Broken: Book 2 of the ShadowLight Saga

by Mande Matthews

  I will not cry over what has gone before.

  But the burning anger from the memory deluged her, filling up her limbs, giving her impetus.

  Hang tight, Whitefoot.

  She hitched her skirt and released the dyrr from her stocking. The medallion glowed; the runes sped across its surface.

  I hope this works.

  The runes spilled from her memory to her mouth.

  "Raidho… Iss… Vaettfang…"

  Chapter 22

  "Raidho! Iss! Vaettfang!" Emma tried not to scream. She couldn’t risk being overheard. Her voice came out as a low hiss as she repeated the runes over and over.

  Why isn’t it working?

  Her fingers trembled around the burning medal.

  "Oh, please! Gods, Goddess, Mother, Guardian, someone! Make it work!"

  She shook the dyrr. She wanted to throw it against the wall, but she couldn’t. She needed it to perform.

  Uh, Emma, Whitefoot interrupted.

  What?

  I think you’re saying Vaettfang wrong.

  Why didn’t you say so?

  I was afraid to interrupt.

  She half sighed, half laughed at herself.

  I’m sorry, Whitefoot. I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately.

  Va… ett… fang, said Whitefoot in her head, slowly drawing the word out.

  Then Emma repeated the runes once more, and a gust of biting wind shot through her as a tear opened in mid-air, revealing a snow encrusted landscape on the other side. A hopeful smile spread her lips.

  She swallowed hard, and Emma and Whitefoot stepped through the doorway created by the dyrr.

  ***

  A blanket of black clouds rolled overhead, blocking any light from the sun. An icy breeze whispered in the air as if a storm brewed in the distance. Goose bumps broke out all over Emma’s body; she wished she would have thought to bring a mantle along, but without any protection, she snuggled her arms across her ribcage and rubbed the length of her forearms.

  Emma glanced back toward the doorway, rethinking what now seemed like a rash plan, but the doorway to Glitner had already blinked out of existence. Only a landscape of ice-white and dead trees stretched before her.

  Even the warmth of the dyrr dissipated. Emma glanced down. The medallion lay cold and dormant in her palm; its face no longer morphed from rune to rune. Instead, the dyrr displayed an idle image of the Guardian Tree. She had no idea if the dyrr would reactivate and return them to Glitner if she repeated the runes again. She hefted her skirt. The chill pierced her flesh as she hurriedly stowed the medallion in the fold of her stocking and recovered her legs.

  Whitefoot shivered and pressed his length into the skin of her neck.

  What now?

  We find the wolves.

  How?

  Emma scanned the periphery searching for Grimnear, but the clouds pressed low, impairing their view.

  I don’t know, admitted Emma.

  We better find them before we freeze to death.

  Emma edged forward, her shoe sinking into the powder of newly fallen snow.

  Svol! She called in her head, reaching out as far as she could manage. Arvak! Where are you?

  Only the whistle of wind replied, so the girl and her polecat trudged onward.

  The ice bit through her thin, summer shoes and within a hundred paces, her toes numbed beneath the satiny material. In Scandia, her shoes would have been thicker all year round, made of tough hide, and when the snow covered the ground, they would have tied on overshoes of thick fur to keep their feet warm. All she had now was the pair Lothar had given to her. Even thinking his name caused her stomach to catch. He had made a show about how Scandians had so little, and how he had given her so much. Her dressing chamber had been filled with all sorts of finery—dresses, mantles, stockings, hair pins, and more. None of which she even wanted. An entire wardrobe of shoes had lined pretty shelves. "A shoe for every season," that monster had said. "Even if the weather in Alvenheim is not as harsh as Scandia, you will have the best of all comforts."

  But the weather here was the worst she’d ever seen.

  I’m hungry.

  I didn’t bring us any food, Whitefoot. I’m sorry.

  Emma should have thought this through a little better. She had reasoned she could find the wolves and swiftly return them back through the dyrr.

  Svol! Arvak! Can you hear me? She called again and again.

  Even the polecat joined in, sending out images of him and Emma searching, but polecats weren’t in the habit of speaking to wolves, and his efforts fell short.

  As they pressed on, Emma’s toes went from numb to burning, along with her hands. She tucked her fingers underneath her arms to gain warmth, but her dress—one she had taken from Grimnear before they departed for Glitner, as she could not have remained in that wedding gown of Lothar’s for a single breath longer than she had to—was not made for its practicality. Though the generous folds of material provided some protection, it left her neck, upper chest, and forearms exposed to the nip of the air, and a reddish hue covered her exposed skin.

  Every bit of the landscape around them looked the same: dead tree after dead tree, fallen or half erect over a sheet of white. Emma swung her head side to side, searching for any hint of Grimnear in the distance, assuming the wolves would have stayed close, but the low cloud bank disguised the horizon.

  Are we lost? asked Whitefoot.

  Nei, she replied, but feared she lied.

  An eerie howl sounded. Not a wolf, but the wind. The noise whipped from behind, picking up the dusted layer of snow from the ground. Emma's skirts flared; she grabbed them, but she fumbled with the material. The cold burning in her fingertips made her hands into unruly lumps, unwilling to cooperate. Using her hands like paddles, she forced the gown down. Her back bent with the force as they staggered forward, blown along by the power of the gust. Snow took flight, turning the air into a blaze of whiteness.

  Emma couldn't see anything.

  It's so cold, complained Whitefoot.

  I know.

  The polecat shimmied in her hair until he managed to create a thick roll of her locks, spun around him like a bug in a cocoon.

  We missed the morning meal, and now we're nearing the midday meal, complained Whitefoot, his stomach rumbling.

  Something sounded in front of them.

  Shush! said Emma.

  But it’s cold. Nei, it’s freezing, and I’m hungry—

  Emma forced her hand up against the gale, hushing the polecat once again. Did you hear that?

  I can't hear anything over this wind and the roar of my belly!

  Again, something sounded. A moan? A cry?

  There! said Emma.

  Whitefoot stretched his neck, poking his nose from his cocoon of hair, listening.

  But the storm continued, kicking up snow from the ground, creating a thick panel of white that stretched eight paces in the air. Between the shriek of wind and thickness of the snow, they were practically deaf and blind.

  With the strong gust at Emma's back, she fought to stay upright. Unable to see the ground, she kicked her foot ahead of her with each step, searching by feel alone for any obstruction before placing a step and stumbling forward. Her toes burned beneath her shoes; they stung like an icy fire devoured them.

  The whimper sounded again.

  Close, she thought.

  Then through the white sheet of blustering snow, two gray-green glows became visible.

  Eyes! There! Arvak! Arvak! Is that you?

  A low, dangerous growl responded. It rumbled through the howl of the storm.

  Emma kicked her foot wildly, searching for another safe spot to step, trying not to trip.

  Emma, nei, warned Whitefoot. Something's not right.

  But Emma continued through the blinding snow toward the intensifying growl.

  She reached out with her mind. Arvak? She sent images of herself, and she connected.

  What returned sent a rush of te
rror through her: strong, primal, emotion—the feeling of grief, fear, and hatred.

  The hairs stood on Whitefoot, grazing Emma's neck.

  Emma tread onward again, her hands reaching out in front of her.

  Don’t! warned Whitefoot.

  Before she knew what happened, a force smacked into her, knocking her to the ground. Her back thudded on the hard layer of ice beneath the remaining powder, knocking the wind from her lungs. Whitefoot dug his claws into her hair, clinging to her.

  Something—paws? Claws?—clipped her skin, piercing through her flesh. She rolled, trying to escape the attack.

  Arvak! she screamed. It's me! It's Emma!

  Suddenly, all movements stopped. Another whimper sounded. Emma lay flat on her back. A trickle of wetness slid across her arm. Blood? Whitefoot burrowed underneath the crook of her neck, hiding. The little critter shook uncontrollably. All the while, two paws pressed on her chest, keeping her pinned. Through the blur of snow, Arvak loomed, his eyes half-crazed as he stared down at the helpless girl.

  "Arvak, it's me," she said softly.

  His eyes guardedly flicked with recognition; the madness in them dampening.

  Emma?

  She nodded, the icy ground scraping the back of her head.

  Why haven't you come for us sooner?

  Chapter 23

  Emma reached up, planting her frozen fingers into Arvak’s fur, hugging him with all her might.

  Arvak flinched at her grip. He’s angry, she thought, but then she reconsidered. Nei, he’s hurting.

  The girl released her arms, and the wolf stepped off her chest. Emma stood, the polecat still clinging to her, and brushed snow from her bottom. She registered a stinging on her forearm, and when she checked her arm, she realized a long scratch broke the skin and blood oozed from her flesh. She ripped a length of her underskirt and held the cloth over the wound to stanch the blood.

  Look what he’s done to you. Don't trust him, warned Whitefoot.

  The wind calmed to a breeze, allowing them to see more clearly. As the powder settled, Emma realized Arvak was scarcely half the wolf he used to be. His silver fur matted with burs. His sides sunk inward, his ribs poking into sagging flesh. Skin sunk around his gray-green eyes, and the wolf's mouth hung open in a perpetual pant, as if he couldn't fill his lungs with enough air. The poor wolf was so gaunt, even his ankles looked like a misstep might break them.

  Where's Svol? Emma asked.

  Arvak lowered his head.

  Arvak? she pressed, his hesitation heightening her fear for the black wolf.

  Arvak pawed at the ice. His pads looked raw. I'll take you to him if it's not too late.

  The gray wolf turned, signaling for them to follow with an image sent to Emma's mind. Emma tied off the material around her wound and followed. As they trekked, Emma held Arvak's tail to guide them. Even though the visibility improved, the warmth of his fur thawed her fingers; she needed the comfort of his physical connection.

  What happened since I left? Emma asked.

  A space of silence pressed between them before Arvak answered.

  War.

  Emma swallowed hard.

  Arvak sent her visions of a white wolf, an alpha female, taking Svol as a mate, promoting him to alpha male among the survivors of Lothar's pack.

  The image of the white wolf—crazed yellow eyes, large intimidating frame, well furred with a scar over her right eye—caused Emma's teeth to chatter.

  Who is this wolf?

  She is called Hlif. She was Lothar's chosen alpha female before you came along. When he realized you possessed power, and he chose you as his mate—

  A violent tremor overtook Emma at Arvak’s words, but the wolf continued, He sent her away. It made her angry. But once you were gone, she returned.

  And if I had not left? thought Emma.

  Hlif wanted to hunt the humans for food, but I knew it was a bad idea—they outnumbered us and possessed both iron and fire. I counseled Svol, told him we should leave these lands, but Hlif said we'd starve before we made it past the Gap. She convinced the pack, and they were desperate for a leader once Lothar was gone, and we had nei sustenance—nothing to hunt. Nothing else lives here. Nothing except humans. Even though Svol refused to go with them, the pack followed her, ambushing and killing some of the humans.

  As they continued walking—Arvak limping from the rawness of his pads—the wall of rock supporting Castle Grimnear emerged out of the low-lying mist. They headed toward an overhang. Once underneath, the mountain barred the wind. The contrast of no wind gnawing at Emma’s skin, gave the girl relief, even though the air still chilled beneath freezing.

  Then the humans came back for revenge. It was a massacre.

  And that's when Svol was injured?

  Arvak hesitated, once again unwilling to respond, but the heaviness of his silence conveyed his answer.

  I got us to safety, but...

  Whitefoot's nose popped from its cocoon, twitching in the air. Something's rotten.

  A moment later, an eye-watering stench hit Emma—the stink of bad flesh.

  Her gaze apprehensively drifted back into the depth of the crevice. A matted figure curled in the corner.

  Svol.

  As she approached, she spotted purple clumps of old blood stuck in his black fur. A gash, running the length of the wolf's side, oozed green puss. Svol's breath labored, as the heat of his lungs misted the air.

  Emma ran to him, sinking down to her knees beside him; her skirt splayed over the ground. He lay still without any other movement than the rise and sink of his form. She buried her head in his neck, burrowing deep in his dull, black fur. He felt on fire. Tears burned her lids—both from her emotions and the stench of his wound.

  "Svol!" she cried. "Oh, Svol! I am so sorry I left you!"

  The black wolf lifted his head, nearly unable to bear the weight.

  Tears streamed Emma's cheeks.

  An almost inaudible growl sounded in the back of Svol’s throat, causing Emma to start.

  At the same moment, Whitefoot dug his claws into Emma's neck. I smell—

  Arvak spun around, tail high; hackles raised.

  Then before any of them had a chance to react, a gang of Conspirators, blades, axes, and knives raised before them, surrounded them.

  ***

  "Stand back!" screamed Emma. The girl bound to her feet and protectively stood in front of Svol. "You will not harm these wolves!"

  A surly leader stepped in front of the dozen others—a wiry man with a tangled beard and grimy, knotted hair that hung to the middle of his back. His face chaffed bright red as if wind burnt. Wolf hide hung over his shoulders as a make-shift mantle. Emma’s anger boiled at the sight. The man smacked his lips at her, amusement edging into his eyes.

  Arvak, hackles still spiked, backed up to Emma, positioning himself in front of the black wolf as well.

  The man laughed, showing a missing row of teeth on the bottom and two rotting stumps on the top. "A little lass like you going to stop us, now are you?"

  The others of his gang laughed along with him.

  Emma’s pulse thrummed in her ears. She froze, and for a blink, the flash of Lothar pressing himself against her overran her mind.

  "Ja," she stated without infliction, sounding oddly emotionless to her own ears. "I am going to stop you."

  Arvak’s tail rose a notch. Emma could hear a gurgle from Svol’s lungs behind her.

  Whitefoot? she asked.

  Careful, Emma. They stink of anger. They are starved and half crazed. A man without reason is a dangerous man.

  Emma rarely sweated. Even so, dampness spread beneath her armpits, wetting her dress. The moisture cooled upon contact with the icy air; a chill ran the length of her entire body.

  The two groups stood, staring one another down for a long moment.

  A grimace spread over the Conspirator’s bony face. "That’s a mighty fine dress you’re wearing, little lass."

  "Maybe she’s o
ne of them songvaris," suggested another.

  The man reached up and stroked the grizzled knot of his beard.

  "Maybe so," he said, grinning wider. "We won’t hurt you if you come along quiet like."

  Emma had no idea how she would get out of this—how she’d get the wolves out of this. Then she remembered the dyrr stuck underneath her stocking. If I stall them long enough to retrieve it, maybe?

  "You can’t harm the wolves, either," she said, "and they come with me."

  "That’s a lot of demands for someone in your position, lass."

  "Is it?" asked Emma. "I’m used to my demands being followed," she lied. She wondered if she was making a habit of being untruthful, but at the moment, she didn’t care. If they thought she was important, perhaps they wouldn’t harm her…or the wolves.

  "Why do you want them wolves with you?" he asked.

  "Nei matter to you," she responded with more strength than she thought she was capable of.

  "What’s that on your shoulder?" asked another, pointing toward Whitefoot, whose barely visible feature was the end of his nose poking from the cascade of Emma’s wavy hair.

  Emma tensed, while Whitefoot stayed as still as a statue.

  "Not fur," said the leader. "That’s a critter! That a critter on your shoulder?"

  "Why should I tell you if you’re dumb enough not to know?"

  The man’s eyes hardened, but then he laughed. "The little lass called me dumb; she did!" He bellowed, slapping his knee.

  Another jabbed him in the side. "She’s one of them callers," he said. "Like Master Lothar was."

  The idea straightened the man’s lips into a thoughtful line. "Not as useful as a songvari, but I can think of ways to use her."

  The sweat spread down Emma’s sides.

  "Round her up, then," directed the leader, still stroking his gnarled beard.