She almost passed by without noticing it, she was so deep in thought. It sat still, perched near the top of the tree, staring out at the horizon. Ásta stopped with her foot in midair, poised to take another step. She squinted up at the gyrfalcon, searching for its jess, the leather tether around its leg, and found it.
“Vindr,” she whispered.
Without taking her eyes away from the bird, she slipped on the leather glove and pulled out the dead rat. She hoped it was hungry, for if it wasn’t this wouldn’t work. All the times she’d helped Torin feed and train the falcon had led to this moment. She was on her own and would have to do it herself.
Ásta made sure she was in a place where the gyrfalcon could fly down to her before she whistled. It was the sound Torin made to let it know food was near. As soon as the noise escaped her lips, its head adjusted to look at her. She held up the rat in her gloved hand and waited, holding her breath.
A breeze rustled the feathers on its chest while it returned her gaze. Just when she thought it must not have been hungry, or had forgotten the sense of companionship with humans, it lifted its wings and glided down to her hand. The weight of the bird pressed down on her wrist and arm, yet she held it steady, waiting for it to taste the rodent. It stared at her with unblinking eyes, and Ásta couldn’t help but smile back.
It lowered its beak to the flesh offered to it and began to eat. She fumbled to take hold of the end of the leather strap that was still fastened around its leg. Once it was secure in her hand, she continued through the trees, toward home. It wasn’t long before they were out of the forest and moving across the fields.
A sickening cry met her ears, and she turned to locate its origin.
From the crest of a hill, Torin could see the boundary walls that protected their crops. A man’s shouts could be heard, so Torin urged the horse to move faster. His blood pounded in his ears. Maybe his farmhand was shouting because he simply saw his master racing across the land and could not recognize him. Or maybe there was another reason altogether.
The screams grew louder until they were silenced entirely. Torin scanned the area but could see no sign of his farmhand or any rustle of movement. From atop the horse the deep marks in the wall were clear. When he reached the damage, he slowed the animal, grabbed the sword scabbard and leapt from the saddle. He ran up to the gouges in the wall, touching the claw marks. Torin placed the scabbard on the barrier. In a smooth motion he lifted himself up.
Gurgling noises came from the ground on the inside of the wall. He looked below to find the crumpled form of Leifur. Torin dropped down beside him. Even in the dusky dark, he could see the man’s life spilling away from the wound in his neck, pooling onto the gravelly earth. Leifur’s eyes were wide, yet unseeing. His meager blade, drawn, was still clutched in his limp hand.
“May you meet your father again in the halls of Valhalla,” Torin whispered under his breath.
The sounds from the dead man were silenced, but a noise so deep he could barely detect it seemed to come from the land itself. Torin spun around, keeping his back to the wall. His eyes scanned the dark hayfield. A quarter of the livestock’s winter food stores had been harvested and was piled near the farm, although only ten strides away yellow stalks waved in the seaside breeze.
Torin squinted into the dusk, searching for his enemy. A rumbling growl pitched into an earsplitting howl. A black snout parted the blades of hay apart. White fangs were revealed from within the onyx muzzle before the beast launched itself from its cover.
Torin flung off the scabbard from the Ulfberht blade and raised its tip at the approaching wolf. “I knew I would find you here. Maybe I should kill you with your own sword!”
The animal slowed and stopped, just out of reach from Torin. Its eyes narrowed and it made a strange humming whine.
From the opposite distant wall, Torin spotted Bjorn craning his neck in his direction. After only a few moments, the farmhand turned around and ran along the top of the boundary back toward the farm.
The wolf snapped its jaws, and Torin returned his attention to the beast. “I have never heard tell of a one-sided blood feud until now. You are without honor.”
He glared at his enemy. Anger and hatred boiled in his veins. “If Loki filled you with power, then I will act for Odin. I know my duty—to protect my land and kin.” Torin set the sword on the ground. “I am not dishonorable like you. You have no blade, so I will fight you fairly.”
The wolf edged sideways and leapt. Torin held up his arm for protection, the beast’s sharp teeth sank into his forearm, and he screamed in pain. It took a moment for the shock to sink in before he raised his free hand, made a fist and pounded the animal’s face. The wolf closed its eyes, but Torin wanted to free himself so that he might concentrate on changing the form of his body.
He lifted the arm that was trapped in the beast’s mouth and punched the animal’s throat as hard as he could. The animal released him and backed away, shaking its head, coughing. Torin struggled to ignore the pain he was in, not looking at his shredded arm. The tap, tap, tap of his blood on the ground helped him focus while he cleared his mind of everything but the blue lines of energy that formed the creature he was attempting to become.
He felt the tug from the feathers growing out from his skin. His eyesight adjusted and changed, becoming much sharper and refined while he shrank down in size. The pain in his arm went away, and he flapped his wings in relief.
Torin enjoyed watching the wolf’s reaction. It stumbled backward in surprise, giving him enough time to take to the darkened skies. He circled overhead while the beast tilted its head back, trying to spot its moving target.
Torin knew a falcon was no match for a man-sized wolf, but he had a thought. He swooped lower in the sky, trying to lure the beast over the wall. One thing he excelled at was trapping his prey. He’d made precautions in case the animal appeared to destroy the turf boundary again.
The black wolf leapt the wall with little effort and snapped its jaws in the air. Although it was dark, Torin could still see well enough. He found the holes he was looking for and led on. The beast stumbled over the gravelly earth with its snout lifted to track the falcon gliding above.
Suddenly, it gave a sharp yelp in surprise and tumbled to the ground. One of the holes Torin had dug and rigged with a rope noose had tightened around one of the wolf’s paws. Torin flew down over the toppled body of the beast and caught hold of the sensation that returned him to his human form. No longer held up by feather-light wings, he fell through the air on top of his foe.
The animal writhed in surprise, but Torin was ready. His arms wrapped around the wolf’s throat, securing a tight hold. It tried to wriggle free, but he only tightened his hold.
It was then Torin heard the men approach. Their voices echoed over the fields by way of the farm. He did not know what they would think, seeing him wrestle the animal like the ocean beating against the shore on a stormy day. The wolf’s ears perked up, and he knew they were both aware of who approached.
The men’s voices drew nearer until Torin saw them peer over the wall. “There!” they called and began to climb over. “It is the wolf! Kill it!”
Torin growled. “I will not let you scurry away this time. If you try to escape me, I will kill you with my bare hands. I give you a chance to live another day if you reveal yourself for who you truly are.” He squeezed his arms around the animal’s neck, feeling its head begin to slump. “That, or death.”
Across the field came the men with their swords and shields ready. Ingvar reached them first. His blade pointed at the black wolf’s body while it sagged onto the ground. He frowned at Torin in confusion and asked, “Why are you wrestling the beast without your clothing, Cousin?”
He ignored Ingvar’s question, not wanting to take his attention from the wolf for a second. Its feet kicked one last time before Torin felt its lazy gaze lift up to his face. Torin’s eyes narrowed, and he readied his hold around the creature’s neck, prepared to follow throu
gh with his promise and break its spine.
Under his fingertips, the onyx fur receded until he was gripping the smooth flesh of another man. Torin withdrew his knee from the man’s spine and let his body fall to the ground, unsupported. The other witnesses were just running up as they found Ingvar standing with his mouth slack, holding his sword point toward the man lying in the dirt.
“Gunnar?” Gothi Hákon faltered. Behind him Bárthur approached, silent and grim.“Where did the wolf go?” Bjorn asked, taking up the rear, out of breath and only just arriving. “I saw you cornered by the beast, so I went to fetch help.”
Now that he was satisfied there was nowhere for Gunnar to go, Torin returned to find the trousers that had fallen off when he’d taken the form of the gyrfalcon. He tried to dress and reclaim some dignity before returning to the circle of men with the Ulfberht sword in hand.
Ingvar, still agape, found his voice and said in disbelief, “I cannot believe my eyes. I saw Torin wrestling the largest, blackest wolf I have ever seen and then—” He shook his head. “It turned into this man.”
Torin pointed the sword at the man on the ground, whose wrist was still cinched by a rope. “It is he who murdered one of my farmhands just as I came back from searching for my wife. If you have touched her—”
“What?” Rolf barked, his pale beard visible through the gloom. He hurried to the boundary wall to find the crumpled body of Leifur. His mumbled prayers for the dead were unintelligible.
“You are the one responsible for the destruction of my walls.” Torin spoke directly to the dark-haired man who had begun to sit up. “Fenrir never haunted this land—it was you.”
Bárthur stepped forward and said, “What sort of enchantment is this?”
Beside him Gothi Hákon was struggling to stay composed. He was clearly upset by the turn of events. It was known by all in the southern territory that Bárthur and his kin were some of Gothi Hákon’s strongest clansmen. Catching Gunnar in the act of murder and vandalism put Gothi Hákon in an uncomfortable position. The leader’s brow wrinkled in anger. “I am displeased to find you here, Gunnar. Do you deny any of these charges?”
Gunnar’s face pinched up as he glowered at his cousin, ignoring his gothi’s remarks. “I made you wealthy and this is how you repay me? At the first opportunity you lie to protect yourself, when you are the one who came up with the plot to ruin her walls and take her land.”
Torin had stood by long enough without the answers he truly needed. “Where is my wife? What did you do with her?”
The confused expression on Gunnar’s face couldn’t persuade Torin that he knew nothing of her whereabouts. When Gunnar peered around him, he let his guard down to take a look.
A form was hurrying through the field toward them. As it got closer he saw Ásta holding up her arm. Perched on her hand was the white shape of Vindr. Her cloak billowed out behind her, getting swept away by the cold autumn winds. When she saw Torin she let out a strangled sob and her lips lifted into a grin.
The relief he felt the moment he saw her was immense. He rushed to her side and lifted her into an embrace. She kissed his cheek before warning him, “Careful of Vindr. I only just found her. We do not want her flying away again!”
He would have laughed aloud if he could have, but instead, he set her down and took the falcon from her grasp. With him out of the way, she asked the group of men, “Why are you gathered?”
No sooner had she spoken than she searched the crowd until she settled on Gunnar at the center of it all. A frown of confusion touched her face.
Ingvar spoke up. “We have found your wolf, Lady Ásta. He is both wolf and man, but Fenrir, he is not.”
Her brows furrowed, and she looked to Torin in confusion. He nodded his head to confirm what his cousin had said. Her voice came out strangled and choked. “It was you?”
Ásta’s hand lifted to her scarred cheek. In that moment it was all Torin could do not to strike Gunnar with his sword, he was filled with so much fury. This excuse for a man had terrorized his wife since she was young. To check himself, he turned around to find the sword’s scabbard and sheath it, so he would not be tempted.
Gothi Hákon cleared his throat and spoke up. “In light of these happenings, I declare that you, Gunnar the Ùlfhedinn, are stripped of your belongings and status for three years. If you show your face within that time, be it beast or man, you may be slain where you stand.”
“You find him guilty of lesser outlawry?” Ingvar spun around to question the gothi. “But he murdered a man!”
Gothi Hákon barked, “I do not see your father here, boy! I am the gothi at present and my judgment is final.”
“Very wise,” Bárthur mumbled beside him.
The gothi was shaking in his place. His cheeks were flushed with color, and his face was twisted in fury. Ingvar shared a look of displeasure with Torin but did not speak another word.
Gothi Hákon turned to Bárthur and scowled. “You are lucky I do not outlaw you, too. Instead, I dissolve the debt between you and these hardworking farmers. If I hear of you coming near this place again, I will reconsider outlawing you with your cousin!”
No one in the crowd spoke again. They only stared between the chieftain and his unworthy followers.
Gunnar dropped the rope that had bound his wrist and quicker than you could blink, his face and body were covered with a thick blanket of onyx fur. The enormous wolf stood up and lifted its upper lip in a toothy smile. It paused for a moment, casting one last look at Ásta and leapt into the darkness and out of sight.
The farmhands worked together to gather up Leifur’s body onto a wooden sledge, for he would need to be buried the following day. Gothi Hákon went back to the farm, and no one ventured to speak for fear of angering him in his current state. Bárthur walked behind everyone like an apparition that no one acknowledged.
Torin wrapped his arm around Ásta’s waist, holding her close. She rested her head on his shoulder and walked beside him back to the longhouse. Ingvar and Fólki’s kinsman went with them. Conversation turned to light topics, avoiding the gravity of what had just befallen them.
When they got home he was aware of Ingvar escorting Bárthur to his horse and belongings and leading him away from the farm. Torin secured Vindr in her mew, making sure it was locked. Then he followed his wife to their bed closet to lie beside her, feathering her brow and hairline with the tips of his fingers until her eyes closed and the sounds of her soft, rhythmic breathing filled the air. He must have fallen asleep, for he woke with a start some time later.
He left the bed closet to find Gothi Hákon collecting his breakfast and provisions for his journey home. The man seemed in a better mood than when they’d last parted, but only slightly. His demeanor was solemn and serious as he offered his hand to Torin. “I must get started if I am to stop by all of the farms on my way home, sharing the judgment of the outlaw, Gunnar. Your walls are strong and ready for winter. No doubt you will protect your land as you did last night.”
He looked like he wanted to say more, but thought better of it. Gothi Hákon left with haste before half of the house had wakened. Torin, frustrated, watched him ride over the land. If the chieftain had permanently outlawed his enemy as he’d expected, he would have felt vindicated.
Torin hoped Gunnar would show his face and get himself killed before his three years were up, for he deserved nothing better than that.
Chapter 12
When Ásta woke, the memories from last night washed over her, and she shivered from the chills that traced over her pores. The eyes that had haunted her nightmares were those of a man whose hatred went far deeper than she’d ever realized.
The door opened, interrupting her thoughts. Torin came into the bed closet. She pushed herself upright and felt his lips brush against her forehead. He muttered, “Gothi Hákon has gone. We should have no more troubles about the walls.”
She nodded and cupped her hands together in her lap. He looked down at her in silence before sitt
ing on the bed. His hand slipped around her waist. “Uncle will not be happy to hear of the judgment of lesser outlawry. It could test his new friendship with Hákon, which worries me as much as knowing Gunnar can return in three years.”
“Do you think he will?” Ásta wanted to hear him say he would not, but after learning of the secret held by her former suitor who’d been so dedicated to her misery, she worried he might never leave his cause behind.
“We should always be wary,” he answered and looked at her. “How are you feeling today? You appear to need a good soak in the hot bath. Your chores can wait.”
The thought of setting her achy body into the steaming basin did sound good. She was still put off from food and was tired from the disruption in the night. But then she found herself confused at his suggestion. “You have not said a word about me going in search of Vindr. Do you think it is safe at the bath?”
“I do not wish to keep you caged like a bird. If you are to protect yourself, you should have this.” He stood up and reached for a sheathed sword she hadn’t noticed before. Torin slid the blade out so she could see its shiny steel and the word inscribed along its length. “The Ulfberht will not break. Enemies run at the sight of it. Remember, keep the tip between you and your foe, and you will remain safe.”
“How did you come by it?” she asked, admiring its gleam in the dark.
Torin slid it back in its sheath and placed it in her awaiting hands. “It no longer belongs to its owner.”
She hesitated when accepting it. If anyone deserved to hold Gunnar’s former weapon, it was she. “I will take Elfa with me so that I will not be alone.”
“She is already waiting for you.”
Ásta pulled on her smock and quickly knotted her hair at the back of her head before leaving the bed closet with Torin close behind. When the farmhand saw her, she asked, “Do you wish some warm milk or flatbread?”
Scars (Time of Myths: Shapeshifter Sagas Book 2) Page 17