EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (104 page)

Guards pressed in behind Ase.
 

“Not so close. You’re not allowed to touch the sacrifice,” one warned.

Hallad’s lids lifted again. He caught a glimpse of the drengmaers watching from their iron cages before his sight blackened once more.
 

Algiz
, he tried the word again, failing to produce any sound.

Suddenly, the downy green grass of spring spread underneath Hallad’s feet. Iridescent blue wings, rimmed in charcoal, flitted as a butterfly took flight from the ground. Hallad followed the creature as it winged into the sky, joining others of its kind, dotting the air in a brilliant display.

Foothills stretched before him, gently sloping upward. A pathway led to a rock-rimmed well. Upon the stone, sat an older woman dressed in white with shiny pine green needles spiraling in an interlocking design throughout her gown. Her long pepper colored hair fell about her waist, her brown eyes placidly watching Hallad’s approach.

Hallad scrunched his lids shut again expecting to wake to his macabre reality, but when he opened his eyes the woman remained.

“Am I dead?” Hallad asked.

The woman smiled.
 

“Not yet.” She waved him forward. “But close by the looks of you.”

Hallad glanced down. His tunic hung in shreds, torn where the binds had cut through to his skin. Purple blood crusted his wounds and stained his ripped clothing. Dirt and sweat covered the rest of his flesh.

“Where am I?”

“You don’t know?”

Hallad pinched his brows, concentrating.

“You shadowwalked here,” said the woman as if the statement would jar his memory. When Hallad could not supply an answer, she scrutinized him.

The woman turned, bending into the well to retrieve a rope, hauling forth a bucket. She placed the container on the edge of the stone next to her and scooped out a tin full of water, gesturing for Hallad to drink.

Hallad took the cup and drank. The sensation quickened his blood, spread through his body and roused him. As feeling returned to his limbs, relief flooded his wounds.

“What is this liquid?” Hallad gave the cup to the woman as she dipped it in the bucket again and returned the tin to Hallad for a second serving.

“I am Eir. The waters of this well are blessed by the Mother. It heals those who require treatment.” Eir watched Hallad as he chugged the water.

“How does one without the touch of the Shadow walk through the veil?” she asked.

Hallad struggled to understand her question but could only shrug in response, not comprehending the woman. As his senses returned, the heat of the medallion pulsed against his leg. Reaching in his pocket, he pulled the medal from its place and contemplated the face, the runes melding one after the other. He held the medallion out to the woman.

“Could this be the cause?”

Eir nodded. Her face lit with recognition.
 

“I thought these were a myth.”

“So you know what it is?”

“Ja.” Eir inspected Hallad again, as if reading his worth. “A dyrr, crafted from the cooperation of a powerful songvari and a master shadowwalker. They create doorways from one place to another.”

“Do you know how it works?” Hallad tested his limbs, reveling in their flexibility, as if he’d just woken from a peaceful night’s rest.

“Why?” asked the woman. “What is your need?”

“My sister has fallen into the shadowwalk. If I do not deliver her to Glitner, she will die.”

“Glitner.” Eir’s tone remained level, but her eyes flashed with an unknown thought. “Your sister has been touched by the Shadow?”

“My twin,” corrected Hallad.

“And you have nei touch of either the Mother or the Shadow,” Eir stated Hallad’s lack as a fact.
 

He hung his head, shame trudging through him, remembering the displeasure of Serpent Mother when she had discussed his inability for anything other than the sword.

“There are other worthy attributes beyond touch.” Eir cocked her head, trying to reach Hallad’s downward gaze. “Bravery. Steadfastness. Responsibility. Moral compass. Strength. All gifts the Guardian possesses. And my guess is, these talents will serve you and save many others in the trials to come. What has Ravenna told you?”

“To save Swan, we must be bonded.”

“Ja,” agreed Eir.

“To be honest, I am not even sure what bonding is,” admitted Hallad.

Eir placed her hands on Hallad’s arms, a cooling sensation charged through his limbs as her tone took on a sing-song quality. “A circle of nine is formed, the sacred number of the Mother. It is best for a songvari to preside over the bond, since the songvari has the deepest connection to the Mother. In your land, your bonds are weaker because of this lack. The circle sings the sacred words and calls the Mother to join the two souls. From that point forward, you are one. If you are twins, your bond is even deeper, connecting your thoughts and actions. But you must know this: to bond, you must be as close as possible to your sister’s essence in the shadowwalk or the bond will fail.”

“But how can I get to her?”
 

Hallad glanced at the golden medallion in his palm.

“The dyrr works like a song, allowing those without the touch of the Shadow to cross the veil. Read the runes and the gateway will open. You must concentrate on your destination and the appropriate runes will appear.”

“But there is a rune I cannot read.”

Eir scanned the dyrr as runes ran across its surface.

“Hugr,” she said. “It is not a Scandian word, but the old Alven tongue. It means heart. Courage.”

Hallad tested the word on his tongue.
 

“Hugr. Then I must return.”

“Ja,” agreed Eir. “But remember, in order to bond you must open yourself up to the Svenna.”

“The Svenna?”

“The ancient word for Swan. The Savior.” Eir smiled, a hint of hope sparking in her eyes. “I know who you are, Guardian. Though in hiding from those who seek to abuse the powers of the remaining songvaris, I too, have awaited your arrival. May the strength of the Guardian be with you.”
 

The woman removed her hands from Hallad’s arms. As if nothing more than a dream, the scene disappeared and Hallad hung from the tree once again, his strength restored. The binds cut into him, but his skin did not burn. Ase came into focus before him.

“Thank the Goddess. I thought you were lost.”

“The medallion,” said Hallad. “What were the runes?”

Startled at his ability to speak, the priestess returned his question with a confused stare.

“The runes,” Hallad demanded. “In order. What were they?”

As Ase rattled off the names of the runes, a tumult broke out in the chamber. Hallad spotted Olrun’s warrior dash from the open gate of her cage, Olrun sprinting behind him, sword in hand. The warrior carried an armful of weapons as he rushed to the opposite cage, releasing the remaining drengmaers, tossing each their arms. When Olrun reached him she planted a wet kiss on his lips and squeezed his rump in her thick palm.

Hallad yelled to them, “Bring Swan!” but the drengmaers already swarmed his sister.
 

Rota hoisted Swan’s limp body over her shoulder while Olrun appeared below Hallad, slicing through the knot that held the pulley in place. Hallad fell until Olrun caught the rope and guided him downward. Ase, with Gisla rounding to her back, crowded into Hallad as Olrun tossed him the swan sword. The boom of booted feet sounded from the outer hall as the king’s warriors hurried toward the escapees. Iron clanked as the guards broke through the door and attacked.

Hallad grabbed the dyrr from his pocket as he read the runes aloud.
 

“Isa, raidho, ansuz, hagalaz, ihwaz, hugr.”

The air buzzed as an icy wind blew, originating from a circle around Hallad.
 

“Come to me!” yelled Hallad, and the drengmaers circled him, staving off their attackers.
 

Rota drew to his side with his unconscious sister draped over her shoulder, while Olrun shadowed Rota, taking up her position at her sal drengmaer’s back. Olrun’s warrior positioned himself in front of the two drengmaers, waving his sword at the onslaught of guards.

As the guards thought their fugitives cornered, Hallad continued chanting the names of the runes. The iciness increased, crackling the air. A rift split open in front of Hallad, parting the scene before him, creating a hole into another realm. Hallad peered inside the mid-air fissure to see striking white gates and a palace in the distance. With the drengmaers, Swan, Ase, Gisla and their new ally in tow, Hallad entered into Alvenheim.

Chapter XLVI

F
LADER
BUSHES
,
ADORNED
WITH
CLUSTERS
of white blossoms, flourished, intertwining with stone. The branches and stone melded into one another, spiraling upward in expressive patterns of vines and flowers, forming the gates of Glitner. A sweet floral fragrance wafted as the rift into Scandia blinked out of existence behind Hallad’s group, taking the frosty temperature with it. The air stilled, leaving the travelers standing beneath the soaring gates.

Hallad lifted Swan from Rota’s shoulders, cradling her like a babe against his broad chest. The coolness of her skin chilled him. Anxiety over her survival rumbled within him.

“What took you so long, hero?” Olrun’s face split her freckles, her ready smile mischievous.

Hallad gestured toward Olrun’s warrior friend. “What took you so long?”

“Love takes time.” Olrun’s grin spread wider as she squeezed the warrior next to her, wrapping her arms around his mass and pulling him tight against her big body.
 

“Meet Jorn. The only man who can tame me.”

“You call that tame?” said Jorn, his deep eyes flashing with adoration, or lust—Hallad couldn’t decide which.

“We are in your debt, Jorn.” Hallad nodded toward Jorn in acknowledgement. “We could not have escaped without you.”

“I have not agreed with the king’s rule for many seasons. My deciding factor was when he held a band of helpless women against their will.” Jorn gave Olrun a naughty sideways glance.
 

She jabbed him in the ribs, nearly doubling the big man to his knees.
 

Swan’s weight returned Hallad to his present task, her breath a whisper against him as he turned and led their group through the gates of Glitner.
 

Citizens milled in the interior streets along smooth stone pathways that wove throughout elaborate lattice worked building fronts. The people of Glitner wore lavish robes over fine clothing. The women’s dresses clung scantily to their figures, adorned with a seemingly endless variety of the deftest embroidery Hallad had ever seen. Billowing sleeves of three-quarter-length shirts, belted around the middle, graced the men. These were paired with trousers that bloomed at the thighs and slippers on their feet.

A woman caught sight of their group first; her face stricken, she covered her mouth with her hand. Her companion, curious about her action, followed the woman’s stare toward them and let out a high-pitched scream.

Within a breath, the entire street ignited with fearful shrieks, people scrambling to escape the intruders. One word echoed throughout the commotion.
 

“Conspirators!”

The drengmaers reacted, taking their stance back to back, surrounding Hallad and Swan. Chaos erupted around them. Men stood abreast, pushing women protectively behind them. Others ran, stumbling over one another, falling in tangled piles of thrashing arms, legs and bodies.

Movement ceased as Hallad’s group continued to stand their ground. The citizens raised their hands as their voices boomed with song. But the tune stopped short as a woman with white flowing robes, trailed by other women in identical dress, parted the crowd. The throng started, bowing at the woman’s descent down the pathway, dividing to either side then remained motionless.

The black raven marring Ravenna’s jaw line tightened across her skin as she spotted Hallad, bearing Swan in his arms. She ended her procession ten paces from the two, greeting them.

“Sacred Guardian, you have arrived.”
 

Ravenna curtsied deeply. Her pony tail, extending from the topknot of her head, fell in front of her robes as she dipped her head downward, the sunlight catching her tresses and turning the black strands a deep shade of mahogany.

Hallad tipped his head downward in response, unsure of how to react.

Whispers trickled through the onlookers as they realized the First Walker of the Norns had just pronounced this stranger the long awaited Guardian. The river of rumors increased until the word “Guardian”
played upon all their lips. Then more fear suffused the gathering as speculation about the woman the Guardian carried emerged.

“The Svenna?” questioned the crowd.

“Is the Svenna dead?” asked others.

Confusion riddled the citizens as Ravenna waved Hallad and his band forward. She strode by his side as they proceeded up the pathway leading to an enormous structure, formed like the gates—intertwining branches and stone, dressed in flowering blooms, creating an elaborate palace from natural elements. Hallad’s breath caught in his throat at the unreality of the architecture.

“Entering as you did was foolish,” Ravenna said through tight lips. “Our people will always view the Guardian with a sword drawn. Even I cannot undo the damage you have just caused.”