Bonded: Book One of the ShadowLight Saga, an Epic Fantasy Adventure (9 page)

"I don’t know."

Hallad grabbed his own
bedroll and smoothed the down-filled wool out over the hard ground.

The priestess rested her
head in the crook of her arm, closing her eyes.

"Not a friendly
lot, I am sure, though nei threat for tonight. Sleep."

Her lids shut. Within
moments her breath settled into a light rhythm.

Hallad sighed and
settled down for the night as Swan’s emotions forced themselves into every inch
of his being.

The woman trembled. Sweat
soaked her forehead, though the nip of the night air chilled her bones. She
fought her way through the bramble, thistle sticking to her midnight cloak
until she reached her campsite.

Hallad had nearly caught
her. The slug of a rough she hired at the docks had been no help in her mission
against the boy.

"It makes nei matter
what you pay me mistress," the rough had said, folding his thick arms
across his chest. "Ye didn't say we was chasing a seidr-wife and a valkyrie.
That's not the deal. Think I'm nei brighter than a goat to be headin' into the
IronWood after the likes of those?" He had flung his dirty bag over his
shoulder, heading to leave.

"My silver!"
she had demanded.

The brute had thrown her
coins at her and spat at the ground where they fell. "Just as well. Ye
coin is probably cursed."

The woman had pleaded
with him to stay. Begged. She had no desire to be left in the middle of nowhere
alone—but that’s exactly how she found herself now.

She trembled again. If
only Lord Lothar didn't detain her precious Emma. If only she hadn't made the
pact with the lord, given him Emma's dress so his wolves could track her and
the lord could collect her and take her to his lands. If she’d only followed
Lothar’s directions and notified him when the swan maiden found Hallad and they
were together, rather than trying to please Lothar by having Hallad executed. If
only her husband hadn't put up a fight. Too many ifs.

Thyre pulled her legs
tight to her chest as she squatted on the cold ground. It was Hallad's fault. His
fault she was in this mess. His fault her daughter faced danger. Warm tears
spilled over her cheeks. Rocking back and forth, she wept, fixing Hallad's face
into her mind.

The cold ground nipped
at her feet, oozing through her leather soles.
Fire. Got to make a fire. S
he
unwound her muscles, stretching them, wiping her face with the back of a gloved
hand. She was too old for this—too old and too frail. A woman's job was in the
home, safe and warm, counting silver for one's husband, directing thralls and
expanding lands by bearing daughters.

She fumbled with the
firewood, her numb fingers unwilling to grab hold.

It has been worse
, she thought. The first few nights she didn't
know how to start a fire at all. It wasn’t her inability to produce a spark,
but to keep the fire fed. A puff of wind would come out of the nordr and blow
her meager flames out. It took nights of experimentation before she managed
enough heat to warm her hands and toes. Menial chores had been left to the
thralls and she’d never paid any attention when they were performed, but the
cool nights made her wish she had.

She was ignorant in many
ways, and Lord Lothar would come to her in her dreams and remind her, taunting
her. "What a useless goat I’ve chosen. You will never perform the task
I’ve set for you." Then Lothar would allow a brief flash of her daughter's
sweet face, a sleeping rose against soft covers. Other times Emma would appear
weeping, pleading into the dark night. Those times her heart would quicken at
the desperate image and she’d sob at the catastrophe she had caused.

Nei
, she thought.
Hallad has caused this.

All those years Avarr
had forced her to pretend to be his mother. All those years he showed
favoritism to his son. All those years Avarr had held Hallad’s mother in his
heart, pushing Thyre away. She had intended to set Emma up with a position
worthy of her status. Worthy of her beauty. Queen to a god.

Striking flint against
her knife produced bright sparks, igniting the dead wood. She hoped the fire
would be small enough to go unnoticed, but still keep animals at bay. Until
now, Hallad hadn’t known she pursued him. Following him to the Temple had been
easy, since she had known his destination. The rough had tracked the small
party after Birka, but now she could only count on herself. And she’d nearly
been nabbed for her efforts.

Thyre examined her
knife. The slick blade glinted in the firelight. Merchant’s Row had produced a
variety of weaponry and poisons, none of which she knew how to use. Poison
required too intimate a contact. She had pondered joining them, but Hallad
would have too many inquiries she would not be deft enough to evade. She had
decided surprise was her best bet.

Running her finger
across the blade caused her chest to constrict. She'd never killed. Not even a
pig or chicken. Yet her daughter's fate rested in her hands. She had gone this
far, lost this much. She would show Lothar she was no feeble-minded woman. She
would succeed in this task.

Hallad Avarson sat
upright in his bedroll and shook the haze from his head. He had dozed longer
than he intended. In fact, he had slept harder than the time he wrangled one
too many horns of mead at his father's table.

The women already busied
themselves with morning chores, except for Swan. He sensed her in the distance.
Troubles plagued her presence. Though he realized blaming her for Erik, Emma
and his father teetered on cruelty, he couldn’t fight the thoughts inundating
him and he knew his blame upset her.

However, the night’s
rest had cleared his mind and lifted his mood. He stretched his limbs with
renewed vigor. Had the priestess and her apprentice tainted his drink with
seidr-craft to make him sleep? He had once listened to Rolf recite the
Lay
of the All-Father,
Odin’s Advice to Live By
where even the gods
warned of women's wiles.

The priestess poked the
ground with her gnarled stick, the black cat-skin glistening with traces of
frost.

"Our visitor
appears to have fewer manners than you, my lad, as they have not shown up for
our morning meal." Her age-faded eyes twinkled whenever she spoke as if a
joke hid behind her speech.

"I don't believe
we'd enjoy their company at any rate," Hallad replied as he stood, the
aroma of Gisla’s herbed pork spurring him to grab a portion and gorge himself.

"Yet before our
travels have ended, I expect to meet our mysterious friend," said the priestess.

At the smell of Gisla’s
cooking, Swan returned. Even Hallad’s unjust treatment couldn’t stay her
appetite. Half the hank devoured, Swan reached for second and third helpings. Ase
winked at Gisla as she noted Swan’s enthusiasm for her meal.

"We'll be leaving
the main road and traveling into the heart of the IronWood. Best wear your
toughest cowhides as the ground is unfriendly in these parts," announced
the priestess as she finished her food and set about packing.

"I have heard many
tales of the dark forest." Hallad paused. "About valkyries."

"Tales is what you
have heard. Probably to keep you close to your nana's nightshirt." Ase
twiddled her stick in a circle. "Valkyries do not exist. They are a myth. The
rumors trace back to drengmaers, warrior women.  But they are not fictional
creatures of a false god. These women dutifully serve the one true Goddess. There
are many beliefs you hold that have nei bit of truth. Open your eyes, lad, and
you will see what is real. Now, by the Norns, we've need to make haste and good
measure before light fails us this eve."

*****

The day wore on, long
and weary. A chill settled over the land, the sun unable to penetrate the haze
hanging above them. The nordr wind whipped, causing Hallad's mantle to flap, an
ocean of linen and leather strapped around his neck, held in check by his
father's signet. He still considered the clasp as such—the godhi's, not his. Thor
sweated under his load, the thick wool beneath his saddle soaked despite the
pinch of coldness. Hallad took to leading the gelding for long stretches. Swan
led Windrunner as well, keeping pace with the priestess and her apprentice,
while Hallad lagged behind.

Ase rode aback a hearty
mule, pointing her stick at different foliage, instructing Gisla in either
seidr-craft or herbs. Hallad had no desire to know which; both crafts belonged
solely to women. Swan kept her back to him without ever looking his direction.

They veered off the main
road and took a path no wider than a deer track. Hallad worried that if his
tracker still followed, the narrowness of the trail would allow for an ambush. The
trail ended and they picked their way through undergrowth, all four leading
their mounts between the trees. The depth of IronWood stretched onward, a maze
of oak, elm and evergreens.

The light faltered the
further they traveled into the dense forest, darkening their surroundings. Hallad’s
skin pricked. Gisla jumped at every birdcall. Even Swan stiffened as she guided
the gelding along by his reins. Only Ase seemed unaffected.

They traveled deeper. The
trill of birdcall echoed. A chipmunk barked. A squirrel chittered. The ordinary
noises should have calmed Hallad. Instead, his back stiffened and he imagined
eyes upon their group. He searched the tangle of branches, spotting a ruffling
of leaves. He tensed, unsheathing his sword from its scabbard with a smooth
ring.

"Put that away boy!"
Ase warned.

"We are being
watched," Hallad replied, his hand steady on his hilt.

"Of course we are
being watched. I said to sheath your sword."

Her order infuriated
him. Even though the division between Swan and himself widened, he intended to
honor his father’s command and protect her with his life.

The priestess rotated
her head toward him, her scolding eyes calling him a foolish boy.

Hallad reluctantly
encased the sword, but kept his palm ready on the hilt. The priestess raised
her fingers to her mouth, the green of her sleeves blending into the forest
around them. A high-pitched birdcall whistled from her lips, followed by a
series of dove coos.

Within a blink, the
forest livened. Fierce women materialized from the surrounding trees, moss
paint smudging their faces. Dark leather trousers and jerkins studded in metal
donned muscular bodies, while lioness skins draped as cloaks over powerful
shoulders. All carried arms. The warrior women, drengmaers Hallad assumed,
circled the group then stood in pairs, back to back.

The shortest and meanest
looking of their number marched forward, approaching Ase. The woman’s cropped
red hair spiked toward the canopy of trees, elongating her stubby face. Behind
her shadowed a towering drengmaer, her ruddy freckles peering through the
camouflage of tint smeared over her jutting cheeks and nose. Her breadth spread
as large as any man’s. She hooked her hazel eyes on Hallad like she had spotted
a prized pork on market day.

Despite all of Hallad’s
mistreatment, Swan slid to his side without a sound, ready to leap at any of
the drengmaers alongside him. The loyalty of his twin sunk in. Since departing
from Steadsby, Swan had remained his only ally. His growing resentment toward
her dissolved.

The leader grunted in a
strange language. Ase answered back in the same clan-speak. After an exchange
of unintelligible words, the leader bowed to the priestess, stretching her
torch-colored hair toward her knees. The other drengmaers followed suit, bowing
low. Then, all the women straightened upright and beat their fists to their
chests in unison.

The leader shifted her
attention to Hallad. A heated discussion erupted between the commanding
drengmaer and Ase. Although Hallad did not understand their words, he figured
the argument stemmed from his presence, since the drengmaer gestured in his
direction and Ase supplied his name and lineage to the warrior. As the
drengmaer’s tone peaked, Ase returned a level reply, stopping the woman
mid-speech. The drengmaer examined Hallad, studying him head to boots. Her
smirk caused Hallad’s muscles to twinge. Then the woman threw her head backward
and snorted with laughter.

In response to Ase’s
words and their leader’s amusement, all the drengmaers turned lusty eyes upon
Hallad. He felt a pinch on his buttocks and jumped, spinning to find his
attacker. The freckle-faced giantess stalked behind him, licking her lips at
him like a wolf discovering a sheep wandering from its herd. Within an instant,
the tip of Swan’s blade sliced in front of Hallad to block the leering women
from him. A breath later, Swan followed with her body, placing herself squarely
between Hallad and the drengmaers. She drew a quick arc with her sword until
the tip pointed outward at his aggressor.

The slick sound of steel
against steel followed, as the clan all drew their weapons and trained them on
Swan. Hallad’s breath caught in his lungs, the stillness of the combatants
accentuated by the silence of the IronWood.

Then the drengmaers
exploded into hearty guffaws, snorting, howling, and slapping one another’s
shoulders. The enormous freckle-faced woman crossed the short distance, placing
her palms on Swan’s sword, her gaze reassuring as she lowered Swan’s weapon. Hallad
felt a current of calmness enter his twin.

The massive woman turned
on him. "Hallad, son of Avarr, Godhi of Steadsby, this is Rota, Head
Drengmaer and Sword Bearer of the Lion Clan, honored Guardians of the Way, and
sal drengmaer to Olrun." She waved toward the leader. She smiled, more
fierce than friendly and thumped her fist on her chest. "The sal drengmaer
that I speak of would be me."

Sal drengmaer.
The female version of sal drengrs—the bond Ase
had proclaimed for Swan and Hallad. Hallad studied the women while he bowed,
unsure of how to react when introduced to a sal drengmaer, but his efforts were
foiled as another woman prodded his behind, knocking him off balance.

Olrun bellowed again as
Hallad’s face heated. Swan pressed closer to Hallad, arm against arm. Rota tightened
her lips, her hard face like cracked rocks.

Rota gestured to another
drengmaer, signaling the warriors to disperse. Hallad watched as a pair broke away
and jogged off into the tangle of branches, disappearing into the forest. Then,
as if they herded cattle, the clan pressed in around Hallad, Swan, Gisla and
Ase.

"What goes on here?"
Hallad demanded of the priestess.

"We travel to the
heart of IronWood, to the Sacred Groves, Freyja’s Hearth."

"Why is that a
jest?" Hallad asked.

"It is not," Ase
replied.

"Then why do they
laugh?"

"Nei ordinary man
is allowed in the clan’s hearth. The general populace of the clan does not know
of the importance of the Savior and her Guardian, and your existence is a
legend. The knowledge of your birth remains secreted with the Priestesses of
the Way." Ase's lips pursed, suppressing a smile. She leaned close,
whispering, "I had to tell a slight fib."

Hallad frowned. "What
kind of fib?"

"I told them you
were to be the Serpent Mother’s consort."

"Her what?" Hallad
asked, confused.

"Hush," the priestess
replied, a bony finger over her lips. Her eyes twinkled like Loki after a prank
on the gods. "Her consort, my lad, would mean her lover."

Hallad’s entire body
sizzled with embarrassment. "By the gods, priestess, what humiliation do
you have in store for me next?"

No sooner than Hallad
stated the words, two drengmaers closed in behind him and secured a black cloth
over his eyes. A surge of panic rose in his gut, but it wasn’t his own; Swan
scuffled by his side.

"Now, now, my girl,"
Ase soothed, "all is fine. You wait and see."

"Where are we
going?"

Rolf stuck his nose
high, surveying the miles of frosted grass crunching under their mounts’
hooves. Each morning the frost remained on the ground a bit longer, leaving
rings of brown on the buds attempting to mature. Each morning Rolf asked the
same question.

Erik growled under his
breath, but in truth, he wished he could answer his little brother. His nights
remained under siege with visions—visions he could not explain, visions he knew
to be real—more real than his own flesh and blood. And Emma’s sweet face
lingered in every one of them, calling him, crying out for him. Sometimes her
wide gray eyes appeared before him swollen with tears, her soft lips mouthing
his name in the darkness. Other times a distant glaze captured her gaze as if
her insides were numb.

Erik also caught
glimpses of the man. They called him Lord Lothar. The lord talked of war
between lands Erik didn't recognize, and of his Lord, Master of the Shadow.

The dreams drew him
toward Emma, so when he sank into the void of sleeplessness he sought them,
even though they wore him down and dragged him into an abyss of tiredness and
depression—in return, they allowed him to sense in his waking world which
direction to take toward Emma.

Erik tightened his hands
around his reins. Though his little brother infuriated him with his
shenanigans, he wouldn't trade Rolf’s loyalty for all the gold in Valhalla. He
closed his eyes for a long moment, riding blindly on his mount's muscled back,
the steady rhythm of the black’s haunches thumping beneath him.

"I could use a warm
bed," Rolf complained. "The nights have been nippy."

The younger brother tugged
his scarlet cloak tight around his neck as the sun dipped, announcing night
would soon follow. By all calculations, spring should have been upon them, yet
frost still lingered on the fields and the days seemed no longer.

"
Ja
, brother, it would be a comfort."

Erik smiled, letting
weariness roll from his shoulders. He reached over and rubbed his fist over his
brother's ember-colored head.

"Watch it!"
Rolf yelled, bobbing to escape his grasp.

Erik laughed.

"Perhaps we'll find
a village shortly. There were herd tracks behind us and the path is well
traveled in these parts."