Bonded: Book One of the ShadowLight Saga, an Epic Fantasy Adventure (11 page)

Rolf grinned, standing
and straightening his tunic, then swirling his mantle. With a wink in Ginna's
direction, he began to recite
The Marriage of Thor
.

Erik rolled his eyes.
At
least he stuck to a classic lay.

The evening wore on with
rounds of honey-sweet mead that Erik was sure would tax the farmer's supplies
for months, yet Rolf made no effort to curtail his drinking. He'd recited four
lays, all to laughter and applause.

Ginna warmed and Rolf's
advances grew bold. Rolf’s consideration for the youngest daughter encouraged
the goodwife and she spurred her daughters to cater to both men, though Erik
did not take any note of them. His memory filled with the subtle scent of
linnea flowers and summer days spread out on the Green with Emma, a sparrow
chirping near her and her laughter echoing off the aged trees of the Great
Wood. He held his hand to his chest, fingering the metal key resting under his
shift.

I will not give up. I
will not give up on you my love.

Soon, Erik peeled Rolf
away with protests on all ends.

"We need to get
some rest brother."

Rolf incited his
audience to ask for another round of stories. Erik resorted to raised eyebrows
to cow Rolf, who pouted before resigning. Hummel offered them space in the
longhouse but Erik declined, insisting the barn suited them fine. Rolf glowered
at their sleeping arrangements, but in his drunken state Erik didn't trust him
in a house full of women—full-breasted women—and Ginna, a beautiful young woman.
When at last they settled on the hay floor in the barn, Rolf collapsed in a
heap of drunkenness.

"Did you see the
knockers on that older one?"

"Go to sleep, Rolf."

Rolf curled up,
adjusting his mantle.

"Did you see the
young one with the humongous bottom?"

"Hush brother."

"And Ginna, mmm,
Ginna!"

"Shush. Sleep."

"Ginna’s the kind
of girl worth losing your neck for!"

"Do you mean that?"
said a meek voice.

Startled, Erik twisted
around. Rolf turned slower, tangling himself in a mess of fresh hay. Ginna
peered at them from the door. Rolf attempted to stand and bow, bumbling around
until he settled for sitting upright.

"Ah, Ginna. Your
presence is . . . "

The girl scrambled to his
side, hitching her skirts up over her knees to sit in the hay next to him.

"Do you mean it?"
she pressed. "Truly. Do you mean it?"

"I mean . . . "
Rolf stammered.

"You'd better get
back to the longhouse." Erik said as he stood and grabbed Ginna by the wrist.

She fought him off like
a mountain lion. Erik threw his hands in the air.

Eh gods, Rolf. What
have you gotten into now?

"Take me with you. Please.
Don't leave me here. By the Goddess, I'm cursed by Freyja if I stay with eight
sisters ahead of me for marriage," she pleaded, her large sky colored eyes
paled only in comparison to her pillow soft lips.

Then she pressed those
lips to Rolf’s. Rolf, of course, complied.

"Ginna!"

Everyone swung to the
direction of the bellow. Hummel blocked the door, carrying a pitchfork in his
hand. The goodwife glowered behind him. Ginna moved quicker than a startled doe,
but Rolf just smiled his toothy grin.

"Why good sir, your
daughter here—"

"Unless yah intend
to be bound by the marriage ribbon here and now and take the oath of the Goddess,
yah best be off my land before I count to ten." The farmer pounded his
pitchfork to the ground.

Erik grabbed his brother
by his tunic, scrambling for their belongings with the other hand.

"Get on your horse,
Rolf."

"One." The
farmer stamped the fork on the ground. "Two."

Erik saddled his black
and afterwards Rolf’s mare too, since his inebriated brother’s fumbling efforts
with the saddle only resulted in his falling over backward each time he tried
to throw it across the mare’s back.

Ginna dashed in front of
her father.

"Father, nei! I'm
going with him!"

"Nonsense!"

He pushed her backward,
into her mother's arms. She wrestled against the older woman's grip, thrashing.

"I'm going! Do you
hear me?" She wept as she sunk down to her knees. "Rolf. Please."

Erik shoved Rolf up onto
his mare; then Erik clambered onto his own horse. Rolf attempted to steady
himself in his saddle, wobbling like a bottle bobbing on the waves. Hummel
parted the heavy wood doors enough for them to pass, counting under his breath.

"Three. Four. Five.
Six."

Ginna sat on the ground,
staring at Rolf with disbelief as he rode by.

"Please. Oh, by the
Goddess, please." Tears streaked her summer skin.

"Seven. Eight. Nine."

The moon hung low,
encircled with fog. Erik kicked his mare into a trot. Rolf followed, bobbling
around in his seat. The brisk air encouraged them to pick up their pace and
they broke into a canter across the field, Ginna's sobs echoing against their
backs.

"Ten!" called
Hummel behind them.

The dark night enveloped
them and a chill settled in Erik’s bones.

"Holy Valhalla,
brother."

"What?" Rolf
stammered, nodding from side to side, Idunn snorting under his weight.

"Now look what
you've gotten us into. You might as well have sung dirty songs and gotten it
over with."

Erik slapped the back of
the black with his reins. She tightened her haunches, unwilling to move any
faster.

"We got dinner,"
Rolf slurred.

Erik's mare suddenly stopped
short, refusing to go on.

"Now, what?"
Erik mumbled. He lowered himself to the ground, patting the big black’s neck. Erik
had learned from Emma to always trust an animal's instincts. Always. The horse
bucked backward. Erik gripped the reins tightly, pulling her nose down.

"Easy Beyla, easy."

Erik tugged the beast
along by the leather straps for a hundred paces, laboring in the dark, Rolf's
mare following until the black balked out of Erik's control.

Rolls of gray mist
swirled. Rolf blurred in the haze, a silhouetted figure, as he slid from Idunn,
catching his foot in the stirrup as he dismounted.

"Whoa!" Rolf
landed with a thud on the ground.

Idunn twitched her head
up and down with nervous excitement, hide quivering in the darkness.

"Hush." Erik
held out his hand in the congealing mist. His ears pricked. Footsteps sounded close
by, crunching over the rough ground. "Stay here. And stay out of trouble."

Unsure of his footing,
Erik walked in a wide circle around his brother and the horses, while Rolf
tried to right himself on the ground. The rocky soil made for dangerous
footholds as the Skaggs loomed before them like giants in the fog. Erik
listened, peering out into night. Though he couldn’t see a soul, goose bumps
punctuated his skin. His hand tightened on the hilt of his broadsword. A thump
sounded nearby, followed by a muffled grunt.

Erik rushed back to
where he’d left Rolf and the horses. Beyla whinnied. Idunn pounded her hoof
against the ground. Erik searched the area for Rolf, but his younger brother
had vanished.

"Rolf!" Erik called.
"Rolf. Where are you?"

Erik threw up his hands,
unable to discern if Rolf was missing and in trouble or simply drunk and passed
out. Then he glimpsed movement. A burlap bag swung from a nearby tree branch,
twitching.

"Great gods Rolf! Now
you've gotten yourself tied up in a bear trap!" Erik laughed, relaxing,
tramping over to the bag and poking at it with an outstretched finger. "Brother,
what will you get yourself into next?"

Rolf’s muffled voice
answered, too jumbled to understand.

The scampering of feet
sounded behind him—footsteps scrambling across ground. Erik spun, unsheathing
his sword, wielding the blade in the air. A sting pricked the back of his neck.
He reached around to investigate and produced a small arrow, tip covered in
blood—his blood. He squinted, trying to focus, but the landscape clouded around
him. He spun, unable to grasp the leering faces as they sauntered toward him. Before
he could react, a net soared through the air, casting over Erik. He brandished
his sword, but blackness inflated from the edges of his vision. He fell, his
knees knocking against the rocky ground. Hands prodded him. Laughter rang in
his ears. He struggled against them until darkness seized him.

Light shone through an
immense window, lighting sun-kissed strands of Emma's hair. She lay prostrated
across a mass of indigo blankets, her head buried in the crook of her arms. Her
back rose in quakes.

Erik’s vision of Emma
appeared so real that he smelled the light scent of linnea flowers on her—his
sight so clear, he thought he could reach out and stroke her hair, caress the
strands like satin through his fingers. Since the night Swan had entered into
his dream, the visions had reduced to rapid-fire snatches of images and Erik
could not hold on to them. But now they played before him as if he stood in the
room with his beloved.

Erik reached out to
stroke Emma, his specter-like hand passing clean through her tresses. The dream
captured him in a way like never before, more a prisoner than spectator. Or had
he died? Become a draugr doomed to walk between worlds? He sloughed off his
worry, realizing whether a dream or death, he edged a step closer to his
beloved.

A sob escaped from Emma.
He wanted to reach out to her, to sooth her.

"Emma?" he
asked.

Emma turned. Her eyes,
swollen red and brimming with tears, searched the air. A purplish spot
ballooned from her cheek, puckering around the fleshy part of her lip. Erik
tightened his hands into fists.

Who? Who had harmed
her?

His temple pounded and
he realized he possessed physical sensations in this dream.

Emma’s water-rimmed eyes
stared through him, blank, unseeing.

"Emma. I’m here."

Erik reached for her
again, but she turned her head toward a tap upon the door instead. A woman’s
humming followed, and the stone of the door slid open. A middle-aged woman
lumbered through the room with a platter and decanter, her roundness reminding
Erik of Emma's first nursemaid.

Emma wiped her eyes with
the backs of her hands, sniffling.

"Master Lothar
requires your presence." The woman emphasized "master" as if it
left a bad taste on her tongue.

Emma turned toward the
window, the light catching the water in her eyes. Erik focused, forcing his
apparition-like figure to float toward Emma. He tried to take hold of her
tear-stained face in his hands, managing a handful of air instead.

"Tell him I'm ill,"
said Emma.

"Come, child."
The rotund woman planted a free fist on her hip, balancing the ornate platter
and decanter in the other. Erik remembered Hallad stating women were born with
their hands on their hips. "I'm afraid that won't do. You don't want to
tempt his anger."

The tears spilled from
Emma's eyes as she stared out the window. Beyond the marble pane, lush trees
lined a trim yard—the grass sheered so short Erik figured they must own hundreds
of goats to keep the lawn manicured.

Emma took solace in the
view. She tightened her jaw.

"Nei, of course I
wouldn't want to anger him."

"It's best this way
mistress. You'll see."

Emma kept her back to
the woman. After the woman set the platter down on the mantle, she poured a
glass of cherry-colored liquid. Emma's shoulders bunched at the tinkling sound,
but kept her sight locked on the far scenery.

Erik's arms ached—if only
he could touch her, hold her, tell her all would be right.

The serving woman
waddled across the room, rounding the stone bed with a cup gripped in her fist.
Emma's breath stopped as the woman's heels clicked against the floor, but her
eyes never wandered from the window, watching a blue-gray backed falcon reel
through the sky. The serving woman positioned the cup in front of Emma.

"Master Lothar
wishes you to drink this."

"I will not." Emma’s
lips quivered.

The woman pleaded, "You
must mistress. Life will be easier for you."

Emma refused, shaking
her head.

"For the sake of
the Mother, child, drink, or it will be my folly as well as yours."

Emma turned and her face
fell into a blanket of compassion.

"Forgive me, Bera. I
did not realize you would risk danger over my behavior."