EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (100 page)

“Your sleep was distressed, again,” said Rolf, his face blanched with concern.
 

Seretta’s blade-green gaze settled on him. Erik’s skin pricked at her inspection.
 

Who gives her the right to judge me?
 

The thought came out of nowhere and, though Erik realized it was irrational, the anger bit at his nerves. He jolted upright from his spot.
 

Andvarri, Rolf and Seretta stared up at him. Erik’s anger blazed again, he turned away from their suspicious eyes and stalked off into the orchard.

Lothar had taken Emma’s hand and she let him. Their fingers had intertwined; her skin had touched his. She had said they were to be married. The thought of her marrying Lothar, making his home, bearing his children—loving him—singed every pore of his being. The hard edges of the key dug into Erik’s palm as he tightened his fist around it, jerking the metal off the cord around his neck. The string snapped and fell to the ground, leaving the key wrapped in his fist.

Erik stalked through the grove until he heard Beyla nicker. He approached and rubbed the side of her neck. The mare gave way, bending her head so he could scratch her harder, but he could not find comfort in the animal. Animals reminded him of Emma—her touch with them, her advice over the years on their gentleness and instincts.

A mound of fresh grass sat before their mounts. When Seretta had returned with them and discovered the horses, she had said, “Lucky that we have found one another.” Then she set about singing while the earth gave forth heaps of grass. Rolf had mounded the fresh feed as Seretta had explained, “Humans care for the Mother’s children and in turn, the Mother supplies for all.”
 

Erik didn’t understand this land.

And he couldn’t comprehend Emma’s betrayal—all they had shared over the years, all they had planned together—their past, their future—gone. Disappeared in the candle flick of time it took for her to dismiss him.

Erik kicked his saddle, which sat upon the ground. The striking of his foot against leather and wood sent a jolt up his leg. He kicked again, harder, a perverse pleasure in the pain. Another blow against the saddle sent Erik into a frenzy, kicking and hitting. The momentum overcame him as he lashed out against the saddle. His fist tightened, the key piercing the skin of his palm. All his grief spattered out through searing blasts up his legs and his bloodied knuckles and palm. A scream broke through his chest, a nonsensical wail ripping open his heart as he shrieked toward the skies.

Hands held him, pinning his arms back. Erik fought against them, kicking and screaming, as he gripped the bloodied key. He could barely discern Rolf’s voice in his ear.
 

“Please, brother, stop. You are hurting yourself. Please. Don’t.”
 

Erik fought until the rage spilled out of him. He sank to his knees. His insides crumbled. Emptiness overpowered him.

Seretta’s song sprung around him. Her hands joined Rolf’s. Her melody caressed him, dulling the agony inside. Rolf picked him up from the ground, cradling him like a child. Erik wondered how his lanky brother managed his weight, but was too weak to question him.

Soon, Erik found himself wrapped in his bedroll, as the songvari hummed over him.

“Will he be alright?” Rolf’s voice drifted over Erik, while he struggled to keep his eyes open.

“The Shadow has touched him,” said the songvari between her humming.

Erik’s eyelids won the fight, closing to darkness. He drifted off, the woman’s words singing into his head as sleep overcame him.

“Some can fight the Shadow, others cannot. He has given much of his strength to the girl. I don’t know if he has enough left for himself.”

Chapter XL

A
RMORED
MEN
SPRUNG
UP
FROM
a ditch as Hallad’s entourage appeared from the edge of the IronWood. Sunlight glinted off the gold façade of a distant temple rising out of the vast and desolate field before them, blinding Hallad. He raised his hand over his brow to block the beam of light, restoring his sight.

A dizzying array of images presented themselves. A temple bedecked in gold peered over a sloping hill, its spires reaching toward the sky. What appeared to be a golden chain encompassed the massive temple’s entire circumference. The chain captured light and cast it hundreds of paces across the meadow like a ray of static lightening. The slope of the meadow chafed with lifeless wheat from last year’s harvest, without a hint of spring buds beneath, as the attacking men’s boots crunched over the dead stalks. A grove, visible near the temple, had unnatural shapes hanging from trees and foul-smelling air swept through the meadow. The hoard of menacing men plunged toward Hallad, war-painted faces exaggerating their features, their swords and axes hefted for battle, their guttural screams resounding in his ears.

Rota bellowed, “To arms!” and the Lion Clan divided in twos, back to back. Swords, axes, saxes and arrows howled through the air toward their attackers.

Hallad reined in Thor, spinning the gelding around to circle behind Swan’s carriage. He sprang off Thor’s back to guard the wooden door of his sister’s chamber, swan sword poised as the attackers moved inward, their metal clanking against the steel of the Lion Clan’s.

Olrun and Rota danced with their spines a hair’s width apart, as if one mighty being with arms on both the front and back of a singular body. They disarmed two oncoming assailants, swinging their blades in rhythm—Olrun slicing first, Rota finishing the blow as they spun, sending the first warrior’s axe flying. They repeated the move with Rota in the lead to dispatch a second man within a breath of time.

Hallad counted the assailants. Only twelve. Against twenty of the Lion Clan. Perhaps they figured they could easily overtake a band of women. Their attackers were bulked-up men, dressed in full scale battle gear—blue painted faces, leather mail shirts, iron helmets with nose guards, wooden shields decorated with the triple horn emblem of the god Odin, and a variety of weapons.

The skirmish did not last. The drengmaers unarmed most of the warriors. Hallad watched as Rota strong-armed a remaining warrior to the ground. She hefted the man’s body over her shoulder after Olrun buckled the man’s knees with a well-placed jab of her foot.
 

The warrior hit the ground with a thud and immediately called, “Withdraw!” to the other men.
 

The few warriors who had managed to remain standing against the Lion Clan’s defense turned and ran off, sprinting over the meadow toward the tower.

Olrun poked her sword under the prostrate man’s neck, lifting his chin with the point, as Rota demanded, “Why do you attack us?”

“These are our god Odin’s lands,” he replied, staring at his captors with disbelief.

A wide grin broke over Olrun’s face as she towered over the man. Though on his back, the man was larger than the Head Drengmaer, but she matched him muscle for muscle in the size of her arms and thighs. She moved her sword to the right and left, forcing the man to turn his face along with her blade as she examined him.
 

“And your god gives you the right to attack a group of helpless women?” Olrun asked, an edge of sarcasm tainting her tone.

“We stand guard for any who threaten the Temple of Upsalla.”

“And how did we threaten you?”
 

Olrun trailed her sword down the man’s chest. Though he was protected with thick squares of lamellar armor, the drengmaer’s sword found the chinks and whittled in and out between them as she traced her point downward. Her grin broke wider, splitting her freckled face as she watched her captive. She made it apparent she appreciated what she saw—a handsome man with eyes full of contempt and confusion. The tip of her blade caressed the man’s belly. She abruptly jerked her sword to his crotch, pressing her point between the man’s legs.

Hallad blushed at the man’s humiliation. He strutted toward the Head Drengmaer of the Lion Clan.
 

“Let him stand,” Hallad said.

Olrun’s attention snapped to Hallad.
 

“He attacked us.”

“Ja,” said Hallad, “but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve his dignity.”

The drengmaer stared at Hallad.
 

For a moment, Hallad thought she’d turn her sword on him, but she let out a loud laugh instead, slapping her thigh as her entire body shook with her bellows.
 

Olrun lifted her blade, letting the man rise, but whispered at his side, “You are a comely man. You and I can have fun later.”
 

Her words were tainted with a strange mix of threat and seduction as she slapped the man’s rump with her large palm and winked. The rest of the Lion Clan joined in Olrun’s laughter, a cackle of women clucking at the poor man as he floundered for his pride, adjusting his lamellar shirt before facing Hallad—all except Rota, who cast her sal drengmaer a disapproving look.

The warrior took in Hallad’s appearance, flicking his gaze across the signet pinned to Hallad’s mantle and the swan on the hilt of Hallad’s sword.

“We seek Upsalla,” said Hallad, trying to ease the tension.

“Why?” asked the warrior, shooting apprehensive glances toward his assailant.
 

Olrun puckered her lips, kissed the air and laughed again. The man’s eyes darted away in an attempt to ignore the enormous drengmaer, but his face flushed as he directed his attention back to Hallad.

Ase and Gisla emerged from the carriage where they had ridden with Swan, watching over her. The priestess must have had the sense to stay hidden while the fight raged, but now she came to Hallad’s rescue with an answer.

“We seek the counsel of the High Priest.”

The warrior took in Ase, her pine-green garb, the cat fur lining, and the cat and moon emblems embroidered on her overskirt peeking out through her cloak, and nodded with respect.
 

“I will escort your group,” he said. “But the warriors must abandon their weapons upon regulation and respect of the Holy Temple.” He tipped his chin toward Olrun, without looking at her directly.

“We will not drop our weapons,” replied Olrun, her freckles darkening as her skin reddened.
 

Rota stayed her with a hand on Olrun’s elbow.

“My sister speaks truth. We would jeopardize your safety and the safety of . . . ” Rota hesitated. “Of your sister.” Her eyes communicated she meant the Savior, but would not say the word in front of a stranger.

“If we ride to Upsalla bearing arms, we insult our host,” Hallad argued.

“We do not know if the High Priest is hospitable or hostile,” countered Olrun, who pushed her bulk into Rota, her thick arm resting at her sal drengmaer’s side.

Hallad glanced to Ase for her opinion, but the priestess kept her lips in a straight line, deferring to his command.

“We graciously accept your escort.” Hallad tipped his head at the warrior. “Our retinue will relieve their arms, but our weapons remain in our carriage for safe keeping.”

The warrior bowed back toward Hallad.
 

Rota grunted, hand signaling her clan to drop arms at the wagon while she leaned into Hallad, her tone fierce.

“If you are to lead, you must think like a leader and protect your troops.”

Olrun reluctantly released her sword, following Rota’s lead. Then she closed the distance between herself and the male warrior, smiling as she approached him. The drengmaer removed a mead bladder from her belt and extended a drink as a peace offering.

The warrior reached for the bladder, eyes questioning, then took a swig of sweet mead.

“I do not bite.” Olrun clapped the man hard on his shoulder for emphasis.
 

He gagged at the force of her slap.
 

She laughed and added, “Unless you want me to.”
 

Her face broke into a grin and she howled at her own joke, while the man wore confusion knit into his brow.

Rota instructed the twins to collect the drengmaer’s arms and store them inside the carriage. Once the task was completed, the company proceeded across the rolling plains.

As they neared the Temple the figures hanging within in the grove came into sight. Carcasses. Men, horses, dogs, bears, rabbits, foxes, cows, goats—all strung from ropes over branches, their bodies picked with holes from feasting ravens. The birds swamped the grove, their rustling on leaf-bare branches raising the hairs on Hallad’s skin. The intense smell of rotted carcass caused his stomach to rumble a warning as the sharp odor reached his insides, choking his throat and causing his eyes to water.

Hallad sought Ase as he led Thor at the head of the group, his warrior escort flush to his side. As he glanced backward in search of her, Rota’s hardened warning stare caught him and he cursed himself for his earlier decision to respect the rules of the Temple and cast down his sword. Had his father raised a fool? Even if in the past few days these women had allowed him to lead, he felt failure creeping upon him again.
Listen to all sides
, his father had always said, but Hallad had neglected to heed the warnings of the drengmaers and now he hoped all would not pay the price.

The warrior caught his gaze, and said, “Therein lays the sacred groves of Upsalla. Each tree is holy, surviving from the blood of thousands of sacrifices over hundreds of years. It is a crime, punishable by death, to cut them down.”

Hallad held his tongue as they continued through the open gates.

Rota pressed into his back and whispered into his ear, “Something is rotten here. Be on guard.”

The Temple, shaped like a fortress—a square center with spires flanking each side—had a width and breadth larger than the King of Birka’s stronghold, though no city surrounded the monstrosity. As they crossed into the Temple yard, fifty armed men appeared from either side while fifty more circled around and closed them in from behind.

Hallad scrambled toward the carriage at the sight of the army. He intended to retrieve his sword and guard Swan but his escort gave chase, tackling him to the ground. Hallad thudded against the cobblestones, air knocked from his lungs in a painful wheeze.