Rolf shrugged his shoulders. "She thinks that's funny? Man oh man am I way off target."
"Hush!" yelled Seretta, but Rolf pressed toward them.
"Ladies, there's nei need for fighting, although, throw you two in a mud bog, and I wouldn't complain."
Both women swiveled their heads toward Rolf with looks that could frighten off a bear or two. Ravenna nudged Hallad, prompting him to raise his hand between the three.
"Enough, Rolf!" Hallad turned his plea on Seretta. "Return with us for the sake of the Mother." He swung around and appealed to the crowd.
His eye caught movement. Far up, away from the gathering, a big bear of a man stood guard at the entrance to a home, capturing Hallad's attention. The man seemed out of place. He looked Scandian not Alven, and Hallad wondered what such a man was doing here. Then again, Rolf was Scandian. And so was he for that matter.
"Nei!" screamed someone from the crowd, nudging Hallad from his thought. "We will be abused again!"
"The Palace has proven they will misuse us!"
"We will not be fooled!"
"Then," said Ravenna, smoothing her hand over Hallad's forearm. "For the sake of the Mother, we have nei other choice."
The First turned toward the dyrr's opening and nodded—just a slight tip of her chin, but it was enough. Guardians poured through the opening faster than a blink.
The songvaris of Asheim screamed and scrambled as chaos broke loose through the cavern.
"Make haste!" yelled Seretta. "Sing for your protection!" She turned, her eyes anxiously searching her surroundings. "Rolf! Where's Weyland?"
Rolf shrugged. He stood as stunned as the others, while a horde of Guardians rushed forth flooding the cavern; their song rose, fast and sharp and loud. The extra material they'd carried swam from their arms and whooshed through the air, finding homes over the mouths of each songvari as the hapless citizens tried to sing out against the Guardians.
"Ravenna," warned Hallad. "Force is not the way."
The First slithered her fingers up his arm, turning her toward him, as if they were the only two in the room. Her words sang to him like a sweet, summer melody. "It has to be this way, love. For the land. For your sister. We need all the songvaris if you're going to save her... save us... from the Shadow."
Hallad’s mind lulled at her words, and his muscles relaxed. Her tone beguiled him. Her words repeated over and over in his head, drowning out his resistance. Why had he questioned her? He couldn't remember. He nodded dizzily, then turned to watch the crowd.
A stream of material wove around Rolf. The young man batted it away. He opened his mouth and instead of singing, he stared straight at Hallad—"And here I was actually happy to see you."—before the fabric wove around his head and seamed into his skin, successfully shutting him up for good.
Hallad glanced up through the chaotic scene, toward the bear of a man he'd spotted earlier. The big man, having retrieved a battle sword from some unknown hideaway, swung at the fabric, slicing wildly. Shreds fluttered through the air all around him, but more came, overwhelming him, tying his ankles like a pig ready for market. The man battled on, rolling on the ground, slashing and slicing until a woman emerged from the home. She gazed down at the man and a tender look swept her features. Within a breath, he relaxed and allowed the fabric to tie his hands. Her amber eyes gazed across the cavern, catching sight of Hallad, and Hallad’s heart slipped in his ribcage at the sight of her—something distant yet familiar tugged at him. She stared calmly as the fabric wrapped and wove her mouth shut and bound her wrists.
Then Ravenna's gentle touch roused him again, turning him to her. "It's time we return the songvaris to Glitner."
Hallad nodded numbly as if a fog filled his brain.
Chapter 40
The slaughter of the Lion Clan spread before Astrid—a nightmarish vision.
Olrun! she cried, but her voice went unheard to anyone aside from herself.
Astrid lifted her sword swinging at the onslaught of the King’s warriors like a tornado. Then, within a snap, she heard the screams of the Norn and Givers back in the Palace, and her sight and body returned to Glitner leaving the battle behind.
Nei!
She squeezed her eyes shut. She needed to go back—help her comrades, but she remained in Glitner. Her blade roared through the air before her, and everyone scrambled in reverse, terror striking their faces.
Astrid’s body moved of its own accord—blinking in and out so rapidly that she lost her bearings, and now, she stood waving her sword against the innocents in the Palace.
A nauseating dizziness swam over Astrid like a tidal wave smashing against her, then pulling her deep. Time slowed, as if the lives of all flashed before her in morbid detail. She spun in a circle gripping her hilt, and with each notch of her foot, a different scene appeared. In one moment, Guardians rushed gagged and bound prisoners through a hallway. In another, Emma marched a ragtag army to the edge of Ginnungagap—each and every member with the hollowness of starvation and wish of hope in their sunken eyes. Then the Norns scrambled through the hall, defying their old age with agile speed, appealing to posted guards. Another step and the remains of the Lion Clan tied and tethered appeared before her, along with the bloodied and sometimes lifeless bodies of the women of the Sacred Groves littering the snow crusted ground.
Stop! Astrid yelled. Make it stop! Whether she meant the killing, the shadowwalk, or both, she didn't know.
It didn't matter. No one heard. Her voice fell silent as it always had, dying inside her throat. The noises, the emotions, the visions continued spinning like a possessed child's top, and Astrid swiveled with them until the sound of slipper-clothed feet swished in all directions around her.
She held still. Wobbling. Her sword hugged firmly to her breastplate.
Who's there?
Her vision blurred and blackened with too many images morphing together.
Then voices rose in song—sharp, dissonant tones, running together like spears through the wind.
Where am I now?
She didn't need to ask. The aggressive melody, and a subsequent swish of air circling around her body clarified the answer.
The wind tightened over her skin like a rope wrapping around her, seeking to pin her limbs, contain and keep her. Suddenly, Astrid's vision returned to the Palace, sharpening. Guardians encircled her, holding their hands toward her, singing at full volume.
The squeal of the song pierced her ears, and her instincts kicked into drive. She fought the Palace guards, as if they were the enemy, as if they were the King’s men. She sprang from her spot, swirling, kicking, and punching. Though a guttural passion overtook her, directing her to fight, she retained enough of her mind not to slice the guards through with her blade, using the blunt side of her sword along with her hands and feet to hold off their song.
But Astrid’s fight fell short. Without her connection to Hallad, her movements seemed clumsy and off balance. Her fist slid left of her target, her kick short of a pressure point.
All the while, images flooded her. Emotions attacked her. Even the Guardians' fears jumped under her skin as they sang harder, picking up their rhythm, straining their throats to scream out the notes.
The rush overcame her, and her strength faded. Her muscles congealed, screaming to give in. The Guardians', seeing the hole in her defenses, gathered for one last, brutal chord.
Astrid slammed her hands up over her ears as the tone pierced her eardrums. She slunk downward as the air wrapped her, smothered her, and squeezed her. Just when she thought they had won, she slid into the safety of the shadowwalk.
***
The visions, emotions, and the attack all stopped as Astrid rematerialized. An icy breeze swept her hair back, and studded goose bumps on her skin. She knelt on a peak—so tall that clouds drifted hundreds of paces beneath her. A sheer cliff to all sides caused a momentary spin of vertigo, but she righted herself and stood. Below her, leagues down, Alvenheim spread but from her height,
even Glitner appeared no larger than a dirt speck. A mountain ridge continued to her left and right but with the cloud cover, there was no way to tell how far they spread.
Where am I?
The Elder Spires, came the sweet, familiar voice of her mother. From here, nearly all of Alvenheim is visible.
How did I…?
Astrid swung her head around. Above her, the sky lit blue but in the distance black clouds brewed all around.
Get here? Your instincts. They are always right, Daughter. You should listen to them more often.
Astrid's hair whipped about her like moon-colored streamers in the icy air as she swung around to find the source of her mother's voice. Yet all she saw was a vast openness, as if she stood on a star.
You needed to separate yourself from people—get far enough away so you couldn't see or hear them. So you could hear yourself.
You told me the ward to block Hallad would help, but the walk opens in every possible direction. I see everything. I feel everyone. Except Hallad.
Seeing clearly is the answer to your quest, Daughter, even if you can't understand that at the moment.
Astrid shook her head, realizing her fingers stung as the metal of her hilt froze from the chill.
Do you think everything in the world is black and white? Right or wrong? Even the worst offender, take the Conspirators, simply want to eat. Is that so wrong?
But it's how they go about it that's wrong. Not the need.
Even if the Palace drives them without choices? How about Glitner? Are they right or wrong to persecute those in need?
What does any of this have to do with the walk?
Frustration burned under the chill of Astrid's skin. She was a fighter without a clear opponent—without an attacker to strike at.
It leads us to the final piece, Daughter. The truth that will allow you to sing, right here. Right now.
Astrid swallowed, feeling the familiar lump in her throat. Now?
It's time. You must.
She thought of all that she'd seen: the bloodied drengmaers, Emma, angry and leading the Conspirators, the Guardians and their captives marching down the hallway, Hallad proclaiming to Glitner that the Conspirators would be held accountable, and Ravenna seductively guiding her brother farther and farther away from her. Always Ravenna, there at her brother's side, whispering, touching, humming...
I'm ready.
The last untruth is this: the well of Urd is neither good nor bad. It can be used for either.
But—
Hear me out, child. It's source. It's creation. The well of Urd does not see right or wrong. It's how the singer uses it that produces the effect of good or evil.
So anyone can use Urd, even if darkness lurks inside them?
People are neither good nor bad, Daughter. They are a mix of both. It's up to you to choose how you'll use the power.
Her mother's words blasted inside her, Neither good nor bad, but a mix of both. Her fear, then, that darkness slithered inside, was the same in every man? Every woman? And she got to choose?
Her shoulders sunk to her sides like a thousand boulders fell from her. A sigh escaped her lips, and for the first time she heard the slightest sound of herself on the breeze. She reached for her neck, prodding for the usual lump with her fingers, but found nothing more than her throat. Her eyes widened. She stared into the distance.
I heard it too. A smile lit her mother's tone. You're ready, Daughter. Truly ready.
And what do I sing?
The runes I will teach you.
Astrid's entire body quivered with anticipation as if a well burst inside her and bubbled up through her chest, her neck, her throat, her mouth.
Verold-brotna, said her mother's voice.
Verold-brotna, echoed Astrid.
Now, listen to nothing but the song. And when the melody enraptures you, allow Urd to flow through and up and out of you.
Astrid swallowed. Her hand slipped on the hilt of her sword; though the temperature raged below freezing, sweat poured from her palms. A hot-cold stickiness enveloped her body. The linen of her trousers stuck to her thighs.
Relax, Daughter. Allow.
But the blackness wriggled on her insides, like a den of venomous snakes.
It doesn’t matter. I choose right, thought Astrid. Am I light or am I dark? All her fears over all the years converged. I am both, and it doesn’t matter.
Her face-off with the Shadow, for what seemed like many moons ago, played through her memory. She had known then she was both dark and light, but now? Now she knew the truth. It doesn’t matter. Source does not care whether I’m good or bad.
But she did. Still fearing herself dark, Astrid reached inside herself to that place her mother believed in, that brightness that lit the corners of her heart, the instincts that kept her fighting for right.
I choose to sing.
Then the song grew in her heart, like a powerful tide crashing the surf. It exploded inside her. The surge pushed upward through her throat, her mouth, her lips, and she sang for all to hear, "Verold-brotna!"
Chapter 41
Astrid's voice broke into the air—a screech, a song, a scream. All the years she held it in escaped with the sound of both pain and rapture, both beautiful and wretched. The tone spread across the land like the plume of a volcano. It shattered the breeze like lightning strikes. It echoed from the Elder Spires and into Ginnungagap, across the Broken Lands, and opposite, past Glitner and Dagur's Ruins and out to the Gulf of Graten. In all directions, the sweet and horrible sound reverberated.
Then, all fell quiet. A dead hush settled.
The hairs stood on Astrid's neck. Her mouth wavered open, uselessly; all Urd's force sizzled out inside.
Mamma? she asked.
Silence responded.
Are you there?
Astrid wanted to work the words into a sound, but no tone escaped, and the exertion from the song kept her from trying.
I sang, like you said. But—
The distant clouds began to boil, roiling and churning.
Her vision spread, spotting a plume of smoke to the sudr. Blackness rose into the sky. She squinted, and flames roared over the land beneath. She focused, and her view telescoped—the shadowwalk readily bending to her command; her vision reeled in until the details sharpened. Shards of ice cracked up from the ground as flames erupted from the earth. Smoke billowed. Mist spiraled. Through the chards and black and gray strode a lone figure.
Again, Astrid concentrated, and again, the closer her vision came. The man's features revealed themselves through the haze.
Astrid’s body stiffened. Her sweat iced on her skin.
The man smiled as if he knew she watched him. His grin turned his dangerous face strikingly beautiful. Her sight moved closer, and she spotted the gray-shifting color playing in his irises. But everything else about him was solid. Not the quavering, slithering mist from the in-between world, but flesh and blood and vengeance.
Every muscle of her body froze in place as her heart thundered into her throat.
Her song had released the Shadow, and he was coming for her.
Chapter 42
In the silence following the noise, Erik lay on the ground with Emma protectively snuggled beneath him. Assured the squeal had stopped, he lifted his palms off Emma's ears. His own buzzed with the aftermath. He stuck his fingers inside each hole and wiggled, trying to dislodge the obnoxious ringing. When the sound started, they assumed they were under attack from the Palace and plunged for cover. As it continued, Erik wondered if the end of time pressed down upon them.
"What in Muspell was that?"
"I don't know, Erik. In all my seasons, I've never heard the likes. It was..."
"Horrible," Erik finished for her.
"But beautiful," Emma added.
"Haunting."
"And frightening."
They both shivered.
Erik stood as Emma rolled over; he helped her to her feet. Her already wide eyes rounded,
darting around their perimeter, as the pack of wolves worked into a frenzy. Some yipped. Others barked or howled. The Conspirators, or as Emma had called them, the Merciful, who had also cowered on the ground, started to move, knocking away the daze induced by the auditory onslaught. The polecat, still lodged in Emma's hair, sniffed the air.
"Whatever it was, Whitefoot smells trouble." Emma hesitated. "Trouble like never before, and the wolves agree."
Bera yelled, a high-pitched shrill, her voice echoing off the cliff's walls, "What's happening?"
Her son, Domarr, rose and nudged up next to her. Alfridr remained on the ground, sobbing inconsolably, while the rest of the Merciful paced, shivered, readied their weapons, or hid; none remained idle, but no one knew what to do.
Emma plucked Erik's tunic, pulling him close. She whispered; her words sped, "We have to get them to the Palace. If something has happened..." She paused, her gray eyes seeking Erik's. Neither of them wanted to speak of what could have happened, so they let the thought pass between them with their gaze alone. "We have to get them to Hallad. Whether they realize it or not, Hallad won't allow them to be harmed. It's the safest place for them to be."
"You didn't see him, Em. He's not himself. That woman leads him around by his nose. What if he rejects them, or worse?"
Emma shook her head, "Ravenna or not, I'll deal with my brother, Erik. He’s still Hallad, regardless. He will not refuse me. Not to my face. And he will not harm these people. I have to believe that."
Erik stretched his lips into a grimace and shrugged. He wanted to pull Emma tight to him, protect her, make everything right, but circumstance sped from his control.
"Emma," said Erik. "Whatever comes, I'm here for you. You know that, right?"
The edges of her full lips turned upwards, lighting sparkles in her eyes. "Nei one, in any world, has ever been there for me like you have, Erik Sigtriggson."
Erik took her hand in his own. Emma's fingers seemed stiff and cold, so he enclosed her hands in both of his and rubbed them briskly.
Broken: Book 2 of the ShadowLight Saga Page 21