EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (83 page)

“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.”

Rolf scanned the skyline. The Skaggs jutted in the distance, mighty jagged giants.

“Smoke,” said Rolf as he pointed a finger out to the vestr where a spiral of white lazily reached toward the clouds.

“Perhaps we’ll have a warm bed after all.”
 

The guilt of Rolf’s presence distressed Erik and in the same breath that he wished him home and safe, he was thankful his brother stood by his side—especially after Hallad’s betrayal.

In the days after leaving Hallad, Erik’s anger won over and he found himself exploding at Rolf for minor offenses, especially when he discovered Hallad had gifted his brother with a small silver coffer for supplies. Erik refused to use the coin, though, doubling back to Birka and forcing Rolf to trade his sculptures for bedrolls and provisions. Rolf soured at the suggestion until he discovered how much his artwork purchased. He had earned his bragging rights and was not shy about reminding Erik of his skill—comparing his ability to the mythic dwarves—making Erik wish they’d done without.

Once out of Birka’s valley, Rolf had blurted, “Guess who I saw at the docks!”
 

They’d played this game on the way to the priestess’s Temple, but no one had acknowledged him. Erik felt obligated by his brother’s faithfulness to finally indulge his brother.

“Thyre!” Rolf had exclaimed. “The godhi’s wife!” He had said again, waiting for recognition to spark.

“Was she alone?”
 

“She made a deal with a rough at the port. Saw her trading a velvet pouch. I’d bet the godhi’s wife had a pound of silver. Probably spent her husband’s entire year’s profits on jewels and charms.”

Erik had struggled with the desire to turn tail and tell Hallad, but in the end the drive toward Emma won out. Now they traveled toward the foothills of the Skaggs.

“Brother.” Erik looked at Rolf sideways. “Have you ever heard of a magic that could see into the realm of the gods?”

“I have at least ten lays on the subject alone.” Rolf swept back his mantle, but Erik raised his hand to stop him from launching into a tale.

“What have you heard?”

Rolf frowned. “Why?”

“Forget it.”
 

Erik jabbed the black with the back of his boots, quickening his steed’s pace.

Kicking Idunn into sync, Rolf trotted up next to Erik, a perplexed frown creasing his lips.
 

“The tales speak of a place called Upsalla. Priests hold the ability to see into the land of the gods, to see across nations. Some say even to see into the hearts of men.”

Erik listened, focusing on the column of smoke rising before them.
 

“Do you think it’s true?”

“True? By a scald’s own words, I’d stake my life on it.” Rolf paused, fingering his sparse beard. “But that’s not the whole of Upsalla. Upsalla is ruled by a priest. The priest claims a man’s soul through blood sacrifice in exchange for the power to see into dreams and other worlds. They hang their sacrifices upon a tree before the bloodletting. It is said to be a gruesome scene.”

The sun sunk over the Skaggs and a crisp evening breeze kept the horses at a quick trot.
 

“Is it like seidr-craft?”

“By the gods, nei! It’s not women’s magic, though I’ve heard of tales of valkyries who can touch dreams and shift shapes and such, I doubt it is the same. Why do you ask?”

“Nei reason,” Erik assured him.
 

But Rolf’s statements confirmed Erik’s belief—his visions of Emma were real. Though the thought of possessing such a power sent a rivulet of revulsion throughout his body, the knowledge also provided hope.

A shabby longhouse appeared in the distance. The family of such a meager dwelling would have little to share, but Erik’s stomach fouled at the idea of one more night of Rolf’s burnt meals. Eating his shoe leather after a hundred league march held more appeal.

“Our host’s table will be modest tonight, brother. We’ll have to lend a strong arm for our accommodations.”

Rolf frowned, lifting his long hands from his reins, examining them.
 

“You want these hands to do menial labor?” He raised his brow, acting as if Erik had asked him to clean the privy.

“It won’t kill you.”

“You think not?” Rolf stretched his arms, palms forward, toward Erik. “These are the hands of an artist!”

The sides of Erik’s lips puckered until he burst into laughter.

“You think that is a jest?” Rolf tilted his nose to the breeze. “You didn’t think it was so humorous when my carvings bought our bedrolls.”

“Well then, brother.” Erik squeezed out words between his guffaws. “Or Master Craftsman Extraordinaire,” he said, with a mocking sweep of his arm. “What would you have us do for our dinner?”

“As any man. Buy it.”

Erik’s brows shot up in warning.

“What would you have me do with all this silver?”

“I told you once. I will not use
his
coin!”

A pregnant silence swelled between them. The horses quickened their gait at the scent of burning wood. Two weathered longhouses with straw-thatched roofs sat in a clearing. Over a dozen head of cattle and sheep roamed beyond the structures, bowing their heads to the yellow grass beneath. A hungry dog barked at their arrival, positioned in the middle of their path.

“I will sing for my supper.” Rolf cleared his throat, testing his voice with a resonant, “La, la, la!”

Erik chuckled again, and then conceded. “They wouldn’t get much entertainment in these parts. You may even do.”

“I will at that.” Rolf sang low in his throat. “I love to go swimmin’ with bow-legged women, and swim between their—“

“Rolf!” Erik yelled.

“What?”

“Stick to the classic lays!”

“Why?” He asked, still humming his bawdy tune.

“Because, I don’t want to be chased into the foothills before nightfall!” Erik arched his brows again.
 

Rolf gave in, letting his melody disappear into the air.

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“I’ll stick to the lays.”

“The lays,” Erik confirmed.

Two figures appeared out of the longhouse: a middle-aged woman cloaked in stiff woolens, and a man bent from years of hard labor.

“Ho there strangers.” The man raised his hand in greetings. “Where do you travel?”

“We are headed for the Skagg foothills, but require a goodly rest and warm ale, perhaps even a night’s rest before we move on,” replied Erik.

The man grimaced. The woman clung to his side.
 

“Headed to the foothills, you say?” The man hesitated.

“Ja,” Erik replied, shifting in his saddle.

The man’s face clouded with apprehension. A scowl crossed over the woman as she glanced at the Skaggs a league in the distance.

“Of course you’re most welcome to the bounty of our table.”
 

The man gestured them inward.

Dismounting, Erik tossed the reins over the head of the black, patting her across her withers. Rolf grinned, hopping off his mare. Idunn snorted, tossing her head in the air, eager for a rub down.

“One of my daughters will tend to your beasts.” The man’s frown released and he threw his hands up. “I have nine. Nine daughters.”

Rolf whispered, “Oh, I love to go swimmin’ with bow-legged women.”

“Rolf,” Erik warned.

“I know, I know. Stick to the lays.”

Chapter XVI

“W
HERE
ABOUTS
IN
THE
FOOTHILLS
are yah headed?” The farmer furrowed his forehead. His knuckles protruded from his tight grip on his spoon as he dipped into the runny porridge.

Rolf worked his jaw uselessly for a moment, eyeing one of the farmer’s robust daughters as she passed the table with a mead horn, filling each man’s glass to the brim.

“Vestr then nordr.” Erik sopped up his own soup with crusted bread, sandwiching the mush in order to plop the salty concoction into his mouth without dribbling.

“Ever traveled those parts before?”
 

The old man clanked his spoon in the bowl, motioning for more from another daughter, who, exhibiting a high and full bosom, flounced around the table with a kettle. Rolf ogled her too.

“Nei,” replied Erik. “Never been so far from home before.”

The farmer bent over the table, leaning toward the young men.
 

“If you don’t mind me saying, and I be one to keep to myself and knows how to keep me mouth closed, but best yah boys pack up your bags and head on back to your papa.” The man continued, “Not that I’m tellin’ yah what to do, but—“

“Hummel!” The farmer’s plump wife rounded on her husband. “That wouldn’t be proper talk for our guests.” She bowed her head, as if excusing herself in court. “I beg your pardon, my husband’s never been off the farm and isn’t accustomed to strangers, though I assure you our home is just as hospitable as the fine city you young men must be from.” She smiled, offering up a missing tooth. “And my daughters all have proper manners. Ginna, come here!”

A young girl crossed the room, her eyes light as a summer sky with hair of spun honey. Ginna flashed a shy smile at Rolf while her mother adjusted her maiden’s frock, pulling the girl tight to her side.
 

“This is a fine a girl as any in the city, don’t you think?”

Ginna muttered under her breath to her mother.

The farmer’s wife scolded her, “Nonsense. Straighten up and smile.”

Rolf rose his tin cup in the air. “Cheers to Ginna!”

“Here, here.” The father clanked his cup against Rolf’s.

Erik fixed a cautionary stare on his little brother—but Rolf didn’t even notice; his attention was preoccupied with the prettiest of the nine daughters.

Erik returned his thoughts to the farmer. “What do you mean we should go on home?”

“Hummel!” The goodwife scowled, batting at her husband with the strings of her white apron.

“Nei, woman. They should know.” The farmer frowned, the creases in his haggard face collapsing into canyons. His wife glowered at his rebuke and fiddled with the hem of Ginna’s frock.

“Go on,” Erik prodded.

“The foothills. They be nei place for any folk.”

The goodwife took to plating Ginna’s long hair as Rolf continued to admire the young woman from across the table. The goodwife grinned in response, once again baring her missing tooth.

“Are the foothills dangerous?” Erik leaned forward, urging the farmer on.

The farmer whispered, “It be the Spirit Hills.”

“The Spirit Hills?”

“Ja.” He lowered his voice another notch, switching his eyes sideways. “There be a saying that Nei man returns from the Spirit Hills. If you have nei business there, then it be best to go home. The Skaggs are not for strangers.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Maybe not, brother,” Rolf interrupted though his gaze remained on Ginna. “There are stories about the Skaggs. One of which—“

“Enough stories.” Erik swiveled his head toward Hummel. “What facts do you have? What proof? I have business there and do not intend to turn around.”

“Ho, boy. Yah do be a guest in my home,” Hummel warned.

“I mean nei offense. But speak to me of what you know. Not what you hear.” Erik lowered his hands on the table, loosening his fists. Emma’s face flashed. His voice quieted to a plea. “It’s important to me.”

The farmer continued, “It be a dark place, the mountains. Filled with the spirits of the dark ones. The little ones. They stole one of our own, they did. A long time back. Was my brother’s child. And the shadow-things ran off with him in the night. Just as well, I suppose. The babe be not right—“

“Hummel!” The goodwife swatted at her husband’s back.

“He do have a right to know.”

“Do not bring shame upon our house,” she said as she lifted her hands, covering Ginna’s ears as if she were a child. Ginna’s already pink cheeks reddened at her mother’s protection. “I won’t have it. Not in front of the girls.”

The farmer lowered his head, giving way to his wife then turned back to Erik.
 

“Be about your business quick like a jack rabbit. Turn your back to nei one. Be out before dark. That’s when the shadow-spawn do their bidding.” His cough caught in his throat, causing his wife to pound on his back, motioning for one of his full-breasted daughters to pour more mead.

Hummel drank in gulps, between gasps. He cleared his throat, clapping his hands.

“Enough. I done spoke enough.” Hummel directed his speech toward Rolf. “Now, my daughters never have the pleasure of a scald’s performance. We be obliged to a story.”

Rolf grinned, standing and straightening his tunic, then swirling his mantle. With a wink in Ginna’s direction, he began to recite
The Marriage of Thor
.

Erik rolled his eyes.
At least he stuck to a classic lay.

The evening wore on with rounds of honey-sweet mead that Erik was sure would tax the farmer’s supplies for months, yet Rolf made no effort to curtail his drinking. He’d recited four lays, all to laughter and applause.

Ginna warmed and Rolf’s advances grew bold. Rolf’s consideration for the youngest daughter encouraged the goodwife and she spurred her daughters to cater to both men, though Erik did not take any note of them. His memory filled with the subtle scent of linnea flowers and summer days spread out on the Green with Emma, a sparrow chirping near her and her laughter echoing off the aged trees of the Great Wood. He held his hand to his chest, fingering the metal key resting under his shift.