EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (87 page)

“Your sister asks that you bring the man,” said one of the twins.

Olrun nodded.
 

Hallad studied the identical twins as they mirrored one another. They turned and disappeared into the forest. Olrun slurped one last swig of mead before capping her flask with reluctance.
 

“Come on, farm boy. Let’s see what trouble you’ve brought.”

“Trouble?”

“Ja. Trouble. Where there’s a man, there’s trouble.”
 

She laughed heartily, amused with her own joke. Hallad replied by pressing his lips in a tight line. Swan stood. Hallad assumed Swan would follow, but instead she settled down amongst her bedding, removed her sword from its scabbard and fingered the tree at its hilt, losing herself in the design.

Olrun and Hallad stalked off into the forest until they entered into a clearing where a fire roared in its center. Hallad struggled to sense Swan’s presence. After becoming so accustomed to her, the lack of her emotions inside him caused the empty hole from his childhood to reopen. He felt she lingered in the distance, but numbly, as if her emotions were closed tighter than a seidr-wife’s pouch.

As Hallad crossed the clearing he noticed a woman tethered to a tree, a rag stuffed in her mouth. The woman’s gold-brown hair strung in clumps around her torn cloak, her eyes swelled from tears. She moaned at the sight of Hallad.

Thyre.

Hallad ran to her, dislodging the dirty cloth from her mouth.
 

“This is my . . . “ Hallad stumbled for the right words to identify her. “Kin. Release her.”

Rota folded her arms across her wide chest. Another drengmaer spoke in her place.
 

“Thieves and spies are all treated alike here.” The drengmaer leaned in, grabbing Thyre’s hair. “What were you trying to do, woman? Steal? Spy?”

Thyre howled, tears streaming down her dirt-stained face.
 

Hallad grasped the drengmaer’s arm, forcing her to release her grip.

“She is the wife of the Godhi of Steadsby and deserves respect.”
 

Even though Thyre had incited his death sentence, Hallad could not bear to see her treated like an animal.

“Station does not outweigh crime.” The drengmaer raised her chin.

Rota tightened her lips like a bucket sealed with whale fat, but she flicked her eyes at the drengmaer, causing the woman to move aside.

Hallad reached around, releasing Thyre’s bonds and pulled her upright.
 

“Stand straight. Do yourself honor.”

Thyre’s face strained as she reached up to tuck strands of her hair back into the knot on top of her head. She smoothed her tattered skirts and limped to the fire. The drengmaers busied themselves with chores at Rota’s direction, though they still minded Hallad and Thyre.

Hallad lowered his voice. His words sounded lifeless.
 

“What are you doing here?”

Thyre twitched back and forth like a scared rabbit, her eyes darting from the fire to the drengmaers.
 

“Come, son. We must leave. These women are—“

“I am not your son.”

Thyre’s eyes flicked between his.
 

“I raised you.”

“And you would have me executed.”

“I . . . “ Her voice cracked. “For Emma. I had to. You don’t understand.” She flung her hands in the air then wrung them within her torn skirts.

“What are you doing here?” Hallad asked again, his voice sinking deeper.

“I had to find you.”

“Why?”

“We need to go. You and me. Get away from these . . . “ She cast an anxious glance at the woman circling the fire.

“So you can bring me back to Steadsby?”

“Nei. Nei. To find Emma.” Fidgeting with her torn hem, Thyre attempted to tie the loose threads of her skirts together.

“What makes you think she’s alive?” Hallad’s voice thundered in his ears.

Thyre sighed, wiping her hand across her dirty face. She hesitated, placing her hands on top of his. Hallad twitched with an urge to snatch them away. He tightened them into fists instead.

“I am sorry. Please forgive me. But now, you must trust me. We must leave here. You and me.”
 

The gentleness in her voice reminded him of Emma. Once, she must have been as kind as her daughter, though the years had stripped her to a hardened core.

“What happened to my father?”

“Nothing. Avarr stayed behind to calm the villagers. He’s waiting for us to return with Emma.”
 

She averted her eyes, dropping her hands from his and continued to fiddle with the loose threads of her skirts.

Hallad breathed heavily, wanting—hoping—to believe her. But he knew she lied. His chest heaved again as he tried to control the sickness slithering inside. His skin pricked as Swan appeared in the distance, a lone wolf watching them, waiting to pounce to his rescue.

Thyre stiffened at her approach.
 

She leaned in to Hallad and whispered, “Meet me tomorrow. I will mark a trail from the camp. There are things I need to tell you, things you must know, but remember these women are evil—the spawn of Loki himself. Meet me. Give your word.”

Hallad nodded, though he had no idea how either of them would sneak off in a camp full of drengmaers. Avarr had taught him to listen to everyone before making a decision, to weigh each side.
Always remember, son, there is nei good or evil, only opposing views.
Even Thyre deserved a chance from him.

Like a white mist, Swan drew in next to him. Thyre’s eyes darted to her, then the women, then the fire.
 

Was she a scared rabbit or a crafty fox?
Hallad wondered.

“Remember you gave your word.” Thyre said as she stood and stalked off, trying to hide her limp. Her face tensed with pain as two drengmaers shadowed her, positioning themselves on either side.

Chapter XXII

“I
F
YOU
ARE
WAITING
FOR
your nana to dress you, farm boy, you’ll wait all day.”
 

Olrun kicked at Hallad’s rump with a booted foot.

Hallad lurched out of his bedroll. The early morning air bit at his exposed chest. Fog lingered; it covered the ground of the IronWood, dimming any light from the sky.

Dressed and waiting, Swan sat across from the cold fire pit like a draugr in the mist, her outline barely visible through the fog. He heard the ting of metal as she sharpened her sword in the same manner Hallad had honed his own.

Olrun poked him with her toe again.
 

“Rise and shine sleepy head.”

Doing his best to ignore the woman, Hallad splashed himself with iced-water from his flask and gobbled down dried meat left in his pack from his travels.
 

“How fairs my kin?”

“Kin? Is that what you’re calling her?”
 

Olrun’s features blurred in the cold haze. Farmers would be on their knees to the Goddess this morning, asking her to quicken summer. If the harsh weather held out much longer Hallad feared starvation would befall many of Scandia’s people.

“Rota will escort her back to the Hearth today. There she’ll be taught as one instructs naughty puppies.” Olrun pricked Hallad with the point of her sword. “Speaking of training . . . “

“Not now. After I take care of something.” Hallad had no intention of letting them cart Thyre off to the Hearth without speaking with her first.

“Not so fast farm boy.” Olrun blocked Hallad, running the metal of her broad sword against his bare chest. “We’ve work to do and I’ve nei intention of being shamed further on your account.”

“Shamed?”

“Where there’s a man . . . “

“I know. There’s trouble.”

“Getting wise, I see.”

Hallad swiped at Olrun’s sword with the back of his hand and replied, “I’ve nei time for games this morning. Maybe later.”
 

He turned, but with a lion’s speed Olrun jumped in front of him, her sword a hair’s breadth from his throat.

The fog thickened—a kiss of Loki’s cold breath. A figure appeared behind Swan, grabbing her with a length of rope, pinning her arms to her body. His sister dissolved into the haze with her captor.

Hallad pressed forward, only to meet Olrun’s point.
 

“What goes on here?”

“You’ll have to figure that one out yourself farm boy. Or is it godhi’s son? Or is it Guardian?” She laughed like a coyote and disappeared into the mist, her voice trailing behind. “You decide.”

Hallad threw up his hands.
 

“Is there anything that isn’t a game to you women?”
 

He reached for his sword, the smooth metal meeting his skin like an old comrade, and dashed into the haze. He dodged trees, narrowly missing front on collisions as they materialized before him through the mist.
 

“This better be a game,” he muttered as he slowed his pace, feet fumbling for sure footing.

The world swirled about him, a haze of whiteness. He stopped, catching his breath. Listening. A bird cawed directly in front of him, to his left a squirrel chattered. Suddenly swords clanked, hard and furious, sounding as if the gods themselves warred.

He rushed toward the melee trusting his instincts to deliver him through the fog. Three figures emerged, misty shadows of whiteness. Olrun’s broad-shouldered mass thrust forward, her metal flying, clanging, and beating. Opposite of Olrun a shorter figure clanked along in the rhythmic dance. Rota, Hallad assumed, though with the fog wrapping around the figures, he could not be positive. The two figures sandwiched a central fighter, accosting her with thrusts and jabs.

The only thing Hallad knew for sure was the central warrior was Swan. Not because her long ice-white hair swayed with her sword strokes, or the way she glided without making a sound. She appeared as just another blurred figure against the haze. But as sure as he knew himself, he knew it was her. He felt her—there, inside that spot within him. Swan opened to him again, only this time her emotions didn’t feel like boulders crushing his chest. She rolled over him like water—a free flowing falls gushing through him. Instead of letting the force of her suck him under, he joined with her, rushing to her side.

Together they parried, crossed and jabbed at their opponents. The clank of their metal warmed his blood. His arms tensed with anticipation of the next attack. The drengmaers’ heavy swords caused devastating blows. Yet each time he rose up to meet metal, he felt Swan rise too. If his stroke fell short, hers filled the gap. If hers failed, he instinctively moved in, delivering the blow.

The drengmaers crowded the twins, circling them, attempting to force them apart. Olrun stepped through the center, pushing Hallad aside. Swan’s back opened up and Olrun screamed as her sword zeroed in, “Never let your opponent divide you!”

Swan tucked into a ball and rolled. Hallad didn’t need to see her; he sensed her movements, felt her skin tighten, her muscles reel. In those few candle-flicks, his body melded with hers. And he reacted. He flipped around, pushing Olrun’s bulk to the hard ground as Swan escaped her sword point by a thread’s distance. Hitting the earth with a thud, the drengmaer rolled over to meet Hallad’s steel, pointed with deadly accuracy at her breast.
 

Hallad’s muscles quivered, wanting to release the sword into Olrun’s chest, but he stayed his arm.

Olrun’s freckled face split into a smile. She laughed, snorting on her hearty intakes of breath.
 

“Perhaps you are sal drengrs after all.”

Hallad loosened his grip on his sword, letting it fall aside to find the ground. The mist had dissipated at some point during their exercise, though Hallad couldn’t recall when.

Rota tucked her sword into the scabbard strapped over her back, her lips tighter than a royal maiden in the king’s palace as she crossed her arms over her chest. Olrun, still chuckling, stood and dusted herself off then slapped Hallad flat on his back.

Hallad’s gaze settled on Swan. He searched her icy eyes. He felt her pain, her loss of him. She too, had a secret space inside her where she kept him close. And he had ripped that away from her.

Guilt rushed him, through his limbs, his breast—into every corner of his soul. How could he have blamed her? His blood and hers mingled more closely than any he had ever known. He wanted to grab her, tell her he would always be her brother, but his limbs would not obey and he remained paralyzed in place.

I understand you brother.
 

Swan’s words danced in his mind like a song, a melody from the gods themselves, woven with threads of bird song, morning dew, and azure skies—everything divine. Hallad could not fathom how beautiful her voice sounded inside his head.

“Ja, ja. I’ll admit. You two fought well together.” Olrun snapped her fingers between brother and sister. “But that’s no reason to slack. We’ve work to attend to.”

With the moment broken, Hallad’s attention returned to Thyre. He shook his head at the freckled drengmaer.
 

“I have business of my own to attend to.”

Olrun sprung to block him, but Rota stayed her, pulling her back by her arm. Understanding his need for solace, Swan disappeared into the IronWood, her whiteness blending with the receding mist. Hallad proceeded toward the Lion Camp where they had left Thyre to sleep for the night.

Chapter XXIII

T
HYRE
WAS
NOWHERE
TO
BE
found. Hallad hoped the drengmaers had not already taken her back to the Hearth. He couldn’t imagine a camp full of drengmaers allowing their intruder free reign, so he asked the twins of her whereabouts. They told him the prisoner was allowed to clean and relieve herself in a nearby stream, motioning in a general direction. When Hallad asked if they worried she might escape, they laughed, telling him a rabbit in the midst of a lioness den could never break free of the lioness’ reach.

Hallad pushed through the brush, seeking Thyre’s path since she had said she would mark a trail. He could hear the drengmaers in the distance in every direction and wondered how many women populated the Lion Clan; it seemed the entire forest rustled with their presence.