EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (96 page)

Erik’s gut tightened. Andvarri would not have been his first choice or second—or any choice for that matter. Yet he’d already agreed and could not back down on his word.
 

If I am worth anything
,
I am worth my word.

The villagers squeezed out a wave of disbelief. Andvarri wasn’t their first choice either.

“But Andvarri isn’t wise or courageous or strong.” A man from the crowd pointed out.

Andvarri rose from his chair. His wife gazed upon him with admiring eyes, as if he stood four oaks tall. He cleared his throat.
 

“May I say something?”

Elder Eitri nodded.

Andvarri continued, “Perhaps I am not the best choice. Gaut is stronger, Ingvar’s smarter, and Lut is more courageous.”

The Elder nodded again.

Andvarri sighed, sitting back down.

“But this journey requires more than strength and courage. You are the only one with the two requirements.”

“I know what you have taught me about the magic of galdr and seidr though I possess little skill in either, and I know some herb craft, but—”

“There is one more requirement. You are the one who possesses this requirement most.”

The assemblage hinged on the Elder’s words.
 

“More than courage, more than strength, more than wisdom, the man who journeys must have . . . ” The Elder put his hand over his chest, patting it. “Heart.”

A flush ran to Andvarri’s face. Ysja beamed at her husband. The quiet hung for several candle flicks until the villagers roared their approval, some patting Andvarri’s back and shoulders.

Erik tilted his head to the cavern’s ceiling, meeting the accusing stalactites.
 

What in Valhalla or Alvenheim or wherever the gods may be have I gotten into, traveling with a rhyming scald craftsman extraordinaire and a bumbling half-wit sage?

Chapter XXXIV

A
STEADY
DRIZZLE
SETTLED
OVER
the foothills of the Skaggs as the group departed from the Village of Gnarn. Elder Eitri tried to persuade them to stay until the rain lifted but Erik insisted, his skin itching to be on the way toward Emma once more.

The villagers gathered, as if the three misfit travelers played heroes in one of Rolf’s sagas. The group stood at the edge of the village, the mighty Skaggs looming over their path as the rain beat down upon them. The men’s soggy clothing weighed them down, even though the village dwarves had supplied them with fur-lined leathers soaked in seal fat. The women had insisted upon them, though Erik had refused more than once. The villagers had prattled about the weather not being right. “Summer should have been upon us,” they complained. At their concerns Rolf had launched into the tale of the last battle between the gods, where summer failed to arrive and the land was riddled with snow and ice.

“Are you going to throw some runes to decide which direction we go?” Rolf asked Andvarri.
 

The dwarf fumbled with a new beaver pack fastened about his waist, smiling at it with affection. The villagers fixated on them, waiting, as their gazes sent spikes of discomfort through Erik. Nowadays, Erik seemed uncomfortable under anyone’s eyes as if they all judged him and saw the dark thing lurking in his skull.

“I don’t know about the runes,” Andvarri answered. “The Elder would check the wind.”

“Then the wind it is,” replied Rolf.

“But then again, perhaps the Elder would . . . I don’t know.”

They discussed the matter like two old goats. Erik held Beyla’s reins in his gloved hands—the women had insisted upon those too. He watched the two ninnies banter, rolling his eyes back in his head. By the Norns, one was enough, but two of them?

Finally, Erik stalked off toward the nordr, leading Beyla. Within a couple candle flicks, he heard Rolf and Andvarri behind him and the villagers cheered. The echoes of ovation lasted until the voice in his head returned, drowning them out.

Days later the wetness chilled their insides. Rolf’s teeth chattered with a continuous ting. They had traveled nordr along the Skaggs, following Erik’s inner compass. Though Rolf had suggested tossing runes or listening for the wind to discover their path, Erik ignored him. He perceived Emma’s location in his gut. At the same time, he sensed an invisible wall dividing them. If he could have seen the division, he could have pummeled it, knocked it down, climbed over it—but nothing appeared. He continued searching his range of vision for the blockage as they traveled.

“Brother, perhaps we could stop a while and set up camp.” Droplets dribbled off Rolf’s nose in time with his chattering teeth.

“A little longer won’t kill you.”
 

Erik focused on the snowcapped Skaggs as he concentrated on Emma. The force separating them remained in place. Andvarri kept a good pace for his height, though his lips turned downward at Erik’s command.

You are wasting your time
, slithered the ebony-haired man’s voice inside Erik’s head.

Erik ignored the taunt. He caught sight of Rolf and Andvarri out of the corner of his eye, sagging in their saddles against the downpour. Rolf layered the leathers in twos so as not to ruin his mantle, which he had tucked away in his saddlebags for safekeeping. Andvarri squinted, wobbling atop his mount, trying to keep the wind from blowing him from his seat. Though they continued to trudge forward, Erik could not sense if they moved closer or father from Emma with the unseen wall between them.

Erik reined in Beyla where the ground leveled out. The sky revealed a patch of light as the showers lightened to drizzle.

“Are we stopping?” Rolf asked.

Erik surveyed the surroundings for dry wood as he dismounted then led his black to an overhang.
 

“It will be dark soon enough. We need time to build cover from the rain. That ledge should do.”

Rolf’s face split wide open. He hopped off his mare.
 

“There’s nothin’ better than a fair young lass, to make your fire and warm your—”

“Rolf!” interrupted Erik.

“What? Can’t I sing?”

Erik glanced at Andvarri.

Andvarri cleared his throat. “Bawdy humor is well prized in Gnarn.”
 

Andvarri’s skin ripened to a blaze, regardless.

“Ja, I know, brother, the lays. Stick to the lays.” Rolf delivered his rebuttal in an unflattering imitation of Erik.

“I hope you have more sense when we get where we’re going.”

Rolf glanced sideways. “When do you think we’ll get there?”

Erik tightened his lips.

“So I know how much time I have to get some sense.” Rolf grinned, his wide smile spreading over his white teeth. Andvarri smiled too.

Ninnies
, thought Erik.
I am stuck with two ninnies.
 

“I’ll get the firewood,” announced Erik.

The elder brother stalked off, holding his leathers close to his chest, the cold wetness chilling him senseless.
 

Hallad probably wouldn’t even raise a goose bump in this weather.
His thoughts soured at Hallad’s name.
Why do I keep thinking about that good for nothing traitor? That gutless, skirt-following sheep?

You’re right. He’s weak.
The ebony haired man’s voice wound around in his head.

So now you’re reading my thoughts? Isn’t that a seidr-wife’s trick.
Erik twisted off branches, searching for dry fodder.

Quite the contrary. Do you think your powers are womanly?
His voice settled into a low drone behind Erik’s ears.

I don’t have powers
, Erik replied.

If only Erik could set a ward, like Swan had shown him, and block out this man’s voice. Though he hated to admit it, he knew Swan was the lesser evil, but he had no idea what that intolerable woman had done to accomplish such a feat.

You’re right about your friend. He is weak. A thinker. A philosopher. You, however, you’re a doer, a conqueror. You could go far.

With your help, I suppose.
 

Erik mulled through the underbrush, picking up old wood and tucking it beneath his arm.

You could be with her this minute. Right now. Smell her, feel her. Yet you refuse my help. Even though you realize you need it.

“Go away! I’m sick of your prattling. Go! Go! Go!”

“Brother, are you talking to someone?” Rolf and Andvarri stared up from their chores with that look—the look that told Erik they feared for him, or simply feared him.

“Nei,” Erik said. “Not a soul.”
 

The elder brother returned to the overhang and arranged the dead branches out of the rain’s reach.

Soon the fire roared, the horses were fed and the men’s bellies bulged. Erik thanked the gods the village women had packed their saddlebags to the brim with dried meats and cheeses, fruits and nuts. The thought of surviving on Rolf’s burnt rabbit caused his stomach to lurch.

“Andvarri,” said Erik. “Tell me what you know of magic.”

Rolf glanced sideways at his elder brother.

“You mean your kind of magic?” asked the dwarf.

“Forget it,” Erik said. He chucked a pebble into the fire.

“Nei, nei. I’ll tell you.”
 

Andvarri tried to smooth his face, but his lips quaked at the edges. Erik thought the little man would wet his undergarments if he glared at him crossways. The drizzle slowed to a sprinkle as a patch of sky peeked through the cloudbank.

Andvarri continued nervously, “There are two kinds of magic in Scandia. Galdr and seidr. Galdr is rune-magic, while seidr is trance-magic. This is what we believe in as Scandians. However, Elder teaches that magic exists beyond our realm, with more strength than we possess as mortals and the ability can sometimes seep through to our lands and peoples. Shadowwalking, for instance, is a more powerful version of seidr. The user possesses the ability to see into another’s dreams and, in some cases, another realm—and in very rare instances, to cross into another realm as the Elder once managed. I only know what the Elder has told me. Others in our village have not possessed such a power, but the drengmaers who frequent—”

“Drengmaers?” Rolf’s ears perked at the reference, seeking another story to add to his repertoire.

“You probably think of them as valkyries, but the misconceptions about these warrior women are as wide spread as the mistaken beliefs about dwarves.”

“So you’ve met valkyries?” Rolf’s amber eyes reflected the fire, burning with excitement.

Ninnies,
thought Erik.
Two old goats prattling in the pasture.
Neither one of them can stick to the point.

“Met them? I know them! Or at least many of them. Our village rescues exposed babies, as you know. Many of these infants are girls and sometimes even twins. The girls and female twins are welcomed into the Cult of Freyja by the drengmaers, and given a safe refuge and fulfilling life.”

“Twins aren’t evil?” asked Rolf.

“Nei. Not in the least. Another misconception.”

At the mention of twins, memories of Erik’s ex-blood sworn churned, but he refused to acknowledge them. Instead he focused on the wall impeding his progress toward Emma. He tried to pry the barrier apart with his will.

Andvarri continued, “The followers of the Cult of Freyja have those among them known as spiritwalkers. They prefer the term spirit over shadow, which is the more prevalent term elsewhere.”

Erik realized the voice had gone silent. Emptiness filled his head for a moment and he relaxed. The clouds lifted as the sky brightened.

“Spiritwalkers. Shadowwalkers. Never heard of them. Tell me more,” Rolf prodded.

Erik’s skin pricked. Emma seemed closer, as if the wall between them thinned. He scrambled to his feet, leaping forward.

Andvarri jumped in response to Erik’s quick movement.

“Brother, what is it?” asked Rolf.

Erik paced back and forth.
Emma is closer!
He strutted toward the cliff.
Nei, not that way. Toward the austr. Nei. Toward the nordr. Ja! There!
 

The invisible barrier gaped open as if a hole cut through its center. Erik bounded, leaping toward where he sensed her presence. A pair of footsteps sounded, running after him.