Bonded: Book One of the ShadowLight Saga, an Epic Fantasy Adventure (25 page)

Soon after, Rolf’s lanky
fingers twined through his own and he heaved, as if he led a team of mules
through mud. A blur of hues separated, revealing Rolf’s awestruck face as he
popped through, followed by Andvarri and the horses.

“Incredible.” Rolf raised
his hands in front of his nose, examining palms and fingers as his skin washed
with the vibrant cascade.

Erik knew his little
brother memorized every detail and the experience would no doubt find its way
into a saga.

The elder brother led
them along until they reached the white light. He treaded through the blaze of
light, pulling them out the other end of the rainbow tunnel. They stepped into
a field of lush grass, peppered with sparkling white and yellow wildflowers. The
perfumed aroma waylaid their senses. An azure sky expanded above them, bluer
than any Erik had ever seen.

Rolf gawked at the
scene. He bent, palming the whisper-soft blades of grass, and plucked a vibrant
five-petal bloom. As he did so, he flinched, as if pricked with a lance.

“Conspirators!” roared a
voice from behind them.

“He ripped a flower from
the Mother’s breast!” another screamed.

Erik spun, spotting a
group of men dressed in tunics with the crest of a tree digging its roots into
the earth emblazoned upon their chests. Their faces bulged with anger as the
mob strutted toward Erik, Rolf and Andvarri. Erik grabbed his black’s reins,
tightening his fist around the leather.

“You there!” yelled the
man in the lead. “Why did you take what was not given?” The accuser pointed a
dagger-like finger toward Rolf, who sputtered at the accusation.

Another man yelled out
of the crowd, his tone disbelieving, “They carry steel blades!”

A mad roar slashed
through the mob. Rage split their faces as they dashed forward, hands raised in
fists.

“Capture the
Conspirators!”

“Ride,” commanded Erik.

He turned and picked
Andvarri up, throwing the sputtering dwarf onto his mount, like a sack full of
grain. Rolf clambered onto his mare, kicked and spun her around. Erik leaped
onto Beyla and ribbed her into a gallop while slapping Andvarri’s horse on the
flanks.

The horses ran, crossing
the downy field in strides. Erik led the troop. He glanced backward as their
attackers slowed, taking up formation in a wide arc behind them. Andvarri
bobbled on top of his mount, sliding sideways in his saddle. The little man
grasped desperately at the horse’s mane. Gravity won out, and Andvarri tumbled
to the ground, rolled and settled in a disorganized mound of arms and legs.

Erik jerked back the
reins and spun, his horse’s hind hooves grinding in a tight circle. He loped
back to Andvarri, sprung off Beyla and checked the dwarf for injuries. Andvarri
moaned and rolled over, green staining his chin.

“Get up,” Erik commanded,
wrapping his arms around the dwarf’s thick middle and pulling him upright. Erik
bent to half-height to guide Andvarri back to his waiting horse.

Completing their
half-circle, their assailants raised their palms into the air in unison, waving
their hands in a strange dance. They started to sing.

“Are they attacking us
with a concert?” Rolf’s face wore confusion over his bunched up brow.

“I don’t know, but let’s
keep moving.” Erik continued to scramble over the distance, towing the dwarf
along. Andvarri hobbled on one foot, nurturing an injured leg, pain spreading
his lips in a grimace.

A melody wafted through
the air, starting low. The song caressed. Lulled. Erik stumbled to a stop at
its beauty. Andvarri gasped to catch air in his lungs, squeezing his fingers
around his thigh. As the men continued to sing, the song changed, taking on
sharp notes and dissonant chords, peaking to high, piercing notes.

The ground rumbled
beneath their boots.

“What’s happening?”
yelled Rolf, his mare prancing beneath him.

As the meadow roiled
under their feet Erik fell to his knees, taking Andvarri down with him. The
ground broke in a permanent tremor causing the dwarf’s horse to dart off in
fear, with eyes rolling, and nostrils flaring. Bursts of dirt erupted from the
thundering ground, spitting rocks into the air around them. They all cowered,
covering their heads with their hands; pebbles showered down like bolts from
the sky.

Erik lurched from his
knees, forcing himself upright while gathering Andvarri in his arms. The dwarf
suffered from overindulgence of Ysja’s rich cooking, weighing Erik to a crouch.

“By the god Freyr,
Andvarri. A few fruits and vegetables wouldn’t hurt your waistline now and
then,” he grunted.

Beyla's muscles twitched
beneath her skin, her eyes wild.

Erik neared, purring at
the frightened mare, “Whoa girl. Easy, now.”

The earth boomed beneath
them. Erik sprung back into action, flinging Andvarri onto Beyla as he
controlled the mare with a low voice then leaped up behind the dwarf.

“Ride!” he called out to
Rolf.

The group bound across
the meadow as the earth erupted around them, their attacker’s song drumming at
their backs. As they distanced themselves from the music the sound faded into
the air, dying on the wind, and the terrain beneath them quieted.

Their horses, lathered
and sweating, continued onward, hooves beating. Erik’s body drummed against the
strong back of his mount, until he could ride no more.

As the group dipped from
hill to valley, an apple grove emerged on the horizon. Erik slowed Beyla and
slid from his saddle, patting her foamed withers.

“Thank you for carrying
us so swiftly,” he whispered to her, then louder he added, “Stay atop,
Andvarri.”

The dwarf did not argue,
folding himself over the horse’s neck in relief. Rolf peeled himself from his
own seat and led Idunn alongside Beyla.

“We can hide in the
grove, yonder,” said Erik, directing Rolf’s gaze to the crop before them. Crimson
apples clung to branches, their abundance drooping limbs to the ground. A crisp
scent emitted from the grove, a hundred times headier than any in Scandia.

“But what if there are
more of . . . ” Rolf hesitated. “Who were those people?” His lungs heaved as he
tried to catch his breath. Sweat ran freely from his head, plastering his ember
curls like a wet dog. Erik knew if Rolf were privy to a mirror they would spend
all day waiting for him to groom himself back to perfection.

“Songvaris,” said
Andvarri, his voice labored.

“Who?” both Rolf and
Erik asked in unison.

“Elder said there are
those in Alvenheim known as songvaris. They have the ability to control the
elements through singing.”

“And you didn’t think to
tell us?” barked Erik.

“I. I . . .”

“I won’t bite you,
dwarf. What else should we know?”

“The land is different
here.”

“You state the obvious,”
said Erik in an irritated tone.

“Ja,” Rolf interrupted. “I
can feel her.”

Erik glanced sideways at
his little brother.

“What do you mean? Feel
who?” Erik immediately thought of Emma and realized her presence struck him—as
near as she had ever been. He sensed her, a day’s ride away. Relief spread
throughout his muscles, releasing the long carried strain. His shoulders
dropped, though he hadn’t realized they had ever been knotted. If he had not
towed these two ninnies along, he would have ridden all night to get to her.

Rolf stopped, and closed
his eyes for a moment. “Don’t you feel that?”

“Feel what, brother?”
Erik prodded for an explanation.

Rolf wavered in the
sweet-smelling breeze, spreading his palms upward, inhaling big gulps of air into
his chest.

“When I plucked the
flower back in the meadow, I heard a cry. Then there was a harsh prick against
my skin. But now that we are here, it’s like a song, a gentle hum. I can hear
her like a thousand springtimes singing in the very back of my head, but there
is more. Like the song courses through my blood and into my heart, as if we are
connected.” He popped his eyes open and stared at his companions, expecting
them to agree.

For once, Andvarri and
Erik exchanged a unified look of confusion.

An image swirled in a
gray haze. Hallad squinted. His sister’s features appeared, melding within a
vast void of gloom. Long fingers extended outward, through the ashen mist,
waving him away.

“Swan?” he called. “Sister?”

Swan spotted her
brother, eyes widening in fear. She immediately turned away and ran from him,
still encased by the fog.

Hallad's legs pumped as
he followed, sprinting after her.

“Come back!”

His heart quaked,
pumping harder, faster. Pain wrenched his chest. He flew now, bounding in great
leaps over the lifeless landscape, hurdling hundreds of paces in the air each
time his foot sprung off the ground. His arms flailed in front of him, reaching
for her, but she remained a hair’s width from his grasp.

Suddenly blackness
blasted out of nowhere. Hallad spun backward out of control, the darkness
separating him and his sister. A sickening sensation of falling overtook him. He
could find neither his feet nor the horizon, only dizziness in an endless
downward spiral. Swan’s face appeared above him, reaching out to him, but the
darkness whirled in on her. She realized the blackness stalked her, eyes wide
with terror as the Shadow squeezed away her features.

“Swan!” screamed Hallad,
as he fell.

His body spun and, just
as he thought he would hit ground, his eyes snapped open.

The IronWood encircled
Hallad. The Lion Clan slept, camped around him. Some of the drengmaers snored
louder than men passed out from drinking. Hallad scrambled from his bedroll,
icy air biting at his bare chest. He crossed the space separating him from his
sister’s carriage.

The identical twins had been
stationed at her watch and they nodded as he passed. Hallad parted the curtain
and stepped inside the carriage. The floorboards squeaked as he entered. Swan’s
body lay enveloped in darkness, an ebony blanket alternately embroidered with
moons, and the journey rune, raidho, covering her up to her chin. Her pale face
turned toward the ceiling, still as death.

Even without light,
Hallad could tell she faded deeper into another world. The carriage allowed a
narrow walkway on either side for Ase and Gisla to attend to his sister and he
squeezed up next to Swan's head, placing his palm on her cold forehead. Before
she had gone into the walk, she’d come to him in the dream. Hallad had seen the
gray landscape before and knew he had traveled to the same realm moments ago. He
realized Swan’s danger intensified with the appearance of the Shadow, even if
he were not sure what it all meant, he knew darkness chased her.

The group was two days
into their travels, heading nordr without a plan. Hallad had been unable to make
the medallion repeat its morphing action. Ase had chosen their direction, since
Hallad could not. No one questioned his inability, yet a bubble of anxiety grew
inside his chest, threatening to pop with every moment he remained useless to
his sister.

Hallad laid his head
across Swan’s shoulder, the heat of his face meeting the coolness of her
covers. Since she had slipped into this state of unconsciousness, Hallad had extended
his affection toward her. He had never shown her any fondness when she was awake
and the guilt of his initial denial of her deepened his desperation to bring
her back from whatever force held her prisoner.

At that moment, heat
burned at Hallad’s thigh. He reached inside his trousers and pulled the
medallion from its safety spot. A brilliant glow of gold pulsed off the piece,
lighting the interior of the carriage, casting warmth upon his sister’s flaccid
face.

Runes transformed across
the medallion’s surface: isa, ihwaz, ansuz, raidho, hagalaz and another symbol
Hallad did not recognize. Then the medal repeated the sequence.

Hallad scrambled out of
the carriage.

“Ase!” He caught his toe
on the edge of the entry, lurching off the carriage, and nearly ran over the
old woman, who already stood in front of him as if she waited for him.

Fully cloaked, with her
pine green cowl pulled up over her head, the priestess answered, “It’s about
time.” Then she motioned with her walking stick for him to sit and show her the
medallion.

Though confused at her
immediate appearance, Hallad obliged, keeping his concentration on the
transforming symbols. He did not want to lose the message and continued to
repeat the runes in his head.

The old woman watched
the symbols appear and disappear, scratching identical runes into the ground
with her cane until the entire progression was transcribed in the dirt.

The warmth of the metal
died in Hallad’s palm. The last rune vanished, leaving a smooth, motionless
surface. Rota, Olrun shadowing, arrived at their commotion. Though Rota’s boots
were laced tight and she wore all her clannish clothing in perfect arrangement,
Olrun looked as though she had battled with a bear in the woods—her hair
disheveled, tunic askew, and barefooted.