“I am sure,” Hallad replied. “This is our destination.” He stabbed at the ansuz rune with a thick finger, hoping he spoke the truth.
Chapter 3 7
Erik drew his broad sword from his scabbard, pulled down a branch and sliced off the tree’s limb.
“Nei!” screamed Rolf. He stumbled as he crossed under the low hanging trees, staggering as he reached out to his brother, his fingers spread in pain. Startled by Rolf’s appearance, Erik dropped his blade and scrambled to Rolf’s side.
“What is it brother?” Erik asked.
“You have to stop.”
“Stop what?”
Rolf wheezed. His face flushed a painful crimson color.
“By the gods, Rolf, what is the matter with you?”
Erik reached for his brother, wrapping his arm around his shoulder, but Rolf swatted him away. Bending at his middle, Rolf heaved again, holding his chest as if stabbed clean through.
“I can’t stand it,” Rolf whimpered.
“Can’t stand what, brother? I cannot help you if I don’t understand what’s wrong with you.”
Andvarri hopped over to the brothers, his injured leg bent at an impossible angle.
“What’s going on?” he squeezed out between tight lips. The dwarf put up a good front, but his pale skin and the beads of sweat breaking over his lip spoke of the man’s pain.
Rolf straightened, shaking his head in confusion.
“I don’t know what happened.” Rolf tested his feet on the ground and walked in a circle, rubbing his chest with curiosity. “It’s gone. I feel fine now.”
Erik shrugged his shoulders then returned to severing another branch from the apple tree, when Rolf cried out again, “Nei! Stop!”
With exasperation, Erik turned on Rolf.
“What is wrong with you? I need to get Andvarri’s leg set.”
But the sight of Rolf—fallen to all fours, heaving for breath, his face burning red—caused Erik to, once again, rush to his collapsed brother. He picked him up by the waist, turning him and lowering him into his lap while Rolf grabbed at his chest, bringing his knees upright.
“You cannot cut the branches,” Rolf whined. “She dies a little when you do.”
“Take a deep breath, brother. Tell me where it hurts,” Erik said as he held Rolf’s head in his lap.
“I told you. You’re killing her,” Rolf cried. He squeezed at his chest, wrenching both his tunic and skin within his fist.
Erik sent a questioning glance to Andvarri. The dwarf scooted downward, lifting his right leg as he did, lowering himself and arranging the busted limb out in front of him, while his face spread with pain at the effort.
“The land?” Andvarri asked Rolf. “Is that who Erik kills?”
Rolf nodded, relief of their understanding washing over his face, releasing the tight press of his features. Redness drained from his cheeks and forehead and he lay still, spent in his brother’s lap.
“We’ll rest. We’ve been pushing hard these last few days.”
Lowering Rolf’s head to the ground, Erik eased his body out from under him and rose.
“I’ll make a fire—”
“Nei!” screamed Rolf, rolling over to push himself upright. “Did you not hear me? A fire will hurt her! I can feel it. Everything she feels. I feel it too. When you cut the branch, I felt the sick slither of your sword in my skin. Brother, you cannot harm her.”
“So we sit here and freeze?”
“If we must,” Rolf insisted, crossing his long arms over his chest, his glare determined. Erik wondered if he had ever seen his little brother in such a state of defiance.
“We rest then,” Erik said, softening.
Erik collected the branches he had already cut and ripped cloth from an extra shirt in his pack then set about adjusting Andvarri’s leg. Rolf huddled by the trunk of a nearby tree, seeming to take comfort from the contact of his back with the bark.
Initially Erik had planned to make camp for his two companions then set off to find help and seek Emma. He hadn’t thought out the details, only knowing Andvarri could not travel in his current condition and needed the attention of a sage, or seidr-wife, or at the least a village mid-wife. Though he fumbled at the dwarf’s instruction—Andvarri retching when he set the bone—Erik knew his lack of healing skills could cripple the dwarf in the long term and did not want to take the chance. He also didn’t want to be beaten about the ears with a rolling pin if he returned Andvarri to his wife in a broken condition.
But Rolf’s new state of sensitivity wore on Erik. Could he sense the land’s pain? Or had crossing into this strange world coerced his wits, the way Erik’s own sanity had been in question since losing Emma? He couldn’t leave his little brother and feared Andvarri would not be safe alone, but he couldn’t abandon the quest for his beloved either.
Erik closed his eyes and fought the battle inside his head—the one waging Rolf’s wellbeing against Emma’s. He nodded off, dreaming of Emma in a blue dress with long wolf-like fangs for teeth, battling Rolf, who caused the earth to tremble with a song from his lips. When his heavy lids managed to crack back open, Rolf was gone.
*****
Erik scrambled to his feet. He maneuvered around a fitfully sleeping Andvarri and bolted through the apple orchard, searching for signs of Rolf’s passage. Birds chattered from high branches, settling in for the evening and calling out to their flock in a wild composition of night song.
If Alvenheim was not the land of the gods, it should have been. Sweet, white blossoms blushed with pink flourished on every tree branch alongside shiny red fruit, telling Erik the mysterious grove would somehow defy all logic and produce ripe apples in a continuous batch. He reached up to pluck one, but thought of Rolf’s violent reaction and decided to continue his search instead.
The sun dipped over the horizon, casting rays of sunlight throughout the thick orchard, the downy grass beneath him a whisper upon his feet as he walked. Rolf’s big footprints left dents in the grass and Erik followed them to a stream, where his brother’s steps disappeared. Erik stepped into the stream. Surprisingly, warmth washed over his shins, as the water lapped against his feet. The tepid, clear water revealed vibrantly colored teal, maroon and gray rocks shining in its depths.
As Erik crossed, a voice drifted over the pattering of water against rock. Each note danced in the air, clear and resonate, a woman’s sweet falsetto. The melody carried a caressing quality, as if the singer intended to show her devoted love to her audience through her notes. He had never heard such a striking voice in all his life, save Swan’s when she had spoken to him in the dream. He fouled at the thought of that woman and cleared his mind of any of her associates, namely his ex-blood sworn.
Erik continued on, picking up Rolf’s muddy tracks on the other side of the creek. The song carried him forward, wrapping him in its summer melody. Though he could not make out the words, which were all sung in an unfamiliar tongue, it didn't matter. His worries, his anger, his determination, all dissolved with each and every note.
Before he knew it, he stumbled upon Rolf, watching something over the upward sweeping branches of a heather bush. He reached out to pluck Rolf’s sleeve. Rolf turned and shushed him with a finger to his lips, directing his gaze to a woman sitting in the meadow clearing at the edge of a transparent blue pond.
Amber hair flowed around her heart-shaped face, framing brilliant blade-green eyes. She focused on a stone centered on the ground in front of her. Her ample lips formed strange words, as the melody floated out around her, while willowy hands danced over the object before her. She wove her fingers through the air matching the rhythm of her song and the rock melded, moving in rivulets as it morphed in shape, growing upward toward her hands. The gray of the stone took on a luminous quality, glistening in the waning light, as it twisted into form—flowers, vines, sky, clouds and the sun showering down upon the scene created in rock. A bell-like dome topped off the creation. The woman’s song lilted and a runic symbol spar
ked into existence in the fluid stone, white lightening blazing its way across the surface.
Erik pulled Rolf’s shoulder backward and whispered, “She’s one of them. A songvari. She could be dangerous.”
“Nei,” said Rolf, still entranced by the woman’s ability.
“Let’s go,” persisted Erik. “Before she spots us.”
“Nei,” said Rolf once more, not bothering to look away from the woman.
The songvari stopped, glancing to her side. “Who’s there?” she called out.
Neither brother moved.
“I know you are watching me.” The woman rose from her work and turned toward the heather bush.
Rolf stumbled from the brush, towing Erik by his side, forcing his elder brother into the clearing.
“I didn’t mean to spy. It’s just—” Rolf’s words evaporated on his tongue. He stared at the woman dumbfounded.
“You’re very beautiful,” Rolf stammered, his face blooming red. He bowed, bending to his knees.
The woman assessed the two brothers. “You are not from here,” she stated.
Since his little brother seemed stricken by the idiot stick, Erik answered, “Nei, we are not. We beg your pardon mistress. We have nei intention of causing insult.”
“None may carry weapons here.” She gestured toward Erik’s broadsword, strapped at his waist.
Rolf fumbled at his midriff, produced a knife and placed the blade upon the ground. A wide, white-tooth grin spread his lips, his eyes sparking at the songvari.
Amusement registered in the woman’s grass-green eyes at Rolf’s display. She addressed Erik directly, “The Palace prosecutes those who carry weapons. It is not wise to display them openly.”
When Erik didn’t comply or answer, the songvari asked, “Where are you from?”
“Far away,” said Erik. The woman seemed harmless enough, but Erik didn’t trust her . . . yet. “We are looking for a man named Lothar.”
The woman buckled at the name, her face breaking from smooth to troubled. “
Why?” she asked. “Do you seek his protection?”
Erik laughed, a hard sounding noise tainted with anger and sarcasm.
“Hardly.”
“Then why?” she pressed.
“He has something that does not belong to him.” Erik watched her face.
Lothar’s name incited fear within her. Her features twisted and her skin blanched when Erik spoke the name; he wondered what Lothar had done to her.
“How do you know of Lord Lothar?” she asked, eyes clouding with suspicion.
“I have seen him,” confessed Erik. “In my . . . ” He did not want to confide in the woman about his visions, but his tongue slipped and he did not know how to cover his own slack speech.
The songvari’s features drooped with worry. “In your dreams?”
Erik nodded.
“Then you have seen the Shadow?” she pressed.
The woman crossed the distance between them, reaching out to rest her hand on Erik's forearm. Her touch sent a river of warmth up his arm; much like the song had calmed his thoughts—so did her caress. She searched his face, her eyes seeking his.
“You have great need. I can see it within you.” A sad sigh escaped her lips as she continued, “Lothar resides in a place called Holyfell, not a day’s ride from where we stand.”
“Can you direct us?” asked Erik.
The songvari tightened, her muscles going rigid, her gracefulness sucked away.
“It is the Mother’s command for one such as myself to serve those in need.”
She curtsied to the brothers, tipping her chin to her chest, her hand remaining on Erik.
Erik’s brow knitted in confusion.
“What does that mean?”
“It means, as a songvari, by the Mother’s will I am your servant.”
“Then you will show us the way,” Erik clarified.
“I will,” she replied. “Just know what you ask of me also endangers my life. I trust you to not take that life lightly.”
Chapter 3 8
Emma lay on her back on top of her downy bed covers, cringing as Lothar slithered down next to her. Her heart thumped erratically. Nausea flooded her stomach and she bit back the bile forming in her throat. The lord took her hand in his; the waxiness of his fingers intertwining with hers caused the sourness to revisit her mouth and she swallowed hard as she held back her tears.
Whitefoot had been removed from the room earlier, in the mouth of the silver wolf. The wolf assured Emma upon exiting that the polecat would not be harmed. The polecat did not take kindly to anyone near Emma, at least not anyone as threatening as Lothar, and had lunged at the lord’s throat. Lothar did not stand for mutiny on the part of his gift, threatening the creature with an instantaneous demise. When Emma had argued for the polecat’s life, rationalizing the creature only did the job he was given by protecting her, Lothar had conceded and promised Whitefoot would be returned, unharmed, after their business had concluded.
“Calm yourself.” Lothar squeezed Emma’s hand with too much pressure. “This is for the best. Remember, all you do now keeps Erik safe from harm.”
Though Emma was sure the lord tried to sound reassuring, his tone slithered, like the feel of his hand against hers. He was so close to her she smelled the hot, syrupy aroma of elderberry wine on his breath. Her stomach lurched once more as she fought away the rising sickness and prepared to tell her only love she did not want him anymore.
“You must relax. Sleep.”
The revilement of Lothar next to her caused a curious paradox of sensations. One, the sick that built in her stomach increased, and two, it affected her like a sedative causing her eyelids to droop. Emma’s mouth grew thick. She struggled to retain consciousness, objecting to the lord's presence.
“Erik will not come with you here.”
“I have explained this. You need me here and we need to be connected in order for me to be inside the dream with you. If I am here, Erik will not protest when he sees we are united.”
When he sees I am your prisoner, she thought, and the tears threatened again.
Lothar slunk closer, his shoulder pressing against hers. Numbness spread through her arm, into her chest and throughout her body. Her mind relaxed, not in a peaceful manner, but in an incapable of fighting back, inebriated manner.
And she slept.
Emma found herself in a dull landscape, rolling mist quashing in on all sides. Lothar appeared in the distance, standing back from her, giving her space.
“Erik,” she called.
“Nei,” commanded Lothar. “Do not call him. Let him come to you.”
Emma obeyed, waiting as the ashen landscape whirled about her, casting blackness over Lothar’s waxy features.
“He’s not coming,” said Emma, hoping beyond reason they could quit this madness, but she knew doing so would only prolong the hurt.
“Patience. He will be here. I am sure of it.”
Lothar had no more than spoken the words when Erik appeared in the grayness, a transparent figure in the distance. His body blinked in and out of the background until he spotted Emma. When he looked at her a rush of desire flushed through her body. She wanted to run to him, hold him, and feel his strong arms safely around her.
“Emma!” Erik cried out and his body surged forward, turning opaque as he flew through the landscape to land directly in front of her.
Emma relished the moment, staring up into eyes that had felt like they were her destiny for so many moons. But a bittersweet ache shot through her, knowing this would be the last time she would look up at him and see his adoring face smile down at her. Her breath trembled inside her breast. Erik reached out to take her hands in his, but she jerked away. A pained confusion washed over his features, causing shadows to play in the depths of his angular face.
“Emma, I am close.”
“Nei. You must not come,” Emma said, shaking her head.
“You don’t understand. I am almo
st here. I can take you away from this place.” Erik's face looked so expectant, so excited. As he said the words her chest seared with raw anguish, the beat of her heart quaking in misery.
“Nei,” Emma said more forcefully. “I do not want you to come, Erik. I am happy here.”
With outstretched arms, Erik tried to take her hands in his again. As his warm fingertips brushed hers a rush of all that was Erik swept through her, heating her insides. She forced his hands away and the absence of them sent a chill straight into her chest.
Erik shook his head, unbelieving, taking a weighted step backward. The silence between them swelled. Emma’s heartbeat thumped against her breast.
Then Erik noticed Lothar through the haze. His eyes narrowed at the man.
“What have you done to her? You hold her against her will!”
Lothar smiled and shrugged, waiting for Emma.
“Nei, Erik.” Emma stepped away from Erik, her heart ripping at the disconnection.
She joined Lothar, though she could not bear to seek the lord’s hand. Lothar sensed the hesitation and completed the action for her and the sick sensation of their joining caused the vomit to return to her mouth. She swallowed against it, hardening herself against both Lothar and Erik.
“You lie.” Erik’s voice flattened.
He sought Emma’s gaze from across the distance. His turbulent green eyes seized her, holding her. For an instant she almost burst, confessing the deception, but Lothar yanked on her hand, reminding her of her cause.
“Lothar and I are to be wed. I do not wish to see you again.”
“You lie,” Erik said again, but this time his tone deflated into a desperate whisper.
Lothar squeezed her hand harder and sickness lurched into her throat. She thought she’d turn and empty the contents of her belly but pushed her speech out instead.
“I do not want to see you again, Erik Sigtrigson. Do you understand me? Ever! Now go away!”
Emma whirled from them both, unable to view the damage she had just delivered. Wetness spilled from her eyes, streaking her cheeks, and within a breath she was returned to her room with the lord pressing against her side.
Bonded: Book One of the ShadowLight Saga, an Epic Fantasy Adventure Page 19