EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (81 page)

“Twins are sacred,” cut in the priestess. “They are revered as blessed by our goddess Freyja. For epochs, the seed of the Shadow has sought to sully the holiness of twins as he knew the Savior would come in two. His weak minded minions spread this vile lie to fool the ignorant.”

Erik snorted. Rolf’s jaw flung open harboring silence for the first time. Ase fixated on Hallad.
 

“A crucial future lays ahead of you, young man.”
 

The priestess clapped. Gisla fumbled with a leather scabbard in response, handing the sheath to her mistress. A swoosh resonated as Ase drew a heavy blade from the encasement, bending over to lay the sword before Hallad.
 

“From your mother, Isla. A powerful and wise priestess.”

The sword matched Swan’s—or Astrid’s—except an elegant bird graced the hilt. His twin leaned over, laying her blade parallel to Hallad’s. The hilts entwined as if forged together, forming a towering tree digging its roots in the earth with the swan nestled in the ash’s protection.

“You and Astrid, or perhaps Swan is more appropriate.” She stood with the help of her elm branch and continued, “You must come with me to IronWood.” She tapped her walking stick on the ground. “We must prepare. Nei time to waste. You and Swan are to be bonded as sal drengrs.”

“Sal drengrs?” asked Hallad.

“Soul Warriors. Those destined to fight side by side for life,” said the priestess.

“Fight who?” Hallad’s gut twisted at the thought of the drunk’s words from Merchants’ Row, and the unknown foe who sought his twin.

Erik erupted, “IronWood? Soul Warriors? You don’t believe her do you? You’re not twins with this . . . this . . . “
 

Erik threw up his hands in frustration.

“There is truth in what she says,” Hallad replied. “I can’t explain it blood brother, I can feel our connection—“

“What about Emma?” Erik screamed.

“Who is Emma?” Ase asked.

Erik turned on the priestess, overflowing with desperation.
 

“Emma is my . . . “ He reached underneath his tunic, grabbing at something beneath his shirt.

“My sister,” Hallad interrupted. “She disappeared into the Shadow when we . . . “ Sorrow edged in as he sensed Swan’s pull on him—sorrow, guilt, disgust with himself for all his failures and all who he had failed.

“I see.”
 

Ase settled back down, opening the front of her robe to expose a cat-skinned pouch about her waist. She reached inside and drew out a black bag. With a flick of her thin wrist she shook the contents and held the pouch out to Erik.

“Draw a stone.”

Erik hesitated—his distrust of Ase at odds with his curiosity. Slowly, he reached into the bag and pulled his hand back in a fist. He unfolded his fingers, holding the stone out for the priestess. The rock in Erik’s thick palm bore no markings what-so-ever.

Gisla gasped, covering her mouth. Ase clicked her tongue.

“The rune of the unknown.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” asked Erik.

“Either it is not for us to know yet, or Emma has already passed to the Hall of the Gods,” the priestess replied.

Erik shot up from his sitting position and pounded his fist into the nearest table with a loud thwack. He whirled on Ase.
 

“You are wrong! You know nothing!” He spun around to Hallad, his eyes brimming. “You are not going to believe her? You are not going to follow this mad old goat, are you?”

Hallad stood to face his friend, but was unable to answer. In his gut, he knew where his path must lead. As his father had told him,
she will guide you.
He intended to honor his father’s command but words of explanation refused to form on his lips.

Erik spat at the ground in front of him.
 

“I curse you Hallad Avarson! Your sister, your
real
sister, renounces you as do I!”

Erik yanked a knife from his belt. Swan glided to Hallad’s side, but Hallad stayed her with his hand on her forearm.

Erik waved the knife at the two of them then turned the blade on himself, cutting deep into the flesh of his palm. Blood rolled off his hand, dripping down to the dirt floor below.
 

“You’re not my blood sworn anymore!”
 

His hand shook as he made a fist, squeezing the crimson blood between his fingers. Tears broke free and streamed down his face.

Erik turned from them, storming through the doors, swinging them hard so they pounded against the outer wall. Rolf, glaring at Hallad with disgust, followed his brother. Hallad shook as he watched the two leave, listening as they mounted and road off down the trail, their hoof beats pounding in time with the throbbing of his shattered heart.

Chapter XII

N
IGHT
PRESSED
DOWN
UPON
THEIR
camp. They had traveled for five moons, stopping briefly on the craggy outskirts of Egil’s Heights to buy supplies and seagull eggs, gathered by the villagers by scaling the steep cliffs. Gisla insisted on the eggs, poaching them with herbs she collected on their travels, a pleasant change from Rolf’s burnt rabbit. Hallad watched the industrious girl at her work as he sat by the fire, sharpening his swan sword. She would make a man a fine wife someday—not that he would ever have the freedom from his responsibilities to take a wife. Even as a child, he always knew he’d be alone—until Swan arrived.

Hallad scraped at his blade with a stone. The rhythm of metal against rock matched with the beat of his heart as he reflected on all those souls he loved and had failed. Emma. Erik. His father. His sworn duty to Swan incited unanswerable questions and unfathomable repercussions.

Without a sound, Swan appeared in front of him. Hallad sensed her before seeing her. He avoided her gaze and concentrated on the sword. Since the rift with Erik, Swan had been attentive—always by his side, smiling, brushing against his arm as if to say she understood.
She cannot know my distress,
but as soon as the statement formed, he knew the sentiment to be wrong. He knew because he could feel how she felt, her emotions flooding him like a tidal wave ready to take him under. Even now, concern swelled from her and into him, suffocating him.

When he didn’t acknowledge her, she sat next to him, so close the sleeve of her tunic pressed against his side. He had many questions for her: how she grew up, where she had been, what their mother was like, why she and their mother had left him, who wanted her, and why?

The song from the Great Wood tinkled inside his head.

The sky is dark and the hills are white

As the storm-king speeds from the nordr tonight.

And this is the song the storm-king sings,

As over the world his cloak he flings.

“Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;”

He rustles his wings and gruffly sings:

“Sleep, little one, sleep.”

Hallad turned to look at his twin, her eyes closed in concentration.

“Is that you singing?” he asked.

Swan started, turning to Hallad in surprise. Her brows crumpled in confusion. Then she nodded confirmation.

“Why don’t you speak?” Hallad pressed on. Swan shook her head back at him, her features stiff with hurt.

“You spoke. In Steadsby, you spoke in my head.”

She nodded, unsure.

“And since then, nothing. I know you know how I feel, yet you let me blunder in ignorance, not speaking. Not letting me know what it is I fight for.”
She can speak to me. She only chooses not to.
 

Even as the thought entered his mind, he knew more hid behind the simple fact. He waited, but no words came.

She reached out to touch his face. Hallad caught her wrist and pushed her arm away.

“Leave me be,” he said, springing from his seat, strutting away.
 

An avalanche of her hurt crushed him as he broke into a jog. He needed to get away from her—where he couldn’t feel her presence, couldn’t read her emotions.

As he barreled through the scrub brush, confusion muddled his head. He couldn’t tell the difference between her emotions and his as he dashed onward. Trying to escape. Clear his head. Be alone.

Alone.
The idea almost choked him. Wasn’t loneliness the void he had longed to fill?

A crack resounded in the bushes. “Swan? Is that you?” No one answered, yet the undergrowth snapped again. Had it been Swan, he would have known. He would have sensed her.

“Priestess?” he called, to no reply. “Gisla?”
 

Hallad gripped his swan sword tighter. The light faded over the Skaggs as an orange-purple hue washed over the land.

Another crack played in the distance, then footsteps. Hallad quickened, tearing through the brush, running after the sound until he stopped short, heaving for breath. Crickets chirped. An owl hooted.

“Who’s there?” he called out again. Still, no one replied.
 

Hallad searched the ground. Broken branches left a trail.
 

“Show yourself.”
 

In a hopeful tone he asked, “Erik?”—though in his gut he realized his ex-blood sworn would not return. The thought of Erik reignited the ache in his heart.

Hallad followed the trail until he could no longer tell where the stalker had vanished. Reluctantly, he returned to camp.

Both Gisla and Swan were bedded down. The apprentice slept heavily, but even though Swan’s eyes squeezed shut Hallad could tell her mind spun with thoughts. The priestess sat by the fire scribbling runes in the dirt with her walking stick. She sketched the rune for isa, then hagalaz. She harrumphed at the drawing, kicking the symbols with her boot, dispersing them.

Ase ambled to the fire. With a rag, she removed a metal cup from near the coals and brought it to Hallad.

“Gisla made it for you.”

Hallad snugged the cup in his fist and drank, the pungent herbs strong in his throat. With a satisfied smirk, Ase crossed the distance and shimmied into her bedroll.

“Who are our friends?” she inquired.

“I don’t know.”
 

Hallad grabbed his own bedroll and smoothed the down-filled wool out over the hard ground.

The priestess rested her head in the crook of her arm, closing her eyes.
 

“Not a friendly lot, I am sure, though nei threat for tonight. Sleep.”
 

Her lids shut. Within moments her breath settled into a light rhythm.

Hallad sighed and settled down for the night as Swan’s emotions forced themselves into every inch of his being.

Chapter XIII

T
HE
WOMAN
TREMBLED
. S
WEAT
SOAKED
her forehead, though the nip of the night air chilled her bones. She fought her way through the bramble, thistle sticking to her midnight cloak until she reached her campsite.

Hallad had nearly caught her. The slug of a rough she hired at the docks had been no help in her mission against the boy.

“It makes nei matter what you pay me mistress,” the rough had said, folding his thick arms across his chest. “Ye didn’t say we was chasing a seidr-wife and a valkyrie. That’s not the deal. Think I’m nei brighter than a goat to be headin’ into the IronWood after the likes of those?” He had flung his dirty bag over his shoulder, heading to leave.

“My silver!” she had demanded.

The brute had thrown her coins at her and spat at the ground where they fell. “Just as well. Ye coin is probably cursed.”

The woman had pleaded with him to stay. Begged. She had no desire to be left in the middle of nowhere alone—but that’s exactly how she found herself now.

She trembled again. If only Lord Lothar didn’t detain her precious Emma. If only she hadn’t made the pact with the lord, given him Emma’s dress so his wolves could track her and the lord could collect her and take her to his lands. If she’d only followed Lothar’s directions and notified him when the swan maiden found Hallad and they were together, rather than trying to please Lothar by having Hallad executed. If only her husband hadn’t put up a fight. Too many ifs.

Thyre pulled her legs tight to her chest as she squatted on the cold ground. It was Hallad’s fault. His fault she was in this mess. His fault her daughter faced danger. Warm tears spilled over her cheeks. Rocking back and forth, she wept, fixing Hallad’s face into her mind.

The cold ground nipped at her feet, oozing through her leather soles.
Fire. Got to make a fire. S
he unwound her muscles, stretching them, wiping her face with the back of a gloved hand. She was too old for this—too old and too frail. A woman’s job was in the home, safe and warm, counting silver for one’s husband, directing thralls and expanding lands by bearing daughters.

She fumbled with the firewood, her numb fingers unwilling to grab hold.

It has been worse
, she thought. The first few nights she didn’t know how to start a fire at all. It wasn’t her inability to produce a spark, but to keep the fire fed. A puff of wind would come out of the nordr and blow her meager flames out. It took nights of experimentation before she managed enough heat to warm her hands and toes. Menial chores had been left to the thralls and she’d never paid any attention when they were performed, but the cool nights made her wish she had.

She was ignorant in many ways, and Lord Lothar would come to her in her dreams and remind her, taunting her. “What a useless goat I’ve chosen. You will never perform the task I’ve set for you.” Then Lothar would allow a brief flash of her daughter’s sweet face, a sleeping rose against soft covers. Other times Emma would appear weeping, pleading into the dark night. Those times her heart would quicken at the desperate image and she’d sob at the catastrophe she had caused.
 

Nei
, she thought.
Hallad has caused this.
 

All those years Avarr had forced her to pretend to be his mother. All those years he showed favoritism to his son. All those years Avarr had held Hallad’s mother in his heart, pushing Thyre away. She had intended to set Emma up with a position worthy of her status. Worthy of her beauty. Queen to a god.