Scars (Time of Myths: Shapeshifter Sagas Book 2)

by Natasha Brown

  Gothi Hákon coughed and said between sips, “Do make sure you leave enough for your honeymoon. I would not want you to run short of your month’s supply of mead on my behalf.”

  Freshly cooked beef was handed around the room with dried shark and flatbread. There wasn’t a person without food or drink in hand. If things were rowdy at the start of the evening, it only got louder as the hours went on. When a pipe and flute were produced, many voices joined in so many could dance where they found the space. Arm wrestling between the men hit its height before the sun finally loomed closer to the horizon.

  Ásta noticed her husband was never without a cup raised to his lips. His uncle was jovial once filled with spirits, but Torin grew more quiet and solemn. She thought of the first time she’d seen him, drinking at her booth, seeming much the same as he was now. He could not be accused of being a happy sort.

  “On to wrestling!” Fólki announced. “Torin was always the best wrestler when he was a boy—show them!”

  Torin waved his hand as though he was trying to push away the suggestion. Bárthur, who’d been sharing stories with Fólki and Hákon, perked up and pointed his thick fingers in Gunnar’s direction. “Gunnar—show them your mettle. He may be slighter than I, but he has the strength of—”

  His cousin gave him a warning glance, quieting the intoxicated brute. Ásta watched Gunnar stand up without swaying. He held no drinking horn, but had remained beside Bárthur, listening to their boisterous conversation, only offering comment when it was sought after. He stepped from the bench and onto the open ground at the center of the hall. Gunnar untied his belt, setting down his valuable sword and other belongings before pulling off his tunic.

  Although he may not have been as bulky as his cousin, it was to his benefit. Not an ounce of fat could be seen on his lanky yet muscular body. His dark eyes moved across the hall, settling on Torin, who watched quietly beside Ásta.

  “Do your best!” Fólki shouted.

  Torin cast a sideways glance at his uncle and handed his drink to Ásta. Some of the golden mead sloshed out onto her skirt, and she held it steady so more wouldn’t spill. She watched her husband stand for a moment and sway before he stepped forward to meet his competitor. He may not have been stumbling, but she could tell it took all of his being not to.

  It was clearly a challenge to unbuckle his belt. His weapon and belongings fell to the ground with clatter. Torin reached for the fabric of his tunic covering his shoulder, pulling it over his head with effort. When it was finally free, he stood bare-chested, facing his opponent in a ready position. He was not as thin as Gunnar, but more substantial. His muscles were sun-drenched like any other farmer’s on the island. Come winter he would soon be pale as the snowy hills.

  Shows of strength were a great form of entertainment, but this night she was not amused. Not while she observed the man that was now hers circling the floor in an unfit state to get anything done, let alone wrestle a successful raider to the ground. It was not uncommon to have one’s fill of drink on a special occasion, but she sensed he wasn’t drinking because he was pleased.

  Ásta turned to observe Elfa serving their guests, not wanting to focus on the men who’d locked arms and begun to wrestle at the center of the hall. She listened to the audience shouting cheers for both sides. When the crowd gasped and fell silent, she couldn’t help but peek.

  Torin was locked in Gunnar’s grasp, his body pinned to the ground beside the hearth fire. Her husband’s eyes were wide and his muscles flexed in effort, trying to break free. From nearby Hákon laughed. “It is fair you won the match, Gunnar, but Torin won Ásta when you could not.”

  Ásta’s cheeks flushed when many eyes turned her way, including her husband’s. She looked at the ground, hoping the uncomfortable moment would end.

  Fólki’s voice chimed in. “He is keeping his strength for his wife—good man, Torin. Best let him go—it is his wedding night.”

  Gunnar released his hold and stepped back, glancing at Ásta, who avoided his gaze. Although he’d won the match, he didn’t appear pleased with his gothi’s comments. He slipped on his tunic and grabbed his belt and sword before leaving the hall with his cousin, who congratulated him heartily. Torin was left red-faced, sitting in the dirt. Ingvar offered his hand and helped his cousin get on his feet.

  Bergljot, Guthrún and Frida moved to the end of the room and stood in front of the door to the bed closet. They motioned to Ásta. At the sight of it, her heart hammered in her chest. She chastised herself for not being strong and held her head high. The walk to the end of the hall wasn’t far enough for her to clear her head of her fears.

  “Do not look so frightened, dear.” Guthrún chuckled. “You have time to prepare yourself. We will gather the other witnesses before we send in your husband. For now, get out of your apron dress and down to your serk.”

  Ásta nodded in response. She pressed her hands against her stomach while Bergljot opened her bedroom door. The pregnant woman leaned in to say, “Be happy. You are married. Your problems are not your burden to shoulder alone anymore. Think on that while you wait for your fellow.”

  A filled cup of mead was placed in her hands. Frida grinned at her and helped lift it to her lips. “There you go. I have not seen you drink enough of the stuff. Nothing like some bridal mead to chase those worries away. Trust me, you will be happily surprised before the night is through.”

  Ásta guzzled the drink, not needing encouragement. When she surfaced again, she took a deep breath and stepped inside the darkened room. Guthrún placed a lamp on a built-in ledge just inside. Ásta stared at the oil-filled stone bowl and its wick aflame with just enough light to see by. The door closed, and she was left beside her bed worrying that she’d made a mistake marrying a man with a fondness for drink. A man who would not be able to protect himself, let alone her.

  Chapter 6

  Ásta remembered what she’d been told and unfastened the brooches that held on her apron dress. She stepped out of it, folded it and set it on the reed-covered ground near the foot of the bed. Left only in her linen underdress, she sat on the bed to remove her leather shoes.

  Unsure what else to do, she scooted back so she could lean against the wall while she waited. The bed closet was just that—large enough for a bed to sleep on and not much else. Her eyes skimmed past the door lock. If she fastened it, there would be no way in. As nervous as she was, she had no intention of blocking out the man who’d ignored the rumors and married her despite her bad luck and her predicament. No matter how intoxicated and unhappy he appeared.

  If the women were truthful, then there wasn’t anything to be afraid of. They said there might be pain or discomfort the first time. Frida seemed to enjoy it quite a bit, but Ásta worried that she would be a disappointment to her husband. If she didn’t satisfy him, it was grounds for divorce of either a husband or wife who didn’t fulfill their duties to their spouse.

  Through the wooden door she could hear the sounds of the feast continuing, and she wondered how much longer she would have to wait before her husband—a man she knew nothing about—came to her.

  When she was young, she’d turned down her first marriage offer because she didn’t think he was a good man, but she might have been wrong. Now, she was forced to accept the only other marriage offer she’d received, even though it had come from a man who might not make a good husband. There was nothing she cared about more than her ancestors’ farm. Without blood to rely on and trust, an individual had nothing. That was why this had to succeed. She would do her best to make this work in her father’s name.

  The door swung open. On the threshold of the bed closet stood Torin, his golden hair still neatly combed, falling in waves to his shoulders. His beard and mustache were trimmed to frame his rose-tinged lips. Behind him were his cousins, his uncle and Gothi Hákon. They grinned at her while Fólki tried to whisper to Torin, but it came out so loud it was clear to anyone nearby what he said. “Time to consummate the marriage, my boy. I would not
see you leave this room before the deed is done, unless Ragnarök begins this very night and we need your sword.”

  Torin stood motionless in the doorway until Ingvar shoved him forward. Laughter burst out before the door was shut behind him. A muffled joke was told, at which more guffaws broke loose. Ásta tried not to listen to what was being said on the other side of the bed closet, and it appeared Torin was trying to do the same.

  He sighed and she smelled mead on his breath. Torin stepped toward the foot of the bed. Wordlessly, he removed his sword from his belt and leaned it against the corner of the room. Ásta watched him from the corner of her eye, not wanting to stare outright.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose, then sat down on the edge of the bed. His hair hung forward, partially covering his face. “I would like to walk the land tomorrow, if you would show me around.”

  Ásta placed one of her hands on the woolen blanket that covered the bed. She traced the houndstooth pattern woven into the fabric with the tip of her finger. “I would like that. There is much to show.”

  “I hear there are cliff birds around?”

  “That is true. I can have Rolf take you to the sea cliffs. I have not gone there for some time.” She closed her eyes, trying to push away the memory of her brother’s and father’s lifeless bodies on the rocky shore.

  The bed creaked, and she felt him adjust in his seat. She looked up slowly. He had turned to face her. “Your kin died there.”

  It was more of a statement than a question. Ásta nodded in response. “They were seeking eggs for me—my favorite morning meal.”

  “Are you afraid of going to that place?” he asked slowly.

  Ásta straightened and lifted her chest. There was only one thing she was afraid of, and the rocky cliff wasn’t it. It wasn’t her family’s way to shy away from fear. It was a sign of strength to face a challenge head-on. “Neinn. I will not be responsible for losing this farm. If strong men like my kin fell to their deaths, then what is stopping me from falling to mine? It is not worth the risk. My mother would say a burned child stays away from the fire.”

  “You are the child?”

  “No more,” Ásta said. She tilted her head to the side to look at him. “What of your kin?”

  His expression grew dark, and a wave of sadness washed through her without reason. He glanced at her. “I do not like speaking of my family.”

  He may not have said a thing about them, but she thought she understood the reason for his mood, so she ventured to say, “No matter what my father said, when my mother died it could not take away my sadness that she was no longer with me.”

  Torin mumbled his response. “It was Odin’s will that my birth would cost my mother’s life.” He stared at the wall as though he was seeing beyond it to another place and time. “I lived on a farm like this when I was young. It was surrounded by forests that I walked through with my father. I was happy when he found a new mother for me when I was nine. She gave me a little sister, but our father went viking to the east and was lost at sea. Not long after, our mother fell ill and crossed the Rainbow Bridge to Valhalla. So at the age of ten, I lost my second mother and went with my sister to be fostered by my aunt and uncle, never to see our father’s farm again.”

  Ásta looked at her husband’s solemn expression, sensing there was more to the story. “What of your sister?”

  She grew concerned when he didn’t immediately answer. He stood up and swayed a little and had to lean against the wall for support. “I made an oath to my father that I would keep my sister safe. I failed him and I failed Erika because I wanted to go watch puffins instead of going to the spring with her. It was Ingvar who found her body floating in the water.” He turned and tried focusing his bleary eyes on her. “I know why you do not visit the cliffs where your kin died. It is a wound that gets reopened. That is why I make myself go to the spring whenever I pass by it—or I did.”

  “A wound you do not deserve, surely—” She didn’t share his belief that he’d broken his oath to his father. Tragedy befell many. It was not possible to keep one safe at all times when so much risk loomed around every corner in such an unforgiving land. It was clear he cared deeply about his kin and his promises, but the amount of drink he’d consumed couldn’t have helped his clarity of mind. She’d observed her father dealing with men who’d consumed too much ale at their booth at the Althing, but this was her husband, and she questioned how to manage the situation.

  Ásta blinked back at him. She might not know what sort of man he was yet, but she was ready to test him. “Would Erika want to see you like this? She watches you now from Valhalla, her brother, drinking until his mind is lost to him. Would she not want you happy?” She watched him close his eyes, and knew what it was like to feel alone. “Like you I have been left without the protection of my closest kin. Do you believe they are raising a drinking horn to us tonight?”

  His brow furrowed, and he gave a single nod. “Já. I do.”

  Before she’d walked inside this room, she’d worried she’d made a mistake marrying him, but he’d just admitted truths that marked his soul in darkness. It was either foolery or strength on his part. She hoped it was the latter. He no longer felt like such a stranger to her. She knew there was more to him than she could learn in an evening. The only cure for their situation was time. They would likely grow closer as people did living in such tight quarters, and she hoped to keep him too busy for his sadness to lead him astray, as his aunt put it. But they didn’t have time that night. It was clear he was not the sort to force himself on her, or he would have done so with the blind encouragement from the mead. That spoke a word of honor to his name, and that was something.

  Torin interrupted her thoughts. “No one asks if I am happy and healthy these days, for they already know the answer.”

  The need to survive had pressed on her throughout her life. Even more once she’d found herself alone with no one to protect her. It was left to her. Ásta realized the simple truth of the moment. They were married. This man was hers, and she needed to make the best of it.

  “Let us see what we can do about that.” Ásta repositioned herself on the bed and sat up on her knees, facing him. She may have had her share of sadness, but she could still reach for contentment. With her future in mind, she coaxed herself on. “Let me help you with your shirt. That is what wives do, right?”

  He tilted his head to look down at her and said slowly, “I think so.”

  Torin turned his back to her. Ásta crawled to the edge of the bed until she was just behind him and lifted herself onto her knees. She took a breath before pushing herself to action. Her fingers sought the bottom of his tunic, and she raised it up, exposing the skin of his back. Tanned from long hours working in the summer sun, his flesh was a stark contrast to the cream-colored linen fabric that kept it hidden. Her fingers lifted the shirt higher, and he raised his arms so that she could pull it over his head. The muscles in his arms and back flexed. She couldn’t help but admire his form up close.

  Ásta was left with the tunic clutched in her hands, unsure of how to continue. Torin turned to face her. She could hear him breathing and feel his breath on her skin. Their faces were only inches apart. His blue eyes lingered on her lips, and he tentatively raised his hand, reaching for a lock of her hair, when a sound interrupted them.

  Even through the hum of voices in the longhouse, she heard it. Ásta sucked in a breath and cocked her head, unsure whether she’d imagined it. Hoping she had.

  Again, louder this time, a distant howl cut through everything else. Her throat closed up, and she was without air. She raised her trembling hand to her scar. Between gasps, she said aloud, “It must be a hound—maybe one of the guests brought a hound—”

  Through the wooden door, separating them from the wedding feast, muffled voices began to shout. Men called out, “Look to the hills—grab your swords!”

  Torin’s eyes widened as he rose to his feet. He grasped his weapon and reached for the door latch. “I
will be back—stay here where it is safe.”

  She watched him go. He wore only his pants and shoes, wielding his steel before him. Ásta’s hands balled into fists. Folds of blanket were squeezed so tight, her fingers paled from loss of blood flow. She stared at the empty doorway, frightened into stillness.

  Torin ran into the hall. His head was cloudy, and his body didn’t react the way he wanted. He realized that many of the men had already cleared outside. He stumbled to the door to discover what was happening.

  He tripped through the threshold and into the twilight. It was the time of night when the sun had finally touched the horizon, but it still cast out its dying embers of light. Not the deep darkness that visited the land for mere hours before the sky glowed blue again. He found his uncle standing near the wall overlooking the southern cliffs, and he hurried over to ask, “What do I hear? Is it a fox calling its mate?”

  Hákon, who stood at the turf wall beside him, pointed to the cliffs to the west with his sword. “I saw it down there. With glowing eyes in the night, staring up at me, it was no fox nor hound!”

  “It was the size of a small pony, I say.” Fólki gripped his wooden shield and pointed his blade over the wall. “I have seen wolves in our homeland, but that creature was larger than even them.”

  The group of a dozen men let themselves from the farm gate and walked around the cliff bluffs to the west. Ingvar held out a torch to search the ground for footprints. When they neared the place where the animal had been spotted, Torin’s cousin shouted, “Here! Look at the size of these markings!”

  Torin rushed up to examine the ground. Just as Ingvar had stated, there were large animal tracks pressed into the gravelly earth. He placed his palm down to compare size and realized the prints were nearly the breadth of his hand. It could not be a fox, the largest natural predator on the island. He’d never seen a wolf in Snæland, but many men had brought bears as pets. Who was to say a wolf hadn’t been ferried onto the island? Or maybe it was a large breed of hound.