EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (97 page)

Rolf yelled at his back, “Brother?”

A wide rainbow arched down from the sky, stretching its colors to the ground in front of Erik. A few paces more and he would be able to touch it. A rainbow! No one ever touched the elusive bands of color, but this one hung there, waiting for him. His vision filled with the memory of the multi-colored tunnel the ebony haired man had shown him—the tunnel that had brought him to Emma.

“Bring the horses!” Erik yelled. He reached out toward the dazzling colors with outstretched fingers.

“By the gods,” Andvarri said as he arrived behind him, witnessing the spectacle.

Rolf hastened, throwing their saddles and packs on the horses.
 

“What is it?” asked Rolf.

“A rainbow.”

Erik barely heard Andvarri’s reply, like he whispered it into the wind.

“Nei,” said Erik, as he passed his hand through the streams of color. “Not a rainbow, but our doorway into Alvenheim.”

Chapter XXXV

R
OLF
,
LEADING
THEIR
PACKED
HORSES
, approached.
 

“Holy Valhalla,” he said in amazement. “A doorway to the gods.”

“Alvenheim,” corrected Andvarri.

Erik eased his foot into the stream of color. His toes tingled through his thick boots. A vibrating sensation ran the length of his leg, like little shocks of lightening striking in thousands of nerves under his skin. The barrier between Emma and him dissolved, the rainbow opening a door between them.

“Wait, brother! It may be dangerous.”

“Nei,” Erik said, edging forward. “This is the way to Emma.”

Andvarri’s eyes bulged like bowls as Rolf crowded behind him, horses in tow. The animals snorted and hooved, but allowed the younger brother to tug them along.

Erik’s foot hit solid ground and he pulled his other leg inside the tunnel, his entire body enveloped by blues, greens, yellows, magentas and violets. Unlike the numbness prevailing in the dreams, every nerve in his body livened, pulsed and shuddered. A light beamed across from him and he placed his feet one in front of the other, making his way toward the whiteness. Until he realized Rolf and Andvarri had not followed him.

He turned back toward where he had entered, but only colors saturated the air.
 

With a silent curse, he strutted back to the entrance and jutted his arm through, yelling, “Hold on to one another. Then take my hand.”

Soon after, Rolf’s lanky fingers twined through his own and he heaved, as if he led a team of mules through mud. A blur of hues separated, revealing Rolf’s awestruck face as he popped through, followed by Andvarri and the horses.

“Incredible.” Rolf raised his hands in front of his nose, examining palms and fingers as his skin washed with the vibrant cascade.
 

Erik knew his little brother memorized every detail and the experience would no doubt find its way into a saga.
 

The elder brother led them along until they reached the white light. He treaded through the blaze of light, pulling them out the other end of the rainbow tunnel. They stepped into a field of lush grass, peppered with sparkling white and yellow wildflowers. The perfumed aroma waylaid their senses. An azure sky expanded above them, bluer than any Erik had ever seen.

Rolf gawked at the scene. He bent, palming the whisper-soft blades of grass, and plucked a vibrant five-petal bloom. As he did so, he flinched, as if pricked with a lance.

“Conspirators!” roared a voice from behind them.

“He ripped a flower from the Mother’s breast!” another screamed.

Erik spun, spotting a group of men dressed in tunics with the crest of a tree digging its roots into the earth emblazoned upon their chests. Their faces bulged with anger as the mob strutted toward Erik, Rolf and Andvarri. Erik grabbed his black’s reins, tightening his fist around the leather.

“You there!” yelled the man in the lead. “Why did you take what was not given?” The accuser pointed a dagger-like finger toward Rolf, who sputtered at the accusation.

Another man yelled out of the crowd, his tone disbelieving, “They carry steel blades!”

A mad roar slashed through the mob. Rage split their faces as they dashed forward, hands raised in fists.
 

“Capture the Conspirators!”

“Ride,” commanded Erik.
 

He turned and picked Andvarri up, throwing the sputtering dwarf onto his mount, like a sack full of grain. Rolf clambered onto his mare, kicked and spun her around. Erik leaped onto Beyla and ribbed her into a gallop while slapping Andvarri’s horse on the flanks.

The horses ran, crossing the downy field in strides. Erik led the troop. He glanced backward as their attackers slowed, taking up formation in a wide arc behind them. Andvarri bobbled on top of his mount, sliding sideways in his saddle. The little man grasped desperately at the horse’s mane. Gravity won out, and Andvarri tumbled to the ground, rolled and settled in a disorganized mound of arms and legs.

Erik jerked back the reins and spun, his horse’s hind hooves grinding in a tight circle. He loped back to Andvarri, sprung off Beyla and checked the dwarf for injuries. Andvarri moaned and rolled over, green staining his chin.

“Get up,” Erik commanded, wrapping his arms around the dwarf’s thick middle and pulling him upright. Erik bent to half-height to guide Andvarri back to his waiting horse.

Completing their half-circle, their assailants raised their palms into the air in unison, waving their hands in a strange dance. They started to sing.

“Are they attacking us with a concert?” Rolf’s face wore confusion over his bunched up brow.

“I don’t know, but let’s keep moving.” Erik continued to scramble over the distance, towing the dwarf along. Andvarri hobbled on one foot, nurturing an injured leg, pain spreading his lips in a grimace.

A melody wafted through the air, starting low. The song caressed. Lulled. Erik stumbled to a stop at its beauty. Andvarri gasped to catch air in his lungs, squeezing his fingers around his thigh. As the men continued to sing, the song changed, taking on sharp notes and dissonant chords, peaking to high, piercing notes.

The ground rumbled beneath their boots.

“What’s happening?” yelled Rolf, his mare prancing beneath him.

As the meadow roiled under their feet Erik fell to his knees, taking Andvarri down with him. The ground broke in a permanent tremor causing the dwarf’s horse to dart off in fear, with eyes rolling, and nostrils flaring. Bursts of dirt erupted from the thundering ground, spitting rocks into the air around them. They all cowered, covering their heads with their hands; pebbles showered down like bolts from the sky.

Erik lurched from his knees, forcing himself upright while gathering Andvarri in his arms. The dwarf suffered from overindulgence of Ysja’s rich cooking, weighing Erik to a crouch.
 

“By the god Freyr, Andvarri. A few fruits and vegetables wouldn’t hurt your waistline now and then,” he grunted.

Beyla’s muscles twitched beneath her skin, her eyes wild.
 

Erik neared, purring at the frightened mare, “Whoa girl. Easy, now.”

The earth boomed beneath them. Erik sprung back into action, flinging Andvarri onto Beyla as he controlled the mare with a low voice then leaped up behind the dwarf.
 

“Ride!” he called out to Rolf.

The group bound across the meadow as the earth erupted around them, their attacker’s song drumming at their backs. As they distanced themselves from the music the sound faded into the air, dying on the wind, and the terrain beneath them quieted.

Their horses, lathered and sweating, continued onward, hooves beating. Erik’s body drummed against the strong back of his mount, until he could ride no more.

As the group dipped from hill to valley, an apple grove emerged on the horizon. Erik slowed Beyla and slid from his saddle, patting her foamed withers.
 

“Thank you for carrying us so swiftly,” he whispered to her, then louder he added, “Stay atop, Andvarri.”

The dwarf did not argue, folding himself over the horse’s neck in relief. Rolf peeled himself from his own seat and led Idunn alongside Beyla.

“We can hide in the grove, yonder,” said Erik, directing Rolf’s gaze to the crop before them. Crimson apples clung to branches, their abundance drooping limbs to the ground. A crisp scent emitted from the grove, a hundred times headier than any in Scandia.

“But what if there are more of . . . ” Rolf hesitated. “Who were those people?” His lungs heaved as he tried to catch his breath. Sweat ran freely from his head, plastering his ember curls like a wet dog. Erik knew if Rolf were privy to a mirror they would spend all day waiting for him to groom himself back to perfection.

“Songvaris,” said Andvarri, his voice labored.

“Who?” both Rolf and Erik asked in unison.

“Elder said there are those in Alvenheim known as songvaris. They have the ability to control the elements through singing.”

“And you didn’t think to tell us?” barked Erik.

“I. I . . .”

“I won’t bite you, dwarf. What else should we know?”

“The land is different here.”

“You state the obvious,” said Erik in an irritated tone.

“Ja,” Rolf interrupted. “I can feel her.”

Erik glanced sideways at his little brother.
 

“What do you mean? Feel who?” Erik immediately thought of Emma and realized her presence struck him—as near as she had ever been. He sensed her, a day’s ride away. Relief spread throughout his muscles, releasing the long carried strain. His shoulders dropped, though he hadn’t realized they had ever been knotted. If he had not towed these two ninnies along, he would have ridden all night to get to her.

Rolf stopped, and closed his eyes for a moment. “Don’t you feel that?”

“Feel what, brother?” Erik prodded for an explanation.

Rolf wavered in the sweet-smelling breeze, spreading his palms upward, inhaling big gulps of air into his chest.
 

“When I plucked the flower back in the meadow, I heard a cry. Then there was a harsh prick against my skin. But now that we are here, it’s like a song, a gentle hum. I can hear her like a thousand springtimes singing in the very back of my head, but there is more. Like the song courses through my blood and into my heart, as if we are connected.” He popped his eyes open and stared at his companions, expecting them to agree.

For once, Andvarri and Erik exchanged a unified look of confusion.

Chapter XXXVI

A
N
IMAGE
SWIRLED
IN
A
gray haze. Hallad squinted. His sister’s features appeared, melding within a vast void of gloom. Long fingers extended outward, through the ashen mist, waving him away.

“Swan?” he called. “Sister?”

Swan spotted her brother, eyes widening in fear. She immediately turned away and ran from him, still encased by the fog.
 

Hallad’s legs pumped as he followed, sprinting after her.
 

“Come back!”
 

His heart quaked, pumping harder, faster. Pain wrenched his chest. He flew now, bounding in great leaps over the lifeless landscape, hurdling hundreds of paces in the air each time his foot sprung off the ground. His arms flailed in front of him, reaching for her, but she remained a hair’s width from his grasp.

Suddenly blackness blasted out of nowhere. Hallad spun backward out of control, the darkness separating him and his sister. A sickening sensation of falling overtook him. He could find neither his feet nor the horizon, only dizziness in an endless downward spiral. Swan’s face appeared above him, reaching out to him, but the darkness whirled in on her. She realized the blackness stalked her, eyes wide with terror as the Shadow squeezed away her features.

“Swan!” screamed Hallad, as he fell.
 

His body spun and, just as he thought he would hit ground, his eyes snapped open.

The IronWood encircled Hallad. The Lion Clan slept, camped around him. Some of the drengmaers snored louder than men passed out from drinking. Hallad scrambled from his bedroll, icy air biting at his bare chest. He crossed the space separating him from his sister’s carriage.

The identical twins had been stationed at her watch and they nodded as he passed. Hallad parted the curtain and stepped inside the carriage. The floorboards squeaked as he entered. Swan’s body lay enveloped in darkness, an ebony blanket alternately embroidered with moons, and the journey rune, raidho, covering her up to her chin. Her pale face turned toward the ceiling, still as death.

Even without light, Hallad could tell she faded deeper into another world. The carriage allowed a narrow walkway on either side for Ase and Gisla to attend to his sister and he squeezed up next to Swan’s head, placing his palm on her cold forehead. Before she had gone into the walk, she’d come to him in the dream. Hallad had seen the gray landscape before and knew he had traveled to the same realm moments ago. He realized Swan’s danger intensified with the appearance of the Shadow, even if he were not sure what it all meant, he knew darkness chased her.

The group was two days into their travels, heading nordr without a plan. Hallad had been unable to make the medallion repeat its morphing action. Ase had chosen their direction, since Hallad could not. No one questioned his inability, yet a bubble of anxiety grew inside his chest, threatening to pop with every moment he remained useless to his sister.

Hallad laid his head across Swan’s shoulder, the heat of his face meeting the coolness of her covers. Since she had slipped into this state of unconsciousness, Hallad had extended his affection toward her. He had never shown her any fondness when she was awake and the guilt of his initial denial of her deepened his desperation to bring her back from whatever force held her prisoner.

At that moment, heat burned at Hallad’s thigh. He reached inside his trousers and pulled the medallion from its safety spot. A brilliant glow of gold pulsed off the piece, lighting the interior of the carriage, casting warmth upon his sister’s flaccid face.