Bonded: Book One of the ShadowLight Saga, an Epic Fantasy Adventure (18 page)

"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."

Erik Sigtrigson 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.

The path through the
Elder Meadow hid amongst the grass; the dwarves kept their existence well
hidden from the surrounding farmers. Rolf claimed the dwarves had been harassed
by nearby villages and their secrecy was a matter of survival. Though Erik
wasn’t sure what to make of his hosts, he knew they weren’t the mythic monsters
of tales and his gut told him they could be trusted.

"Come." The
command lulled him, the voice deep, resonant and full.

Erik pounded his fist
against his forehead in response. Had the dreams seized his waking life?

"What do you want?"

"I knew you heard
me. I want to show you something."

"Who are you?"

Erik stumbled along the
rocky path leading to the entrance to Andvarri’s home. He reached the mountain
wall and fumbled over the stone, finding the latch and activating the stone to
open.

"Your best friend,"
the voice said.

Erik slid behind the bushes
that hid the entrance to Andvarri’s. He strutted through the doorway and
proceeded down a torch-lit tunnel.

"Or your worst
enemy. You decide."

Erik snorted. "I’m
rather fond of making enemies."

Erik approached the main
home after several turns through the tunnels. An open door awaited him. He
entered the home, decorated in earthy browns and a variety of greens, plush
woven carpets and a fire pit fitted with an intricate ventilation system. Soon
he stretched himself across his two plump mattresses, holding his head between
his hands.

"Those who burn so
brightly, burn out quickly."

What is your point?
He mouthed the words, as the conversation moved
inside his head.

I want to show you
something. Sleep and I will come to you.

Sleep
, Erik thought.

His heavy head rested
upon the hay filled pillows propped beneath him. They cushioned him like a
cloud and he was the wind, drifting, drifting . . .