said, remembering his harp. “There is. Something I would be forever grateful for.”

  “Name it.”

  Taliesin felt pleased and somewhat surprised by Woden’s generosity. Is this a trap? he wondered with a pang of fear. Should I refuse his offer? A moment later he decided the possibility of getting his harp back was worth the risk. “I should very much like my harp rescued from Nidhoggr’s lair.”

  Woden grimaced. “Nidhoggr’s lair?”

  Taliesin felt a lump form in his throat. “Yes.”

  “That is most unfortunate.”

  Taliesin’s hope plummeted, like a bird shot out of the sky.

  “Nidhoggr is not a creature I care to have anything to do with, but I will see it is returned to you.”

  Taliesin felt light-headed, like a father who had just found a child who had wandered off. He fell to his knees in gratitude. “Thank you, great Woden. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Wedding of Igerna and Gorlois

  “We can’t wait any longer, Mother,” Arhianna insisted, short of breath. She had climbed up to the Eagle’s Nest to find her. Lucia had adopted her husband’s habit of hiking to the top of Mynyth Aur and sitting in the old lookout point every morning.

  “I know.” Lucia squinted down at the road, as if, by sheer will, she could force Bran and Taliesin to appear. But they did not. She sighed in defeat. “I know.”

  Arhianna took her mother’s hand. “I don’t want to go without Father any more than you do, but if we don’t leave tomorrow, we won’t make it in time. I can’t let Igerna down. I made a promise to her.”

  Lucia nodded. “I’ll speak to Gareth. Go and pack your things.”

  “Thank you.” Arhianna shot her a relieved smile and squeezed her hand in farewell.

  Lucia cursed the barren road in the distance until she felt better. She hated the idea of making the two-week journey to Dumnonia without Bran, but it could not be helped. When are you coming home, my love? I need you. We all need you. Gareth, yet again, would need to represent the clan in his father’s stead. He had become accustomed to acting on his father’s behalf, but she felt a journey as important as this one begged Bran’s presence.

  It was not that she did not have faith in her son. Quite the contrary. After returning from Jutland, Bran had demanded much of Gareth. Though she thought Bran had been harsher than he needed to be at times, she never interfered. She knew he was grooming their son to be chieftain and that only men truly understood what leading other men required.

  Bran’s efforts had indeed prepared Gareth for leadership, but it was Einon’s passing that had brought it out in him. She thought of how suddenly Einon had fallen ill after the last harvest, and, sadly, had not made it through the winter. Gods bless you, friend. The clan all missed him, but Gareth had been especially grieved. He had worked alongside Einon in the forge from the time he was old enough to gather logs for the fire and thought of Einon like a grandfather. Within a few days, Gareth had come to Bran and offered to take over all of Einon’s responsibilities within the clan. She had never seen her husband more proud of their son than she had on that day. “Only a man who desires to serve as well as lead is worthy of becoming chieftain,” he had said to her. “If I’d asked him to take over Einon’s role, it wouldn’t have meant the same thing.”

  Gareth wisely made it a habit of listening to the opinions of his elders and asking for their advice. Though he had made a few foolish decisions over the past year, he had proven himself capable. His willingness to do whatever work needed to be done without complaint, whether in the forge or fields, had earned him respect among the clan. This was key. To the Oaks, respect was valued more than all the gold in Mynyth Aur.

  In Lucia’s eyes, Gareth had become a man in all ways save that of a husband or a father. She felt content knowing whatever fate awaited her husband, Gareth was capable of carrying on his legacy. This journey to Dumnonia, however, she felt required a man of mature years. There were simply some things only experience could impart.

  Lucia hiked back down the mountain. She spied Gareth climbing up to meet her.

  “We leave tomorrow, then?” he said, when they met upon the path.

  “Yes.” As usual, though she tried, she could not hide her feelings.

  Gareth put a reassuring hand around her shoulders as they descended together. “I’m sorry Father won’t be with us. I promise, I won’t let you down.”

  She smiled at his earnestness, feeling a twinge of guilt in her heart about her reservations but said nothing of them. “I know you won’t.”

  He nodded and ran back to the village. By the time Lucia returned, he and a group of young men were already loading the wagons with Amlawth’s swords. Brokkr, Laust and Gareth had worked day and night to ensure they would be ready. Once the swords were accounted for and snugly packe
d, they loaded the wedding gifts, food, tools and supplies they would need for the long journey. It was dark before the work was done.

  Lucia retired feeling exhausted in every way. She had foolishly hoped Bran and Taliesin might turn up after all, but afternoon had turned to twilight, and twilight had turned to darkness, and again, she was going to bed alone. Her heart heavy, she crawled beneath the furs and fell asleep to a mantra of prayers.

  ***

  They departed as soon as the sun rose the next morning. Gareth and Idris rode in the lead, followed by Arhianna and her mother. The wagons rolled along behind them, protected on both sides by long lines of well-armed warriors. Though the roads had become safer since Emrys had taken power, all agreed it would be foolish to take any chances with their precious goods.

  Brokkr, Laust and Inga rode with them as well, for Amlawth had been adamant about meeting the blacksmiths who had forged his swords. He said he wished to thank them personally, but Arhianna suspected there was more to it than that. Amlawth was a collector—both of fine objects and the men who created them. She suspected he might ask Brokkr and Laust to stay and work for him. She had warned Gareth of this possibility, but he had scoffed at it, confident of Brokkr’s loyalty.

  “He would never do such a thing,” Gareth insisted.

  “Well, you know him far better than I do, but be forewarned—Amlawth’s a difficult man to refuse.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Arhianna felt glad Brokkr and his children were coming with them. At first, Brokkr had intended only to bring Laust, but she and her mother had convinced him to allow Inga to come as well. Arhianna glanced back at the girl and smiled. She liked Inga. Contemplative and insightful, she was unlike many girls her age, whose conversation became tedious rather quickly.

  She glanced back behind them from time to time, feeling a thrill as Mynyth Aur faded away in the distance. She was eager to see Igerna. And Llyg, of course. And Cynwal. She pictured his shocked face as she kicked him in the chest before riding off and felt a wave of embarrassment. How could I have thought he would betray me? Gods. But then, who was the old woman warning me about? It was a mystery that still vexed her.