Land of the Gods (Isolde Saga Book 4)

by Robert D. Jones

  Land of the Gods

  Isolde Saga Book Four

  Robert D. Jones

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  PRELUDE

  Wulfric marched up the hill toward the Jarl's hall. The villagers cried out to him, begging to hear what news he had brought from the north. He looked on at them disdainfully as he passed, their grey faces held eyes heavy with fear and anxiety that was made no softer from the cold winter winds seeping down the eastern mountains. This was it, Eyndale, his home, yet he could not shake the feeling of loss and prayed that he had made the right decision to leave Isolde when he did.

  There is no time... he thought as the people pressed in around him, and with great strides, he pushed passed them and made for the hall. He threw open the great oaken doors, and the shadows within swallowed him up as he walked toward the throne dais. The people dared not enter, but Wulfric knew what he was doing. Before him sat the Jarl, Sigurd, his oldest friend, but who was this stranger by his side, hanging back in the shadows?

  "Where is she?" Sigurd boomed as he threw himself from his chair and stepped down to the floor.

  "She is safe," Wulfric said, though he knew it was only half true. "She is with Skaldi and Harald."

  Sigurd covered his mouth with his hand, and for the first time, Wulfric noticed how much the Jarl had aged since he left. In mere weeks he seemed to have become years older. Sigurd's eyes had sunk in and dulled, new greys seemed to have sprouted from his hair, worry lines cut across his forehead, and the deep gouges of a permanent frown had formed by his mouth.

  "Where?" Sigurd asked again.

  "Heroth Nuir," Wulfric said, "they were heading there when I left them."

  "Gods," Sigurd cursed and spun on his heels as he tore at his hair.

  "Jarl," Wulfric hesitated. "We do not have much time, Hrothgar is marching south, we need to meet him on the field."

  Sigurd baulked out a laugh and turned back at Wulfric. The old Jarl was wavering, Wulfric could see it in his eyes, maybe he didn't have the strength left to do what was needed.

  "Meet him on the field?" Sigurd said. "With what? My fifty men and a handful of farmers?"

  Wulfric could feel his anger rising. For too long he had held his tongue around the Jarl. He had come too far to let the south fall now.

  "Enough," Wulfric bellowed. "Where is the Sigurd I knew? Where is the man that slew the dragon? Where is my friend, my brother-in-arms? All I see before me now is a shell of a man to afraid to leave his hall!"

  Sigurd's eyes glowed and Wulfric watched the man's lips turn up.

  "He is old, you fool," Sigurd cried back. "Time has taken the man you knew. I will not throw the lives of my people away on a whim for glory."

  Wulfric stepped forward, he was a head taller than the Jarl and towered over the man.

  "No," he said. "No, I can see him in there, Sigurd, crying to come out. I have been to the other Jarl's and they are with us. Hirth and Harwich, and Helby too should the message get through in time. Two-thousand men, Sigurd... two-thousand warriors ready to unite. But they will only fight under your banner."

  "It's not enough," Sigurd shook his head. "We will be swept away like leaves on the wind. Why me, Wulfric, why?"

  "Because they remember, Sigurd. They remember a time when you were fearless and led them to freedom. They remember a man who would not turn away from a fight and would never leave the evils in the world unchallenged."

  "It doesn't matter," Sigurd said. "We do not have enough men."

  "Your daughter is waiting for you," Wulfric growled. His temper was turning, he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Does it mean nothing to you that she has been fighting your war? You couldn't imagine it, Sigurd, the strength within her."

  "You know nothing-" Sigurd said before being cut off.

  "He is right..." a calm voice stated.

  Wulfric looked back to the dais and nearly choked at the sight. The long fair hair, the elegant walk, the silver blade shining out from his side and half hidden in the layers of white cloth that veiled his body.

  "Narbeth?" Wulfric said in a daze. "You made it?"

  "I did, my friend, but the Jarl said to me what he has said to you."

  The elf's tread was so graceful that he seemed to float across the floor toward them rather than step.

  "The Jarl is right," Narbeth said to Wulfric. "You have too few men to win against Hrothgar."

  The Jarl nodded and all Wulfric could think was how this was defeatist madness.

  "But you do not stand alone, Sigurd," Narbeth went on. "The children of the forest can help."

  Sigurd's eye twitched in thought and he nodded slowly.

  "How many soldiers can you give us?" he asked.

  The elf tilted his head to the side and back again.

  "That is not in my hands, who can say how many will rally to the cause. The realms of men have given us little reason to help."

  "How can I march like this?" Sigurd pleaded. "If we get stranded out there alone we will be done in the first charge."

  Narbeth smiled, "have faith, Jarl. Give me Wulfric, his words may spurn my people to fight for you."

  Wulfric's heart jolted at the sound of his name.

  "No, no, no," he protested. "My place is by the side of the Jarl, and I promised Isolde that I would be there for her."

  Sigurd put his hand on Wulfric's shoulder and looked him deep in the eye. For the first time in years, Wulfric saw his friend come alive again.

  "You want a fight, Wulfric?" he said. "Then this is it. I will rally the men and find my daughter, but without the elves, it will be all for nothing. Follow Narbeth, my friend and I will see you again on the field of battle. We will end Hrothgar together."

  CHAPTER I

  "Vis was not always named so, the name actually means Wise in the old tongue," Skaldi explained as the troupe walked the lonely path east of the Silent Hills. "He was born blind, and so was named Bolvadur, or cursed, from his father whom the man remembers nothing about. Following the customs of the far north, Vis was left on the snowy slopes of the mountains, did you know? His name etched in a wooden sign hung around his neck so that the gods would know him when they collected his soul."

  "That's horrific..." Isolde said.

  "Hmmm, it is," Skaldi agreed.

  "They still do it you know," Thodin chimed in.

  "They do," Skaldi confirmed. "However, Vis did not die. The infant was found and pitied by strangers who took him as far south as Skalloway. There he grew up as a blind, homeless, street child, who learned that sight is only one sense of many. It was there on the streets that Vis learned to hear, smell, taste, and touch his surroundings so that he could be far more intimate with them than others. He learned to beg and steal as need be, and though blind, he had glimpses of light flash to him from time to time. Slowly, this 'sight' developed until shapes could be seen, fragmentary motions of brilliant light, of all colours, or so he says. He learned to associate colour with intent, and so Vis could see into the soul of any who stood before him."

  The group had been walking for days now, up and down the Silent Hills without as much as a bark from a wild dog to break their thoughts. No chirping birds or braying animals, just the relentless wind that howled and hissed on the hilltops and through the valleys. Isolde wondered why Skaldi was so intent on telling the story of this Vis. The high-priest of Heroth Nuir. But she tried not to think too much about it, but rather enjoy the last sunshine of autumn with the kindly tale.

  "He studied his new vision until the auras he could see could be discerne
d more easily," Skaldi went on. "Soon the colours, frequency of vibration, and opacity could all be used to read the soul of a person like a book. He could tell a person's intent, wishes, troubles, and state of mind by merely 'looking' at them. As word carried of Vis' talents, he earned himself a new income and came to the attention of the priesthood of Hēr.

  These priests came to Vis, and seeing their intentions as divine, he followed them back to the island temple and submitted to their initiations and teachings. It is known only to those members of the priesthood what he learned, but when he was ordained a priest, his connection with the spirit world was beyond imagining. It is said that he can see their world as clearly as we see our own, and so he straddles the boundary between life and death."

  "That seems a heavy burden, Skaldi," Snorri said in his low tone.

  "It would be indeed, a terrible burden to carry."

  "Why are you telling us this?" Harald asked.

  "Because it is good to understand the man you are about to meet, young Harald. Knowledge is the greatest power you can possess. It will help you understand the world, why people are the way they are, and give you insight on how best to take action."

  The group stopped suddenly as the land dropped at the edge of the world. Before them was a wide chasm, swollen with the rushing white crests of crashing waves far below. Isolde looked down as the sea surged and swallowed the grey rocks.

  A mist was rolling in from the ocean, slowly consuming the island of Heroth Nuir that stood before them. It was a great peak of dark grey rock jutting out from the ocean. Its plateau at the same level they stood, though its land looked as untamed and as wild as the times in which the gods walked the earth. Skaldi motioned toward the bridge. A thin wooden pass that connected the isle to the mainland. Fifty feet of old, dark timbers, worn smooth with the passage of time and hanging precariously above the raging sea far below.

  "It has never failed," Skaldi reassured.

  Ancient skulls looked down at them from poles that marked the bridge's entrance. Swirling sigils of dark dry blood adorned their foreheads. Thodin stepped forward toward one of the totems.

  “I wouldn’t,” Harald snapped. “The last man I saw playing with skulls died only a night later.”

  The dwarf scoffed beneath sunken brows, yet took a step back all the same. It wasn’t wise to tempt magic, not here, not when they could feel the power of the island drawing them in. Isolde timidly took the first step onto the planks. She clung to the side rail and peered over the edge at the raging ocean.

  "Don’t look down, missy,” Snorri said.

  She looked back at the greying dwarf who smiled a toothy grin at her, it did little to still her nerves, but still, she took one step after another until she felt as though she was floating above the world with nothing but chaos around her. A blast of briny air threw her against the rope rail and for a moment all she could see was the white caps breaking below her before a strong arm pulled her back.

  One step at a time... she told herself. The wood creaked and rocked as she edged herself closer toward the isle. With a final step she was on solid ground once more and then the others piled in around her.

  She was thankful the dwarves had come, Snorri and Thodin made her laugh and broke the tension that kept her stomach in knots. Dok, the shaggy wolfhound made her feel safe, but she knew where her path lay, and not even Skaldi could help her now.

  The world was primal here. She could feel it. More painted skulls watched over the bridge and others hung from nearby trees. A rough track ran from the bridge into the wild woods before them.

  "It is the trail of blood," Skaldi said, "it is for the precession."

  "What precession?" Harald asked.

  Skaldi chuckled, "I forget how young you both are. It is the track that leads to Heroth Nuir proper. It would be wise for us to leave it unspoiled but I fear there is no other way."

  "Unspoiled?" asked Isolde.

  "It is sacrilege to walk this ground, Isolde. This is the land of the gods. That is their path. We can only hope that they accept our presence."

  A shudder ran up Isolde's spine. She turned back around and saw that the mist had swallowed the bridge and the mainland behind her. She felt alone, even with the company of Skaldi, Harald, the dwarves and Dok.

  A long, mournful cry from a horn rumbled the earth around them. It's low, resonating tone cried out like a whispered warning in the wind. Isolde's heart raced in panic and her eyes darted from left to right.

  "Come now!" Skaldi commanded, "we must make the temple before the setting of the sun. It is not wise to linger on this island after dark."

  He slipped in front of Isolde and led the group up the path they had been watching. The ground was rough, the stone trail well worn, yet the weeds and grasses had begun to reclaim it for the most part. They pushed through blackberry arms that clawed out and stomped through thick growths of nettle. It was easy enough. The path led gently up the hill and they hugged a craggy wall as they wound their way around the island. The light of the sun began to fade and the still air came to life with the whispers and eyes of unseen things. Isolde could feel them all around.

  They pushed through the last of the undergrowth and Isolde gasped in awe. Heroth Nuir. It stood before her as a grand temple wrought from the greatest planks of dark oak she had ever seen. It towered thirty feet high and was covered in the rich engraving of heroic deeds and dreadful deities. Around the building was the standing stones. Great monoliths twice as high as a man and older than anyone would dare guess. There were twelve. She knew there were. Just like the stone circle from the Watcher's Wood. Twelve stones for the twelve gods.

  Slowly, they moved up toward the sacred site, but it looked dead to them. No life stirred here. There were no priests rushing out to greet them as wayward pilgrims might expect.

  Skaldi led them up to the temple and forced the heavy wooden doors inward. They groaned under their own weight and a low hum of chanting flooded from the open hall. They could see and smell sweet incense as it swirled between flickering flames of hidden fires. Isolde stepped into the enormous hallway, great wooden pillars lined the way, towering up to the roof above their heads, and leading toward the great effigy of Hēr, the god of death. He had been delicately carved from a single white oak, and the totem loomed above them with its dark eyes watching their every move.

  Isolde couldn't bear to look on it. The image seemed to pulsate a will of its own. She made her way hesitantly, each step echoing out against the chanting. She peered to her left and right, and between each pillar, a priest stood. Their black robes covering all except their deeply scarred, pale, bald heads. Each one had cut himself in patterns significant to the gods. Pale white lines of swirling knots and sigils. They were living sacrifices, bound to this place. She could hear their prayers in their long moans and trance-induced hymns.

  Slowly she approached the white wood of Hēr. She hadn't noticed the effigy's feet diving deep into the well of water below him. The temple seemed to have been built with this spring in mind. The water bubbled up from behind and flowed silently around the wood into a cool still pond. She stared into it, the god's reflection beaming back up at her. And as the hazy light flickered with the smoky incense, the black water seemed to come alive. Spirits swayed and danced behind Hēr in the water. Their long wispy hands reaching out at Isolde. She flinched as Skaldi took her shoulder.

  He whispered, "do not look... not yet..."

  She looked back at Harald, he stood entranced by the image of the god of death. Their eyes locked together, but where were the dwarves? Her eyes flickered back before she realised they were still at the door.

  A voice boomed out from the shadows, "who brings arms into this holy ground?"

  Isolde froze to the spot.

  "Who!?" the voice repeated as an old man shuffled into the light.

  "Father," Skaldi said with a shaking voice. "We mean no disrespect."

  "Silence!" His voice echoed through the hall.

  Isolde
looked at the old man. He was hunched over as though his bones had fused together to create some kind of endless torture. Rough black cloth clung to his thin body, and a deep hood hid his face. Slowly he hobbled over to Skaldi and Isolde, seemingly having not noticed the entranced Harald, the dwarves at the door, or the dog that was cowering behind them.

  "It has been a long time, Skaldi," he said.

  Skaldi kept his head bowed.

  "You bring the girl because you are lost?" He asked.

  "Not lost, father," Skaldi replied, "but in desperate need of your help."

  The old priest looked Isolde over. As he twisted his head like some fowl carrion bird, the light flickered up under his hood. She quaked in fear. The man's eyes were no more than fused skin sealed shut. The eyelids seemed to have melted right over his sockets. He smiled a toothless grin at her before bowing his head back down.

  "What is it you want, girl?" The old priest moaned.

  Skaldi stepped between them.

  "I am sorry, father, let me introduce you. Isolde this is Father Vis, Vis, this is..."

  "Be silent, Skaldi. I asked her a question, not you."

  Isolde took a breath. The old man was arrogant, she thought, but then she second-guessed herself, maybe she was judging him too quickly.

  "Ama sent me," she said quickly.

  Vis's cracked lips twisted for a second before a thin smile spread across his face.

  "What for?" he asked.

  "I have something..." she stopped for a moment, now wasn't the time to reveal all her secrets. "You are to help me cross into the netherworld."

  The old priest choked out a laugh and looked deep into Isolde through his sealed eyes.

  "It's a big place, girl, where are you going?"

  "Bezhaal," she answered quickly. The name just came to her, she didn't know why.

  The priest's smirk faded away and his lips twisted back into a frown. He nodded slowly and led Isolde deep into the earth under the temple. A trail of priests followed them chanting in sorrowful tones. The way was lit by small candles flickering against the cold dark stone as the steps wound their way down and down.