"As long as you don't harm my wolves," Emma over-emphasized the word my.
The Conspirator gang started at that. "Just like them wolves belonged to the Master," said the other with a cautionary nod.
"I give you my word," said the leader. "We ain't harming them, as long as you come along all lady-like with nei bit of a fuss."
Emma thought the man's word most likely weighed less than a speck of dirt, but she complied nonetheless.
Chapter 24
Are you sure this is wise? asked Arvak.
It's the one option we have right now.
Emma, interrupted Whitefoot. I hope you have a better plan than your last one.
I hope I do too, Whitefoot.
For all our sakes, she prayed to herself, I hope I do too.
Emma inhaled a slow breath. The girl reached down and slid her palm over her thigh, feeling for the dyrr. Still there.
The gang of men took position in front and behind Emma and started herding her and Arvak, but Emma stiffened, refusing to move.
"What about Svol?" Emma gestured to the injured wolf.
The leader spared a lazy gaze for the black wolf, running a glance over the gash in the animal’s side; the man sniffed, a foul grimace blanching his face.
"He's near finished, and we ain't carrying him. When he goes, his hide will be spoilt anyhow. I ain’t wasting the effort on rotted wolf flesh."
Emma placed her hands on her hips. She lifted herself up on her toes, hoping to look taller—or at least more commanding. "That's not our deal! You carry him, or I won't come without a fight."
The leader laughed again, but his merriment soon petered out. "If you want him, you got to carry him. Won't be none of us with wolf stink on our hands."
The leader gave his men a nod. They prodded Emma to move with a jab to her backside. She whirled, facing them, hands raising in front of her. Did she intend on punching them? If the situation wouldn’t have been so dire, she would have laughed at her own bravado.
We could leave Svol, escape and come back for him, suggested Arvak.
Nei, said Emma. He won’t survive if we don’t get him help right away. Besides, I won't leave him ever again.
Instead of fighting off the men, which she reasoned was an irrational urge, Emma bent, carefully placed her arms under Svol's neck and middle, then she hefted him with all her might. Even in his emaciated state, she tottered under the wolf’s weight.
The gang of men howled with laughter as she struggled upright with the wolf cradled to her like a babe. He'd lost weight from both starvation and wasting, but Svol was still a large creature, and his heaviness labored each of her steps.
She wobbled forward.
Then a soft voice spoke up from behind her. "I'll carry him."
"Leave the lass to her folly," objected the leader.
But the other man’s voice strengthened. "I said, I’ll carry him."
"Damned fool, son of a weaver, you are Domarr! If your heart’s in this fight, you’ll toughen up and act like one of us instead of like your ma’s pampered son."
Domarr ignored the leader. Emma heard his footsteps lengthen as he reached her. She turned, as the man reached out to take Svol from her. Though thin from lack of food, there was a roundness to his face and form and a gentleness in his eyes. He looked somehow familiar though Emma couldn’t place him.
Emma hesitated, and he assured her, "I’ll be careful with him. I promise." Then he whispered for her ears alone, "He was Lord Lothar’s wolf, wasn’t he?"
Emma nodded, though she knew no wolf belonged to any human. His question affirmed he had no understanding of a caller's relationship to the animals they connected with.
Regardless, Domarr took Svol in his arms as caringly as lifting a baby; Emma straightened from the release of the black wolf’s weight, grateful for the unlikely help.
The leader snorted at them, then reached inside his tattered trousers. He retrieved a length of rope from his pocket, tossing the cord to one of his men.
"Tie her."
Emma placed her hands onto her hips, ready to refuse, but the rough yanked her arms around behind her back, then bound her wrists so hard that the knots scraped her skin.
So much for retrieving the dyrr, Emma thought.
Finally, the entire group—Conspirators and a menagerie of prisoners: a girl, two wolves and a polecat—walked out of the protection of the crevice and back into the chill of the Broken Lands.
***
Before long, a camp sprawled before them—a ragtag group of men, women, and children with their meager provisions, carts, tents, and blanket rolls—spread over the cold earth. Fires burned as Conspirators crowded around them, rubbing their hands near the flames. Tents propped over the barren land providing shelter. Then Emma realized the wind-ravaged material of the structures had been reinforced with wolf hides.
She shuddered. Her fingers and toes still burned, but adding to the frost nip of her limbs, a cold fire burned in her belly at the sight of stretched wolf skins. She'd tried to snag the dyrr while they walked, but couldn't break free of her bonds, and the leader kept a watchful eye on her all the way.
As they entered the camp, a roundish woman with far too much flesh to belong with the rest of them and a scarf tied over her head, hefted her skirts and jogged toward the returning gang, bee lining toward the man carrying Svol.
"Domarr!" cried the lady, tottering up to him. As she approached, she unraveled what looked to be songvari-woven material from around her head; Emma gasped with recognition.
"Without a scarf in this weather? You'll catch a chill. Why didn't you tell me you were leaving?" The woman’s gaze warily swept downward over the black wolf in Domarr’s arms.
"The Lord's wolf?" she asked.
Domarr nodded.
She added in a hush, hissing, "I asked you not to go out with the hunting party. It’s nei good. Nei matter that the Lord is gone, killing his wolves aren’t right."
"But I didn't—"
"Bera?" Emma interrupted. Normally, Emma would have had the good graces to wait until a conversation ended, but there wasn’t much "normal" left in Emma now.
At Emma’s voice, the woman’s shoulders bunched. She turned toward the girl, her eyes growing wide.
"Child?" asked Bera, unbelieving.
Emma nodded.
"Oh, child!" she tottered over to Emma and threw her arms around the girl, smashing her to her wide girth. "I thought the worst for you! I thought you were killed along with him."
Even Bera didn't like saying Lothar's name.
Emma allowed the older woman to hang around her middle, unable to hug her back with her restraints still binding her wrists. When the girl didn’t return her affection, Bera pulled away, her brows dipped. Then she spun Emma around, displaying the cause of her rigidity.
Bera yelled toward the leader who had stalked off to the fire to warm his rear end. "Do you know who you’ve bound?" she called.
"I told you to keep your Ma in check, little man," the leader yelled back, addressing Domarr, ignoring Bera.
Bera started to step toward the leader, but Domarr nudged her with his elbow. "Ma, don’t—"
"This is Emma!" screamed Bera. "The Lord Lothar’s bride!"
Emma cringed at the title—she didn’t want to be reminded of the horrors of Lothar when she fought against his memory daily. Then her mind hopped to the next logical step upon hearing the word bride: Erik. Does he know I’m gone, yet? Part of her hoped he did. Part of her wished he was searching for her right this moment and would come, heralding in on his black mare, Beyla, to rescue her. But another piece of her told her she needed to solve this on her own, and return before he found out she’d gone missing. She didn’t want to add to his concerns. Or break his heart over her untruthfulness.
Bera bellowed again, "Did you hear me? This is your Master’s bride! Do you think he would have wanted her tied like a thief?"
The old woman’s voice hammered so loudly, all heard. A hush respo
nded. The leader, hands wound into fists, marched in her direction, storming up to stand a hair’s width from her larger but shorter form.
"Haven't you heard, old woman? She,"—he jerked his head toward Emma, anger and recognition playing over his features—"The Lord’s bride—is the one who caused our Master's death. She is responsible for his murder by the hands of the False Guardian, and she will pay!"
Bera cowed at the man’s words. "Nei," she protested, "that’s not true. It was not her fault. The Lord loved her and would not see her harmed."
But the leader trembled with such apparent rage that Bera teetered backwards.
"I’m warning you for the last time old woman. If you and your son wish to stay here under our protection, bite your tongue. Otherwise, you are free to go back to the Palace and see how they will treat your dear, little Domarr—a man guilty in their eyes of murder."
The leader turned his attention on Emma, leaning in, breathing hard. The stink of his breath—the foul reek of a man who had not eaten in several moons—lingered, as he said, "Not just a caller, are you, little lass? You’re something far more devious. And now I just need to figure out if you’re more useful to me alive or dead."
***
The Conspirators moved their prisoners to a spot near the fire. Domarr gently placed Svol on the ground, as close to the fire pit as he could get him without burning the wolf, then wandered tentatively back to the gang of men surrounding another fire.
Arvak circled Svol, then curled down next to him, whimpering.
He’s still got the fever, said Arvak. I fear he is near his time.
Arvak nudged the black’s muzzle with his own. When Svol didn’t respond—his lids heavy over his eyes—the gray wolf lay his head next to the black.
I’ve got to do something, thought Emma. Quickly. Her mind raced for solutions but ran up against wall after wall, when Bera interrupted her thoughts.
"I’m sorry, child. I didn’t know your being the Lord’s bride would have made it worse for you. I thought—"
"Hush, Bera. You did what you thought was best. You don’t have to explain. I know your heart."
Bera’s lips stretched into a painful smile. She shook her head. "I should not have spoken. Mundi, the leader of the Conspirators—"
She whipped her palm over her mouth, twitching her gaze side to side. Then she dropped her hand and hushed her tone. "I mean the Merciful. They call themselves the Merciful. Don’t ever let them catch you calling them Conspirators. But Mundi? He’s a madman."
"How did he become the leader?""
"From what I understand, when the Lord died, panic spread. Lothar gave them rations—not a lot but enough to keep them alive and willing to train as his warriors. When the rations stopped and nei leader emerged, chaos broke out. Many of them even killed one another in arguments over what they should do. Then Mundi stepped in and stopped them from killing one another. But I’m telling you, he’s crazy and unpredictable."
Emma swept her gaze over the encampment, taking in the state of the men, women, and worst of all, the children as she did.
"Nei, Bera. The men are just frightened and hungry. They want to provide for their young in a land that persecutes them for that basic need. He’s not a madman. Perhaps just jaded from circumstance."
"You pity him?" Bera’s eyes widened.
The girl remembered her own anger boiling for release no more than a day ago. If her short imprisonment by Lothar had caused such an effect on her, what would a lifetime of injustice have done?
"Ja, Bera. I think I do."
Bera harrumphed, blowing a break-away strand of hair into the air above her head; Emma had never seen the dignified woman so disheveled.
The old woman tottered around behind Emma. "Nei need for me to let them tie you like a common thief." Then the older woman’s intake of breath sounded. "Child! You’re hurt." She fumbled at the knots of the rope, releasing Emma’s wrists.
Emma rubbed her sore skin; Bera reached for her arm, stretching it out before her. She unwound the bloody strip of underskirt from Emma’s forearm, revealing deep track marks from the wolf’s claws.
"It’s nothing, Bera."
The older woman bobbed her head back and forth, tsking under her breath. Bera patted Emma’s hand, "I’ll be right back," she muttered, and tottered off.
As soon as Bera was out of sight, Emma hiked up her skirt and snatched the dyrr from its hiding place. She glanced at Svol’s near lifeless form, with Arvak huddled against him. This better work.
"Raidho! Iss! Vaettfang!" Emma hissed at the dyrr.
She waited, expecting a glow, willing the runes to morph over the face of the medallion.
"Raidho! Iss! Vaettfang!" The words tumbled out of her desperately, but instead of opening a doorway, the dyrr started to morph different runes than before.
What’s happening? Whitefoot asked.
The dyrr shows a different set of runes.
And you cannot read them?
Nei, said Emma. I don’t remember any of these from Gisla’s scrolls, but then I wasn’t looking for them either. I should have realized they would be different upon return.
How would you have known?
Emma beat her fist against her thigh in frustration, then stowed the dyrr down the front of her gown as she spotted Bera scrambling back, with a woman in tow. The woman was in a frightful state—sallow skin, gray lips, and a sagging form. Bruises marred the length of her arms, and a purple mark sprouted underneath her hollow eyes. Her hair was shorn, cropped closer than a man’s.
Emma almost didn’t recognize Alfridr, the most touched songvari dress weaver in the land, through her thin and wasting façade.
"What have they done to you?" asked Emma.
Alfridr shook her head, helplessly.
"They keep her to call sprouts from the ground. Do you pity them now, child?" asked Bera.
Emma sighed. "Oh, Bera. I pity us all."
Bera grabbed for Emma’s arm, showing the ripped flesh to Alfridr. "Can you heal her?"
Alfridr nodded. "Perhaps, but I have little strength for singing, and the Mother’s song is weak."
She parted her lips, but Emma pulled her arm back. "Nei, Alfridr. Use what little you have for my friend," and Emma gestured to the black wolf, his chest shuddering with each intake of breath.
Alfridr shook her head as she examined the wolf’s wound.
"I cannot," she said. "My power in weaving allows for some ability to close wounds. The process is similar to weaving material, but I am weak and the Mother’s song is so distant. And he is too far gone."
"Please," Emma begged.
"If they catch me healing the wolf…" Alfridr’s eyes flooded with fear.
"I will take the blame," assured Emma. "I will not let them harm you." She didn’t know how she intended to keep that promise, but something inside her told her that she would fight to her last breath to do so. "Regardless of what they think of me, I think they want us both alive. We’re too valuable to them to lose."
Alfridr nodded, nervously agreeing. She strode to Svol, bent down and placed her hands on each side of his wound. The songvari sung softly, her throat raw.
For long, painful moments, Emma thought nothing would happen.
Then the wound bubbled, the sickness oozing out of it. Within a heartbeat, the skin renewed, melding over the top. The flesh remained angry and red but closed.
Alfridr straightened from the wolf. "I do not know if it is enough, but it's all I can do, for the Mother responds for scarce moments to my song."
Svol lifted his head. His lids fluttered, then opened. For the first time since Emma had entered the Broken Lands, hope surged inside her.
Chapter 25
Rolf Sigtriggson swung his mantle over his shoulder as he wove a figurine with the hum of his throat. He had tired of singular materials, such as stone or crystal and moved on to weaving several elements together. This particular statue consisted of a crystal, wheat and wood combination and took the for
m of a rather curvaceous young woman.
And if I add sky blue stones for the eyes, she’ll look just like that young filly who all but got me hitched back in Scandia. What was her name?
"Rolf," interrupted Seretta. "What is it that you weave?" She gave his creation a sideways glance.
"Oh, just a figurine."
"What is its purpose?"
"Just for looking at, I suppose."
The songvari heaved a sigh. "I’ve told you before, we don’t weave for decoration alone. Everything we create needs to have a reason. A purpose."
"Ja, I know, but sometimes I just like to create for the comeliness of the piece."
Seretta stopped weaving her own creation—a series of light catching crystals to warm their winter crops—and studied Rolf’s. She eased up from her seat and sauntered over to Rolf, allowing her fingers to drift over his shoulder as she glided around him. The sensation of her feathery touch caused all the moistness from Rolf's mouth to suddenly dry up as if he'd been parched for days. When he tried to speak, his lips stuck together, and he thought, That must have looked unattractive. I'm a mutton-headed fool, just like my brother says. He pushed past the embarrassment and squeezed out his words.
"Seretta, when we first met, did you…"
"Did I what?"
Like me, he wanted to ask, but the arid desert of his mouth refused to form the words.
She glided around him and settled on a selenite bench that rose in intricate spirals from the crystal beneath. Generous curls of amber hair fell around her heart-shaped face. Rolf wished for the courage to reach out and touch one of those waves—wrap the satiny tresses around his finger—but his usual bravado sizzled out; he remained holding his statue instead.
Seretta flashed her blade-green eyes from the sculpture to Rolf. "You were saying when we met?"
He cleared his throat. "Nothing."
A pregnant silence followed. Rolf looked down and studied the sculpture.
"You've more talent than you realize, Rolf."
"Is that so?" He swallowed uncomfortably.
Broken: Book 2 of the ShadowLight Saga Page 13