EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (84 page)

I will not give up. I will not give up on you my love.

Soon, Erik peeled Rolf away with protests on all ends.
 

“We need to get some rest brother.”

Rolf incited his audience to ask for another round of stories. Erik resorted to raised eyebrows to cow Rolf, who pouted before resigning. Hummel offered them space in the longhouse but Erik declined, insisting the barn suited them fine. Rolf glowered at their sleeping arrangements, but in his drunken state Erik didn’t trust him in a house full of women—full-breasted women—and Ginna, a beautiful young woman. When at last they settled on the hay floor in the barn, Rolf collapsed in a heap of drunkenness.

“Did you see the knockers on that older one?”

“Go to sleep, Rolf.”

Rolf curled up, adjusting his mantle.
 

“Did you see the young one with the humongous bottom?”

“Hush brother.”

“And Ginna, mmm, Ginna!”

“Shush. Sleep.”

“Ginna’s the kind of girl worth losing your neck for!”

“Do you mean that?” said a meek voice.

Startled, Erik twisted around. Rolf turned slower, tangling himself in a mess of fresh hay. Ginna peered at them from the door. Rolf attempted to stand and bow, bumbling around until he settled for sitting upright.

“Ah, Ginna. Your presence is . . . “

The girl scrambled to his side, hitching her skirts up over her knees to sit in the hay next to him.
 

“Do you mean it?” she pressed. “Truly. Do you mean it?”

“I mean . . . “ Rolf stammered.

“You’d better get back to the longhouse.” Erik said as he stood and grabbed Ginna by the wrist.
 

She fought him off like a mountain lion. Erik threw his hands in the air.
 

Eh gods, Rolf. What have you gotten into now?

“Take me with you. Please. Don’t leave me here. By the Goddess, I’m cursed by Freyja if I stay with eight sisters ahead of me for marriage,” she pleaded, her large sky colored eyes paled only in comparison to her pillow soft lips.
 

Then she pressed those lips to Rolf’s. Rolf, of course, complied.

Chapter XVII

“G
INNA
!”
 

E
VERYONE
SWUNG
TO
THE
direction of the bellow. Hummel blocked the door, carrying a pitchfork in his hand. The goodwife glowered behind him. Ginna moved quicker than a startled doe, but Rolf just smiled his toothy grin.

“Why good sir, your daughter here—“

“Unless yah intend to be bound by the marriage ribbon here and now and take the oath of the Goddess, yah best be off my land before I count to ten.” The farmer pounded his pitchfork to the ground.

Erik grabbed his brother by his tunic, scrambling for their belongings with the other hand.
 

“Get on your horse, Rolf.”

“One.” The farmer stamped the fork on the ground. “Two.”

Erik saddled his black and afterwards Rolf’s mare too, since his inebriated brother’s fumbling efforts with the saddle only resulted in his falling over backward each time he tried to throw it across the mare’s back.

Ginna dashed in front of her father.
 

“Father, nei! I’m going with him!”

“Nonsense!”
 

He pushed her backward, into her mother’s arms. She wrestled against the older woman’s grip, thrashing.

“I’m going! Do you hear me?” She wept as she sunk down to her knees. “Rolf. Please.”

Erik shoved Rolf up onto his mare; then Erik clambered onto his own horse. Rolf attempted to steady himself in his saddle, wobbling like a bottle bobbing on the waves. Hummel parted the heavy wood doors enough for them to pass, counting under his breath.
 

“Three. Four. Five. Six.”

Ginna sat on the ground, staring at Rolf with disbelief as he rode by.
 

“Please. Oh, by the Goddess, please.” Tears streaked her summer skin.

“Seven. Eight. Nine.”

The moon hung low, encircled with fog. Erik kicked his mare into a trot. Rolf followed, bobbling around in his seat. The brisk air encouraged them to pick up their pace and they broke into a canter across the field, Ginna’s sobs echoing against their backs.

“Ten!” called Hummel behind them.

The dark night enveloped them and a chill settled in Erik’s bones.
 

“Holy Valhalla, brother.”

“What?” Rolf stammered, nodding from side to side, Idunn snorting under his weight.

“Now look what you’ve gotten us into. You might as well have sung dirty songs and gotten it over with.”
 

Erik slapped the back of the black with his reins. She tightened her haunches, unwilling to move any faster.

“We got dinner,” Rolf slurred.

Erik’s mare suddenly stopped short, refusing to go on.
 

“Now, what?” Erik mumbled. He lowered himself to the ground, patting the big black’s neck. Erik had learned from Emma to always trust an animal’s instincts. Always. The horse bucked backward. Erik gripped the reins tightly, pulling her nose down.
 

“Easy Beyla, easy.”

Erik tugged the beast along by the leather straps for a hundred paces, laboring in the dark, Rolf’s mare following until the black balked out of Erik’s control.

Rolls of gray mist swirled. Rolf blurred in the haze, a silhouetted figure, as he slid from Idunn, catching his foot in the stirrup as he dismounted.
 

“Whoa!” Rolf landed with a thud on the ground.
 

Idunn twitched her head up and down with nervous excitement, hide quivering in the darkness.

“Hush.” Erik held out his hand in the congealing mist. His ears pricked. Footsteps sounded close by, crunching over the rough ground. “Stay here. And stay out of trouble.”

Unsure of his footing, Erik walked in a wide circle around his brother and the horses, while Rolf tried to right himself on the ground. The rocky soil made for dangerous footholds as the Skaggs loomed before them like giants in the fog. Erik listened, peering out into night. Though he couldn’t see a soul, goose bumps punctuated his skin. His hand tightened on the hilt of his broadsword. A thump sounded nearby, followed by a muffled grunt.

Erik rushed back to where he’d left Rolf and the horses. Beyla whinnied. Idunn pounded her hoof against the ground. Erik searched the area for Rolf, but his younger brother had vanished.

“Rolf!” Erik called. “Rolf. Where are you?”
 

Erik threw up his hands, unable to discern if Rolf was missing and in trouble or simply drunk and passed out. Then he glimpsed movement. A burlap bag swung from a nearby tree branch, twitching.

“Great gods Rolf! Now you’ve gotten yourself tied up in a bear trap!” Erik laughed, relaxing, tramping over to the bag and poking at it with an outstretched finger. “Brother, what will you get yourself into next?”

Rolf’s muffled voice answered, too jumbled to understand.

The scampering of feet sounded behind him—footsteps scrambling across ground. Erik spun, unsheathing his sword, wielding the blade in the air. A sting pricked the back of his neck. He reached around to investigate and produced a small arrow, tip covered in blood—his blood. He squinted, trying to focus, but the landscape clouded around him. He spun, unable to grasp the leering faces as they sauntered toward him. Before he could react, a net soared through the air, casting over Erik. He brandished his sword, but blackness inflated from the edges of his vision. He fell, his knees knocking against the rocky ground. Hands prodded him. Laughter rang in his ears. He struggled against them until darkness seized him.

Chapter XVIII

L
IGHT
SHONE
THROUGH
AN
IMMENSE
window, lighting sun-kissed strands of Emma’s hair. She lay prostrated across a mass of indigo blankets, her head buried in the crook of her arms. Her back rose in quakes.

Erik’s vision of Emma appeared so real that he smelled the light scent of linnea flowers on her—his sight so clear, he thought he could reach out and stroke her hair, caress the strands like satin through his fingers. Since the night Swan had entered into his dream, the visions had reduced to rapid-fire snatches of images and Erik could not hold on to them. But now they played before him as if he stood in the room with his beloved.

Erik reached out to stroke Emma, his specter-like hand passing clean through her tresses. The dream captured him in a way like never before, more a prisoner than spectator. Or had he died? Become a draugr doomed to walk between worlds? He sloughed off his worry, realizing whether a dream or death, he edged a step closer to his beloved.

A sob escaped from Emma. He wanted to reach out to her, to sooth her.

“Emma?” he asked.

Emma turned. Her eyes, swollen red and brimming with tears, searched the air. A purplish spot ballooned from her cheek, puckering around the fleshy part of her lip. Erik tightened his hands into fists.
 

Who? Who had harmed her?
 

His temple pounded and he realized he possessed physical sensations in this dream.

Emma’s water-rimmed eyes stared through him, blank, unseeing.

“Emma. I’m here.”
 

Erik reached for her again, but she turned her head toward a tap upon the door instead. A woman’s humming followed, and the stone of the door slid open. A middle-aged woman lumbered through the room with a platter and decanter, her roundness reminding Erik of Emma’s first nursemaid.

Emma wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands, sniffling.

“Master Lothar requires your presence.” The woman emphasized “master” as if it left a bad taste on her tongue.

Emma turned toward the window, the light catching the water in her eyes. Erik focused, forcing his apparition-like figure to float toward Emma. He tried to take hold of her tear-stained face in his hands, managing a handful of air instead.

“Tell him I’m ill,” said Emma.

“Come, child.” The rotund woman planted a free fist on her hip, balancing the ornate platter and decanter in the other. Erik remembered Hallad stating women were born with their hands on their hips. “I’m afraid that won’t do. You don’t want to tempt his anger.”

The tears spilled from Emma’s eyes as she stared out the window. Beyond the marble pane, lush trees lined a trim yard—the grass sheered so short Erik figured they must own hundreds of goats to keep the lawn manicured.

Emma took solace in the view. She tightened her jaw.
 

“Nei, of course I wouldn’t want to anger him.”

“It’s best this way mistress. You’ll see.”

Emma kept her back to the woman. After the woman set the platter down on the mantle, she poured a glass of cherry-colored liquid. Emma’s shoulders bunched at the tinkling sound, but kept her sight locked on the far scenery.

Erik’s arms ached—if only he could touch her, hold her, tell her all would be right.

The serving woman waddled across the room, rounding the stone bed with a cup gripped in her fist. Emma’s breath stopped as the woman’s heels clicked against the floor, but her eyes never wandered from the window, watching a blue-gray backed falcon reel through the sky. The serving woman positioned the cup in front of Emma.

“Master Lothar wishes you to drink this.”

“I will not.” Emma’s lips quivered.

The woman pleaded, “You must mistress. Life will be easier for you.”

Emma refused, shaking her head.

“For the sake of the Mother, child, drink, or it will be my folly as well as yours.”

Emma turned and her face fell into a blanket of compassion.
 

“Forgive me, Bera. I did not realize you would risk danger over my behavior.”

“Shush child.”
 

The woman fidgeted, glancing down to examine the tiles in the floor, holding the cup further out toward Emma.

Emma acquiesced. She took the cup in her hand, placing the glass against her lips. The servant bowed her head, unable or unwilling to watch. Erik swiped his hand at the goblet, but it only passed through as if he didn’t exist.

Emma hesitated. “Do you think you could give me a moment to fix myself before we go?”

The servant raised her lids, searching Emma’s face, and then nodded.
 

“Do not be long.”

A tight smile stretched Emma’s lips. The servant hurried from the room with the tray. She hummed and the door closed behind her. Erik wondered how the heavy stone door worked, but couldn’t figure out a logical explanation. Emma sprung to the window, whistling through her teeth. In answer to her call, the falcon circled once before landing.

“Hello, my spotted friend.”

The bird cocked his head back and forth. Emma sat the goblet on the ledge and cooed. To Erik’s surprise, the falcon responded by clutching the goblet in its beak. The creature flapped, heaving his wings under the extra weight, then flew off toward the tree line.

Images spiraled in Erik’s head as he tried to figure how Emma commanded the creature. He thought of Emma on the Green cuddling a barn cat, a swallow perched upon her knee as they lounged at Frey’s Festival, Avarr’s fiery gelding bending to Emma’s touch and how she tamed the swan girl. He wondered at his love with new curiosity.

Before long, Emma’s feathered friend sailed back. Emma stretched out her arm as the bird landed, catching his talons in the material of her dress. She removed the empty goblet from the falcon’s beak and cooed to him, smiling.
 

Nuzzling her lips into his feathers, she whispered, “Thank you.”
 

She dismissed him with a click of her tongue and straightened the blue velvet of the gown clinging to her curves.

Emma headed toward the door and rapped upon the stone. A low hum answered her; the massive door swung open. The corridor stretched before them and Erik strained to follow. When he attempted to use his legs and arms to propel himself his progress slowed. So he thought himself forward and discovered he floated along like a twig in a stream.