EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (82 page)

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.

Chapter XIV

H
ALLAD
A
VARSON
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.”

Chapter XV

“W
HERE
ARE
WE
GOING
?”
 

R
OLF
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.