Warrior Prince

by Nancy J. Cohen

  Snaking her hand into his, Nira shut her eyes. She imagined the freshwater spring feeding the great World Tree.

  Her senses reeled as though her motion sensors had gone haywire. When her brain settled, she opened her eyes, clutching Zohar as if her life depended on it.

  They stood beside a small brook, much like the one they’d just left, but the vegetation beyond had changed from pines to tropical foliage. The sounds of trickling water and rustling leaves met her ears but the noise of civilization had abated. No airplanes. No muted drone of traffic. A bird warbled high in a tree, the only sign of wildlife.

  “Where are we?” Zohar dropped her hand and pulled his personal scanner from its waterproof pouch.

  “I was hoping you’d tell me.”

  He fiddled with his instrument. “This does not work here.”

  “Could we have landed on one of the ley lines like that island?”

  “I doubt it. My scanner does not register anything.” With a snort of dismay, he replaced the device in its slot.

  Her nape prickled. “Is this what the Trollek dimension looks like?”

  “Negative. I would be able to get a reading.” He sniffed the air. “No cors particles. I wonder…”

  “What?”

  “I have heard of the space between dimensions but never thought it real.”

  “This looks real enough.” Nira’s gesture encompassed the palm trees, broad-leafed plants, red anthurium, purple orchids, and huge trees that stretched toward the bright blue sky. Mountains surrounded them, effectively corralling the peaceful valley. Definitely, they’d left Florida behind. “It feels real, too.” She kicked at a stone.

  Fruit hung heavy on banana plants and papaya trees. At least they wouldn’t go hungry.

  “What now?” Zohar scratched his head.

  “We may be in the right place.” A warm, sweet-scented breeze ruffled her hair.

  He drew his weapon. “Then where is your magic fountain? I am prepared to battle the creature guarding its sacred water.”

  “Put your gun away. We don’t want to offend Mimir.”

  “What manner of monster is he?”

  “He’s not a monster.” A gust of wind sent leaves fluttering to the ground. She lifted her gaze to the branch overhead, and her eyes rounded.

  Nearly hidden by the shrubbery was a huge wall of bark. It reached up and up until it vanished into a haze of light.

  “Remember I told you about Yggdrasil, the great World Tree that connects the mystical lands of the Gods?”

  His gaze speared hers. “Indeed. What of it?”

  She pointed to the huge growth. “Behold one of its roots.”

  “That is a root? It is enormous.” He tucked his pistol into his waistband.

  “And imagine, it’s only one of three.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Three roots anchor the wondrous tree, and each has its own source of water.”

  Zohar panned the area. “So where is the source for this one? I see no fountain. What does the legend say?”

  Nira leaned against a tree and folded her arms. “We’re looking for the Fountain of Wisdom, guarded by Mimir. The Urd well, or Fountain of Youth, is protected by the Norns, Goddesses of Fate. Their root supports the tree at Midgard, so they rule the destinies of men.

  “A dragon named Nidhog guards the third spring and gnaws on its root. When Ragnarok approaches, rot will weaken this wood and Nidhog will succeed in chewing through it.”

  “And why is that bad?” Zohar cocked his head, a curious smile tilting his lips.

  At least he’s listening, Nira thought with a surge of gratitude. “Because then the branches will break and fall. Three years of endless winter will follow with howling winds that blow the great tree down. It’s happening again. That’s the coming darkness Askr predicted.”

  She told him about her interviews with Edith and the psychic in Cassadaga. “They’re repeating the same messages.”

  “So in the stories of Ragnarok, what happens next?” His tone held a note of skepticism.

  “Fire consumes Midgard, and all is lost.”

  “Sounds to me like the end of the world scenario predicted by many of Earth’s religious doctrines.”

  Nira shrugged. “You’ll find similarities in all the tales. According to the Bible, God created Adam, the first man, and from Adam’s rib, he created woman. In Norse legends, the Gods formed a man and a woman from branches of an ash and an elm tree. Rubbed together, the hard and soft woods produced fire.”

  “Like how a man and woman rub together to produce children? I like this parallel.” Zohar grinned at her, his teasing smile stirring embers deep in her core. “However, precious time wastes while we discuss these fanciful histories. Let us remember our purpose.”

  Nira’s ardor cooled at his easy dismissal, and she turned away. A cluster of flowers shaped like tiny bells tinkled in the breeze. The soil where they grew appeared rich and loamy. Perhaps the water came from beneath?

  She approached the woody column that appeared more like a tree trunk than a root. Its grayish-brown bark was striated with grooves reaching upward in a vertical pattern. Her glance skipped from tree to tree and to a juncture where they all met overhead. The basic root had given birth to other roots that sprouted their own branches, providing a canopy that let in limited sunlight to the valley floor.

  “How will we ever find Mimir?” She swept her hand at the tangle of vegetation. “He could be anywhere.”

  A low chuckle sounded from behind. She spun around, her heart skipping a beat.

  “Who comes to see the son of Bolthorn and the uncle of the mighty Odin?” A deep voice boomed at her elbow.

  A couple of gnarly bumps on the nearest piece of bark blinked open to reveal a set of eyes. After she got over her shock, she noticed features that could apply to a mouth and nose as well. That moss hanging down even looked like a beard.

  “You…are you Mimir, the wise one?”

  He gave a roar of laughter that shook the branches. “Call me Mim for short.”

  Zohar rushed to her side, his shoulders hunched, and a scowl of menace on his face. She grabbed his arm with a warning squeeze to stand down.

  “My name is Nira Larsen, and this is Zohar Thorald. We need your help, Your Honor.” How did one address a god?

  “I know why you have come, human.”

  Nira lifted her chin. “I need to drink from the magic fountain so I can interpret the runes.”

  “How did you find me?” Mimir’s face protruded from the wood. He didn’t look at all friendly from his deepened furrows.

  Nira glanced at Zohar, gaining reassurance from the proud gleam in his eyes. “These shoes brought us here.”

  The gaps that were Mimir’s eyes darkened. “You dare to wear Loki’s magic shoes? Be gone, I will not stand for trickery.” His features retracted, melded into the tree.

  “Wait, I didn’t get them from anyone named Loki. A child, Sylvia, gave them to me as a gift.”

  “You lie.” Mimir’s loud voice loosened a barrage of nuts from a nearby tree.

  Zohar stepped forward, gun in hand. She hadn’t even seen him draw it. “Do not threaten my woman, or I will have your head for it.”

  His woman? Nira stared at him. She’d barely registered his words before Mimir’s roar made the ground tremble and shake.

  “My head is all I have left.” Mimir’s face protruded again. “Do you foolish mortals not know? The Vanir beheaded me eons ago.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “You have brought us to the wrong place,” Zohar said, standing beside Nira under a branch of the great World Tree. “This must be the land of the dead.” His pitch rose. He couldn’t help it. He’d rather face an enemy soldier than a supernatural god.

  “Put your weapon away and calm down.” Her soft brown eyes implored him. “I’d forgotten my history. Mimir is correct. When he was taken hostage in the war between the Aesir and the Vanir, the Vanir cut off his head. They sent it b
ack to his people. Odin, with the knowledge he’d gained from drinking the sacred water, embalmed Mimir’s head and gave him back his power of speech.”

  “You are already wise.” Mimir’s bark-like features moved with animation. “However, I suspect you are blind to the truth. Beware the trickery of Loki. Those are his shoes you wear.”

  Zohar’s brain spun with all the names. Aesir and Vanir? Loki? The pair of them spoke as if these mythological beings were real. Then again, who’d ever heard of a talking tree? Giving Mimir the benefit of his doubt, he tucked his phase gun out of sight.

  “Our concern is with the Trolleks,” Nira told Mimir. “This symbol on my watch holds the key to defeating them.”

  “Nasty creatures.” Mimir coughed, rattling branches and scattering leaves.

  Nira held out her wrist. “See this marking? Can you interpret it?”

  The great tree-face huffed. “I only guard the well. Those who drink from it gain the knowledge they seek.”

  Zohar couldn’t stop Nira from moving closer. “Then please, tell me where to find the fountain.”

  Mimir chuckled, a low, throaty sound. “Think you it is easy? The universe must retain its balance. Every gain comes with a cost.”

  Zohar leapt in front of Nira, remembering her tale of how the mighty Odin gave his eye to drink from the fountain.

  “I will not allow you to be harmed. This has gone on long enough. We shall find the well on our own.”

  “You need to learn patience, traveler from the stars,” the god’s voice bellowed. “I have but a simple request.”

  “What is that?” He straightened his spine.

  “I am tired of being stuck in this wood. Resting here for so many years, my head has petrified. Retrieve for me the golden hairpin from the elves, and I shall reveal the spring to you.”

  “You must be joking.” Nira lifted on her tiptoes to regard Mimir whose expression showed no mirth.

  “Give nothing, take nothing.” Mimir’s voice taunted them.

  Zohar grasped her arm. “We leave now. You can find another means to read the runes. We have wasted too much time already.”

  But as he hauled her away, the god’s mouth pursed, and a great wind arose. Branches lashed at his face. Dust clogged his nostrils. Debris stung his eyes. Strong gusts snapped tree limbs and whipped dead leaves off the ground. The frenzy increased into a roar that hurt his ears.

  Nira stumbled as the earth shook, and he lost his grip on her. The wind howled. An ominous cracking sounded above them.

  “Incoming.” He shoved her away just as a heavy limb crashed to the ground.

  He’d learned his lesson. You don’t defy a god.

  “All right.” Whirling around, he raised his palms toward Mimir, whose fury showed on his craggy face. “We will do as you ask. You have demonstrated your power.”

  The tremors subsided, and the breeze died.

  Some warrior, he berated himself, curling his fists at his side. Yet how could he prevail against magic? Ragnarok was merely another name for the catastrophe that would happen if he and his men failed to close the dimensional rifts. Yet unlike their previous encounters with the Trolleks, this time a new element had entered the equation.

  He’d sensed it whenever he made a spontaneous spatial shift, like going through that mirror in the Trollek village. A dark presence tugged him downward. Could the feeling of dread it engendered relate to Nira’s tales?

  If so, darker forces were at work here, and he needed Nira to defeat them. But what of the prophecy that said the sons and daughters of ancient gods must unite to chant some spell? If he and his men represented the sons of Thor, who were the daughters of Odin besides Nira?

  “Where do we find the golden hairpin?” Nira addressed Mimir in a weary tone.

  Her shoulders sagged, but her eyes shone with determination. She needed a respite but never complained and refused to back down. Pride swelled his chest. She’d make a worthy mate, facing adversity with defiance on her lovely face and devotion in her heart. What man would not be blessed to have her permanently at his side?

  More than his pride swelled. By the faith, her bravery alone was enough to engage his lusty response. He resisted the urge to bury his fingers in her fiery hair and turn her mouth toward his to claim her lips.

  “You must journey to the realm of the elves.” Mimir’s knobby brows lifted. “Obtain for me the magic hairpin that restores youth to the wearer. It will make my body whole. But beware: Do not join the dance, or you will never see the sun again.”

  What those parting words, Mimir’s face folded into the surrounding bark. The tree solidified, and the forest quieted.

  Zohar turned to Nira, intending to offer support. But when she moved into his embrace, he groaned with repressed need. Lowering his head, he brushed his lips against hers, unable to stop his flow of passion. She might be courageous, willful, and fiercely independent, but she was still female. Every woman needed succor now and then.

  Her body, soft and pliant, melted against his hard form. She parted her lips, allowing his tongue to plunder her depths. He groaned deep in his throat. How he yearned to feel her womanly curves beneath his fingers, to peel off her clothes and feast on her beauty, but he still needed answers.

  How had she killed the Grand Marshal? How did she influence the confounded guest playing a doctor at Drift World?

  He broke apart and glanced away from her puzzled frown.

  “Time to move on.” Best to find this blasted hairpin and let her drink from the fountain. Then they would return home and he would demand answers.

  Nira’s expression shuttered, long lashes shading her creamy skin. Despite his doubts, he credited her words about the mythology coming true. They needed each other, in more ways than one. He pushed his personal issues aside to deal with the most immediate concern.

  Grasping her hand, he gave her an encouraging smile. From the way her eyes frosted, it must appear more like a grimace.

  “Take us to the land of elves,” he commanded.

  ****

  Nira gripped Zohar’s hand, closing her eyes and wishing herself to the elvin realm. A disorienting sensation hit her, and she cartwheeled through mental corridors until her vision steadied. She blinked, clearing away the cobwebs, and scanned the environs with a critical eye.

  Woods at their back, they faced a lake as the sun descended to the western horizon. Insects flitted in the pine-scented air, while her skin felt the caress of a cool breeze. The temperature had dropped from their last location, telling her their locale had radically altered.

  “Where are we?” Zohar dropped her hand as though it sizzled.

  She glanced at his profile: solid jaw, stubborn nose, and suspicious gaze. How had he gone from a solicitous and tender lover one minute to cold warrior the next? She didn’t understand why he’d kissed her and then thrust her away. The Trolleks weren’t here for him to need her immunity as protection. So what had prompted the kiss and his subsequent action? Did he deny his feelings for her? Or did he resent her interference with his mission and blame her for his failure?

  Swallowing, she answered his question. “I assume the shoes brought us to a place where the elves live. It’s still daylight. They don’t come out until after dark.”

  He peered at her, scrutinizing her face in a manner that made her skin flush. “Tell me about these creatures.”

  “I only know what I’ve read. They’re luminous beings who live in the water, woods, or mountains. They like dancing and gambling. A king rules over them.”

  He frowned. “Like the Trolleks.”

  “Oh? Are you familiar with their system of government? We have time to kill while the sun goes down. You can tell me more about them.” Maybe it would thaw the sudden freeze in their relationship.

  She pointed to a boulder big enough to seat two, and they sat at a comfortable distance from each other. Hoping it wouldn’t get any colder, Nira drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around her legs.

  Zohar sta
red at the lake, a thundercloud expression on his face. “Trollek society is divided into classes. The ruling class consists of royalty and clan chieftains. The king is elected by a Council of Elders made up of chieftains. It is not a hereditary position…like some other cultures.”

  She shifted her position, aiming for a better perch. To the west, tangerine colored the horizon where the sun descended.

  Something in his tone told her politics was a sore topic for him. She gave him a searching glance. His thick hair hung in damp waves below his neckline. Stubble shadowed his chin. Never had she met a man with such an authoritative air who exuded sexuality from every pore. Just looking at him made her want to kiss his frown away and soothe those worry lines on his brow.

  “Go on.” She swatted at a mosquito. These woods reminded her of the northeast, with maples and oaks mixed with evergreens.

  His shoulders hunched. “Landowners come next in the hierarchy. The clan chieftains, landholders themselves, appoint Grand Marshals to govern their villages. The Grand Marshal acts as local judge and administrator.”

  “Who’s under the landowners?”

  “The working class: warriors, farmers, merchants, and skilled craftsmen. Slaves and outlaws fall at the bottom of the scale.”

  He turned toward her with hooded eyes. “That reminds me. After Dal got taken to the medical facility, I took a shuttle from my ship and returned to the Trollek village.”

  She touched his arm, regretful of her thoughtlessness. “How is Dal? When I spoke to Paz, he told me Dal had fallen ill.”

  “Dal took sick after drinking some fruit juice.”

  “Was he allergic?”

  “Nay, I suspect he was poisoned.” He leveraged to his feet, meeting her gaze squarely. “You and Borius had both been in the kitchen. It would have been easy to put a toxic substance into the pitcher.”

  “You’re accusing me?”

  She stood to confront him. After all she’d done, the lout didn’t trust her? No wonder he’d thrust her aside like used goods after kissing her.

  His eyes blazed. “You have not been truthful. How did you manage to─”