EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (88 page)

As he hiked further into the forest, Swan’s presence weakened. The renewed bond they’d achieved during their skirmish with the Headwomen unraveled, loosening like split twine as if his twin undid their threads at will. Hallad heaved out a breath. Swan must be able to control her connection to him. He wondered if he could stifle her access to him as well. Twin or not, some mysteries should remain private. He didn’t like the fact she manipulated his access to her, but he remained as open as the sky in an endless plain. Would bonding as sal drengrs strengthen this communication, or the ability to control it? Or would the bond bare his soul?

A piece of material tied to a branch marked the path and Hallad continued, listening for clues.

“Thyre,” he hollered, though calling her by her given name instead of mother left an ache in his chest. Her lies rumbled through his mind. His father had taught Hallad to weigh all sides of a situation before passing judgment. By his father’s wisdom, Hallad owed the woman the courtesy of his ear. Had her accusation been so terrible? Hallad wondered if he would have done the same had his own daughter been threatened. He shook his head.
 

Nei
.
 

Even so, he did not possess the right to pass sentence on actions Thyre made out of grief.

“Thyre. Are you here?” he called again as he spotted more broken branches.
 

Mist still swirled here, clinging to tree trunks and limbs; it created a canopy of low clouds, impeding the view. A chill ran the length of Hallad’s back. He wished he had taken a moment to don a shirt before seeking Thyre.

The nip seemed unnatural, reminding Hallad of the cold they encountered the night Emma disappeared. His blood pumped in response. A heartbeat later, the air burst as if a hole ripped through the forest, sending an icy blast from Nilfheim. Hallad spun, reaching for his sword, only to find himself weaponless.

The base of a pine tree blurred. Hallad wiped his eyes, but the distortion continued as if his sight remained unfocused. A man slipped through the trunk, bounding directly toward Hallad.

Hallad squeezed his lids again, hoping to clear the image, but the man persisted as if he emerged from inside the tree. He charged toward Hallad, an arrow nocked in his bow. The projectile released, spiraling toward Hallad. Jumping sideways to dodge the oncoming point, Hallad dropped, tumbling, but heard the thump of the arrowhead hit flesh.

Hallad turned. Not a foot from where he’d stood, Thyre grabbed at the shaft driving straight though her chest. A bright flow of blood seeped from the wound, staining her dress with a bloom of crimson. In her right hand, she heaved a knife turned on Hallad—meant for Hallad. Thyre’s strength gave out. She crumpled to the ground, dropping the blade from her limp fingers.

The arrow-bearing stranger, his sleeves embellished with a mighty ash tree digging into the ground—a signet similar to Hallad’s father’s—bent to one knee in front of the godhi’s son. He bowed, as if he addressed a king in his court and kissed the hem of Hallad’s trousers.
 

“The strength of the Mighty One be with you Guardian. The Mother herself relies on your strength.” He handed Hallad a gold medallion, pressing it into his palm. “When you cross into Alvenheim, watch yourself Guardian. The Conspirators will be waiting for you.”

Without another word, the stranger jumped through the nearest bushes and took off running. Hallad tried to call him back, but the forest seemed to open up and swallow him.

Thyre gasped at his feet, her hand grasping at his boot. Hallad dropped to the ground, pulling Thyre’s head in his lap. She coughed, blood dribbling down the corners of her pale mouth.

“Why?” Hallad asked, unable to form any other word.

“My fault.” She coughed again, weaker this time.

Hallad sucked in his breath, running his palm over her tangled hair.

Defeat wore in her eyes. “You . . . “

“Shush.”
 

All of Hallad’s contempt for the woman released. Her blood warmed his hand as he tried to cover the seeping wound on her breast.

“My dear husband, Avarr. What have I done to you?” Between coughs, tears flowed. Whiteness spread over her face. “He fought bravely. So proud of you. So proud.”
 

Her chest heaved underneath Hallad’s bloodied hand.

“I will go get a healer. One of the seidr-wives will be able to take care of you.” Even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t the truth.

“Nei. It’s better this way.” She opened her eyes wide, struggling with the effort. “Promise. Promise you will return. Write the runes on your father’s gravestone. Promise.”

“I promise.” Hallad’s words felt heavy, bricks inside his mouth. The confirmation of his father’s death crushed his chest, pinning air inside his lungs. Thyre’s blood pooled on the ground of the IronWood as Hallad ran the back of his hand across her cool cheek.

“Evil.” A possessed look struck Thyre’s eyes, as if Loki seized her mind. “He is evil!”

“Shush now.” Hallad attempted to sooth her.

“He has her. Your sister. Half-blood or not, still your sister.”

“Who do you speak of? Who has Emma?”

Thyre’s shoulders shook in silent sobs.
 

“My fault. Oh, Emma. Mamma’s fault.” Then her eyes focused, clearing, turning to pinpoints. “You must save her. Take her from him. You don’t know what he’s capable of. Promise me. Promise.”

“I promise.”

“You mean that truly?”

“On my life and honor.”

Her lips formed a queer smile then her head lulled in the crook of Hallad’s arm. Her eyes stared as the wan shadow of death seized her. How many promises had he made? How many could he keep?

Swan stood behind him. He didn’t need to turn to know she was there. Her presence grounded him, lifted him as he held the lifeless body of the only woman he had ever known as mother.

Chapter XXIV

“I
T
IS
DONE
AS
YOU
said. Thyre is dead and the dyrr has been delivered to the false Guardian so he may cross into Alvenheim.” The liveried man bowed, inclining his head to the floor.

“Very good, Weyland,” replied Lothar, cracking his lank fingers at the knuckles. “You are sure he gave his word?”

“On his honor,” said Weyland as he rose to face his master. “He swore to save his sister.”

“On his honor.” A lupine smile spread across the Lord’s face. “This so-called Guardian will have reason to seek me and bring the girl in tow. Now that they have been reunited, nothing can keep her from following her twin.”
 

Lothar rounded the table and poured himself a goblet of wine, savoring a sip before swallowing.
 

“I will entrap the girl and kill this man. With the girl’s power our Master can finally break free from his prison in the shadows. Since it will be me that delivers this power to him, I will become his right hand when he reigns. No longer will our kind hide and squabble over scraps. And those with the Mother’s touch will be punished for our years of subjugation.”

Erik viewed the exchange, entrapped in a gray void. Though he had tried to wake he failed each time. The dream sucked him in, deeper and deeper, until he no longer struggled for consciousness. He only sought to maneuver through the shifting grayness, discovering windows to peek through to his sweet Emma.

The black wolf picked up his head, sniffing the air in Erik’s direction. Lothar responded to his beast’s action by following the line of the wolf’s gaze.

“My Lord,” interrupted Weyland. “There is other business we need to attend to.”

“Agreed.” Lothar waved his waxy fingers in a come hither gesture. “Bring in the supplicant.”

The ward crossed the polished floor, his sleeves fluttering with the banner of the tree digging its roots into the ground. He paused, hummed and passed his palm over a carved symbol in the wall. The door slid open.

A waif of a figure waited in the hallway. Weyland gestured for the man to enter. The supplicant stumbled through the door and across the floor, barely able to keep upright, his body thin from malnourishment. His bones protruded, sticking out from under his tattered clothing. Gaunt, pale lips broke into a heartfelt grin when his sunken eyes caught sight of Lord Lothar. He dropped on his bony knees, grabbed the folds of Lothar’s cloak and kissed the hem. Lothar reached down and took hold of the man’s forearms, raising him to full height.

“Please. Stand.”

Erik watched, unable to fathom Lothar as kind or a man so ruined as to seek his hem.

The man’s eyes rimmed with water. “My Lord, I thank you. My wife thanks you. My children thank you. They would have killed us, you know. Children. They would have killed our children.”

Lothar kept the man in his grasp, steadying him.
 

“It is not your fault.”

“I realize our crime is an offense to the Mother, but what could we do? Starve?”

“I know your pain. You are safe now.”

“You are a gracious lord.”

“My staff will see you fed and healthy before you leave my care. I have arranged for a place for you and your family in the New Lands past Ginnungagap where others like you flourish without persecution.”

The man leaned his head forward, resting his forehead in the cradle of Lothar’s outstretched arms.
 

“What can I do to repay you?”

“There is nei need.” Lothar lifted the man’s chin. “Only tell others like yourself there is a place for them. Do not give out my name as the Palace knows nothing of my work, but I have eyes all over Alvenheim, watching and saving those in need.”

“I know what I have done is an atrocity, but what can I do? I was born from her breast without the Mother’s touch. Helpless. And they shame me. They cast looks upon me like I’ve been cursed from . . . “ His voice trailed to a whisper.

“You have been
blessed
by Master Loki,” Lothar corrected. “The Shadow Master is your new lord, and I swear an oath on my ancestors he is a gentle lord, unlike those who worship in the Mother’s name.”

The spikes of fear glinting in the man’s facade receded at Lothar’s oath. He bowed, releasing a sigh.

The maid, who attended Emma, entered and directed the man to follow her. The man abruptly prostrated himself upon the floor at Lothar’s slipper adorned feet.
 

“When I was a child, I swore my oaths to the Mother, to serve her, to care for her. Now I give those oaths to you.”

A smile erupted across Lothar’s face.
 

“The Shadow will honor and protect you and yours. Now rise. Grovel for scraps nei more. A long past meal awaits you. Bera will tend to you and your family.”

When the man stood he seemed taller, as if the fear of starvation and humiliation had disappeared. He strode behind Bera as they exited the room, his shoulders straighter, his cheeks gaining in color, his legs stronger.

Lothar crossed the room and seated himself. His wolves padded next to him, their noses working the air as if a foreign scent caught in their nostrils.
 

“How many were rescued?”

“Ten, including the man and his children. The Palace is in an uproar. They were under judgment from Glitner itself for two offenses. After killing a deer, the father had started a fire to cook the meat. The blaze raged out of his control, burning half of an apple grove.”

Erik fidgeted. He wished they would speak about Emma.

“Good. Good. We must have over a thousand in the New Lands. You attend to their daily training?”

“All are trained with sword, fire and archery.”

“They must learn everything the Scandians know.”

“Our Scandian trainer works well.” Weyland snorted. “He still believes he’s in the land of the gods.”

Both Lothar and the ward laughed.
 

The noise grated Erik, sounding deep within his ears. All of a sudden the gray fringe at the edge of his vision receded and the room brightened. The wolves raised their snouts, the wet-black of their noses wriggling. The silver wolf crept toward Lothar, whimpering.

“Predictable creatures, those Scandians. Even so, one of those Scandians has proved to possess interesting abilities. And as my betrothed, Emma will do my bidding.”

The muscles in Erik’s neck tensed at Emma’s name. He focused. The room sharpened around him. His skin tingled. For the first time since he had entered the void, he felt warm air stroke his skin.
 

The wolves’ hackles sprung up, hairs rising like blades.

Lothar twitched in response.
 

“What is it boys?”
 

The lord followed the wolves’ stares, pinning his gaze on Erik. A waxy sneer spread his lips.

“You see me!” Erik screamed.
 

He willed his body forward, toward the leering man.
 

Instead, darkness flooded. The void returned, fast and furious, like blackness after a lightning strike.
 

“Nei!” Erik screamed again, struggling to return.
 

The shadow enveloped him, a sickening swirl invading his limbs, his body, and his sight.

A voice pierced through the dark. Lothar’s voice.
 

“Your power is weak, spy. Don’t think you can penetrate my holdings without consequences.”

Chapter XXV

E
MMA
’
S
HUMS
ECHOED
OFF
THE
stone walls, floor and ceiling of her lavish prison. Her small hand passed over the carving etched into the wall, imitating the movements she had seen Bera perform earlier.

This has to work. Has to
, she told herself.
 

At first she hadn’t understood that the song and carving worked in unison. Then she didn’t want to believe it. Songs and carvings moving stone—farther fetched than one of Rolf’s tales.

But Emma studied Bera each time she entered and exited. The servant’s song for operating the door remained the same. Other tunes caused a stone to glow and light the room or heat the decanter, warming the wine, but the melody for the door was always the same. Each time Emma repeated the notes in her head until she was alone and could try them out loud.