EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (90 page)

“Don’t try to speak. Elder Eitri says you’ve worked a powerful magic. You are lucky to be out of it, brother.”

“Telling stories again?” Erik’s head spun as he sat up. If there had been anything in his stomach, the contents would have visited Rolf’s tunic.

Steps echoed against stone as a man no higher than Rolf’s waist ambled in. He pressed down on Erik’s chest, forcing him back down into the bed. The two children peeked out from around his girth.

“Easy now, lad. You’ve had a time of it.” The little man’s eyes shone when he spoke, his mouth turning up at the ends. Erik spotted a pouch around the man’s waist, much like the one that lying seidr-wife from the Temple wore. He pinched his eyes shut against the memory and cleared it from his mind.

The man produced a foul smelling herb from the pouch, waving the twig in front of Erik’s nose. The scent stung at the back of his throat but the thrumming in his head receded.

“Ysja, bring water. He’s woken up,” said the little man.

“Who . . . “ Erik tried sitting again, only to be pressed back down by both Rolf and the man.

“My, you are feisty.” His mouth retained a perpetual smile as he spoke. “I’m Andvarri and you are in the Village of Gnarn. Our hunters mistook you and your brother for Scandian gold seekers, but the poison shouldn’t have caused you more than a few minutes of unconsciousness. You spun yourself into a powerful spell, trapping yourself in the Shadow. We thought you might be lost,” the little man explained as if he spoke to one of his children.

A woman, a head shorter than Andvarri, scuttled in. Her chestnut skirts rustled against her stark apron as she hustled to the man’s side. Plaited braids hung down past the woman’s belt. She held a crafted mettle pot in her stunted hands. The two strangers looked like mushrooms standing in the shade of a wiry tree next to Rolf.

Andvarri and the woman gazed at one another like lovers reuniting after a long separation. “And this is my wife Ysja.”

“Papa.” The boy peeked around his father’s waist, pulling at his tunic.

“Ja,” he smiled. “And these are my children, who are going to be fed to the giants if they don’t behave.”

They giggled, peering around Andvarri so Erik could see them. Then they scampered to Rolf and hid underneath the tower his legs created. “Ah, papa. Rolfy won’t eat us!”

“He will so,” said Rolf.

They laughed again, pulling at the hem of Rolf’s tunic. “Rolfy, will your brother tell us stories, too?”

Rolf ruffled the hair on each of their heads. “Nei. I think he needs to rest, but perhaps when he’s better.”

Erik examined his company then asked Rolf, “Dwarves?”

“And you thought they were just one of my stories.”

Erik snorted.

“There are many stories about us, as your talented brother has told us, yet none quite true. Nei. We are men, just like you and Rolf. Only smaller.”

Ysja poured Erik a glass of water. Like the furniture, the cup was in miniature. He enveloped the glass in his grip and gulped, wetting his lips and throat.

“Then will you tell us a story, Rolfy?” asked the boy.

“Perhaps this evening if you are good and do what your father tells you.”

“Now,” said Andvarri. “You must run and tell the Elder our guest has awoken.”

The children raced from the room, arguing over who would be first to Elder Eitri’s house.

“How long have I been sleeping?” Erik asked.

“Two days.” Rolf’s amber eyes simmered with concern.

“Two days?” Erik lurched up, swinging his feet around to the floor, throwing back the rough woolen blanket.

“Oh, my,” yelped Ysja.

“Where are my boots?”

“Brother, you need to rest. The spell—“

“Enough spell nonsense. I need to get going.” Erik placed his feet on the floor and stood, but his legs gave beneath his weight. His knees buckled under him as he grabbed the bedpost for support. Rolf cinched his arm around his waist and eased him back into the bed.

“I’m fine.” A crease etched into Erik’s forehead.
Two days! The things Lothar could have done to her in two days!
He reached under his tunic to finger the gold key strung on a rope around his neck. The coolness of the metal comforted him.

Andvarri fumbled inside the beaver-skin pouch about his waist, producing a cloth full of greenish powder. He pinched the substance into the water glass, spilling half on the tabletop. Ysja smiled at her husband and mopped the mess with a towel she wore over her arm.

“Drink this. The herbs will settle your nerves.”

“I don’t need settling. I need—“

“Erik, they’re having a party tonight.” Rolf grinned, showing off his teeth. “They have a party most every night, but this night I’ll get to tell more stories and Elder Eitri has promised to let me meet their most skilled carver. Can you imagine what pointers I can pick up from him? A dwarf from the nordr, too. From Stonewall.” He looked like an eager pup.

“Rolf—“

“And they like my storytelling. The rhyming especially. Isn’t that right Andvarri?”

“Ja. That’s true. Your brother has an extraordinary talent as a scald.”

“And it wouldn’t hurt you to rest. For one night,” Rolf wheedled.

“Nei.” Erik gritted his teeth, thinking only of Emma. “We go, now.”

“How are you going anywhere if you can’t stand on your own two feet?” A thick voice filled the room. A gnarled man entered, an ancient shrub amongst the stone, his breadth filling the small doorway. The space his body didn’t consume his walking stick did—made for a man three times his height. One eye squinted at Erik; the other was an empty socket sunken back into the folds of the man’s wrinkles.

Andvarri backed away, letting the Elder by. The children trailed the Elder, hiding amongst the pleats of his generous cloak, like squirrels nestling in a nut-tree.

“Let us speak alone.”

Andvarri nodded at the Elder’s command. Ysja curtsied and hustled the children out, dislodging them from Elder Eitri’s robes. Rolf glanced back at his brother.

“Rolfy, come tell us a story,” called one of the children. Rolf obliged and exited as well, closing the door behind him.

Erik felt like a rat trapped in a box. The old man rambled around the room, thumping his stick as he strolled. He, too, sported a pouch under his robes and removed several packets of foul-smelling powders, leaves and barks, mixing them in the glass while keeping his good eye focused on Erik.

“I thought only women used herbs.”

“Quite the contrary.” Elder Eitri kept at his task, swirling the concoction, the wood of the spoon clunking against the tin of the cup. “It is the men in our village who have the knack.”

Erik snorted and stared at the stone walls.

“And you have the knack for magic, too. A powerful knack, I might add.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t need both eyes to see the truth.” He turned to examine Erik, his one good eye taking a quick survey from head to toe. “How is your head feeling?”

“Fine.” Erik imagined the curve of the stone wall as a huge rock—a rock he could bang over Lothar’s head.

“Do you remember your dreams?” The old man held out the glass to Erik.

“What has that got to do with anything?” Erik’s shoulders tensed, his stomach lurched, yet he took the glass and held it to his nose. He bit his lip to keep himself from vomiting. “Pah! What in Muspell is in this concoction?”

The Elder ignored Erik, continuing, “Some call your ability seidr, some call the power shadowwalking. But names are labels often describing the same thing. Regardless of the name for your talent, you must learn to control it.” He sat down in a chair, fixating his one eye on Erik. “Not that I would know myself. Only seen shadowwalking happen once. A long, long time ago.”

“I suppose you saw Odin’s Hall at the same time.”

“Such anger for one so young. What fuels your fire?”

Erik held the image of crushing Lothar in his mind, battering him to a slow death with a stone.

“How often do the dreams come? Nightly? Every other night?”

“Nightly. Daily. Every bloody candle-flick.” The words charged out of him before he could hold them back and his stomach lurched at the admission.

“There will be a meeting of the council tomorrow to discuss helping you and your brother along your quest.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Emma needs your help though, doesn’t she?”

“How . . . “ Erik stirred, his blood thumping against his skin at her name.

“Like I said before, I don’t need both eyes to see the truth. She needs your help and if you expect to save her, pride has no place.”

“Then you believe she’s alive.”

“I believe you see her.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“I know where she isn’t.”

“Speak straight old man.”

“Drink your herbs.”

Holding his breath, Erik gulped the liquid, its slimy thickness sticking to his tongue and coating the back of his throat as he swallowed. “Pah!”

“Tomorrow morning the council will meet. We will discuss much. If you expect to help her, you must gain your own strength or you will be as useless as an old rag. Rest now and I will see you at the gathering in the ElderMeadow.”

“I don’t need to attend a party.”

“It will be good for your brother.” The Elder swaggered across the room, opening the door, his voice trailing back to Erik as he exited down the hall. “And it wouldn’t do your soul any harm either.”

Chapter XXVII

E
RIK
S
IGTRIGSON
HEARD
A
VOICE
call out his name and turned to search through the crowd. Dwarves surrounded him and the starlit sky cast a milky whiteness over the Elder Meadow below. A man plucked a seven-stringed lyre, the melody quickening while onlookers clapped, danced and laughed. Mead spilled from horns as the merry-makers hopped back and forth on each foot, dancing and drinking.

“Erik,” a man’s voice called to him again.

Rolf stood in the center of a group—rising torso, shoulders and a head above them. Humans mingled among the dwarves: those with fat tongues and dim wits, a man with a stump instead of an arm, and another with lumpy protrusions marring his skin. One man continued to drool as a dwarf woman wiped his chin. Rolf had informed Erik the dwarves did not steel babies as rumors claimed—they rescued unwanted infants exposed to the elements, left for dead by their parents. The villagers took turns with the responsibilities involved in caring for those who could not care for themselves.

Rolf spotted his brother, waving him over. “Come brother, have a horn of mead.” Rolf stretched an antler horn out to Erik. Polished gold shone around the base of the horn, forming elk and deer patterns. The honey-sweetness of the container’s contents teased his nose.

“Their mead is sweeter than any, I’ll wager. Even finer than that young filly who nearly got me hitched!”

“Rolf,” said Erik. “I hope you’re behaving yourself.”

“They love my jokes. Love them. I told them the one about the milkmaid—“

“Rolf!” scolded Erik, but the group around them broke into a round of laughs.

“Your brother is quite funny,” said Andvarri, while others nodded in agreement.

Erik clutched the horn in his hand, but refused to drink.

“Relax a bit, brother. Indulge in some diversions.” Rolf’s white teeth gleamed in the torchlight.

“Erik,” called the voice again. The elder brother swiveled his head around, but not a soul looked his way.

“Is someone calling me?” Erik asked.
 

Rolf shrugged his shoulders.

“So, young Rolf.” A fat-bellied man spoke, his nose-hairs twitching as his mouth moved. He whittled on a stick, the likeness of a mule deer appearing as he worked. “You say you want to learn carving, yet you claim yourself a scald. What is it to be?”

Rolf’s smile widened, his eyes twinkling with ember sparks. “Both, of course.”

“Nei, nei, lad. It isn’t possible. To attain master status, you must choose the one skill calling to you and give yourself to the craft.”

Elder Eitri nodded at the man, considering his wisdom. Erik presumed the man was Balthaser, the Master Craftsman from Stonehall Rolf had raved about for the better part of the afternoon.

“Well lad,” said Balthaser. “Which shall it be? A smith or a scald?”

Rolf flipped his cape back. He must have convinced one of the locals to wash and mend it, as the scarlet mantle appeared new and his cowhide boots shone from a hardy polish.

“I shall be . . . “ he swept around the crowd, meeting each of their eyes, stopping momentarily on each of Ysja’s children and winking. “A Master Singing Smith.” He bowed as the crowd roared with laughter.

“Balance is required.” As Elder Eitri spoke the crowd hushed, absorbing each and every word. “Though it is true some require, as Balthaser has done, complete devotion to one path, others may find several paths calling. It is up to you to discover how to combine those paths and make them one.”

“Erik!”
 

Startled, Erik dropped his horn, mead splattering against the ground. Ysja rushed to his side, mopping the mess with a towel that seemed permanently affixed to her arm. Erik couldn’t pinpoint where the sound originated; it was as if it mingled with a thousand voices or as if it sang from the sky—the words nowhere, yet everywhere at once.

“Brother, are you all right?” Rolf turned, his smile fading.

“I’m fine.” Erik turned.
 

Rolf caught him by the sleeve. “Are you sure?”

“What are you? My nurse maid?” Even as Erik said the words, he regretted them. Rolf had been nothing but his loyal supporter and did not deserve his rage. “I want to be alone. That’s all.” Erik tried on a weak smile for his brother. “You have fun. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“I could come with—“

“Nei! I mean, I’m going to get some sleep. That’s all. I’ll be fine.”
 

Erik turned and plodded through the thick grass. He knew Rolf watched, feeling his brother’s heavy stare upon his back. The night air whipped about him. Unprotected from the warmth of the crowd and torchlight, Erik’s skin spread with gooseflesh, so he wrapped his arms protectively over his chest.