Bonded: Book One of the ShadowLight Saga, an Epic Fantasy Adventure (28 page)

Rolf glanced up to see
Erik had awakened.

“Brother, are you
alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

The ache of Emma’s loss intensified.
Erik wanted to tear open his skin and remove the memory of her from within him.
He reached up under his tunic and wrapped his fingers around the key hanging from
his neck.

“Your sleep was
distressed, again,” said Rolf, his face blanched with concern.

Seretta’s blade-green
gaze settled on him. Erik’s skin pricked at her inspection.

Who gives her the
right to judge me?

The thought came out of
nowhere and, though Erik realized it was irrational, the anger bit at his
nerves. He jolted upright from his spot.

Andvarri, Rolf and
Seretta stared up at him. Erik's anger blazed again, he turned away from their
suspicious eyes and stalked off into the orchard.

Lothar had taken Emma’s
hand and she let him. Their fingers had intertwined; her skin had touched his. She
had said they were to be married. The thought of her marrying Lothar, making
his home, bearing his children—loving him—singed every pore of his being. The
hard edges of the key dug into Erik’s palm as he tightened his fist around it,
jerking the metal off the cord around his neck. The string snapped and fell to
the ground, leaving the key wrapped in his fist.

Erik stalked through the
grove until he heard Beyla nicker. He approached and rubbed the side of her
neck. The mare gave way, bending her head so he could scratch her harder, but
he could not find comfort in the animal. Animals reminded him of Emma—her touch
with them, her advice over the years on their gentleness and instincts.

A mound of fresh grass
sat before their mounts. When Seretta had returned with them and discovered the
horses, she had said, “Lucky that we have found one another.” Then she set
about singing while the earth gave forth heaps of grass. Rolf had mounded the
fresh feed as Seretta had explained, “Humans care for the Mother’s children and
in turn, the Mother supplies for all.”

Erik didn’t understand
this land.

And he couldn’t
comprehend Emma’s betrayal—all they had shared over the years, all they had
planned together—their past, their future—gone. Disappeared in the candle flick
of time it took for her to dismiss him.

Erik kicked his saddle,
which sat upon the ground. The striking of his foot against leather and wood
sent a jolt up his leg. He kicked again, harder, a perverse pleasure in the
pain. Another blow against the saddle sent Erik into a frenzy, kicking and
hitting. The momentum overcame him as he lashed out against the saddle. His
fist tightened, the key piercing the skin of his palm. All his grief spattered
out through searing blasts up his legs and his bloodied knuckles and palm. A scream
broke through his chest, a nonsensical wail ripping open his heart as he
shrieked toward the skies.

Hands held him, pinning
his arms back. Erik fought against them, kicking and screaming, as he gripped the
bloodied key. He could barely discern Rolf’s voice in his ear.

“Please, brother, stop. You
are hurting yourself. Please. Don’t.”

Erik fought until the
rage spilled out of him. He sank to his knees. His insides crumbled. Emptiness
overpowered him.

Seretta’s song sprung
around him. Her hands joined Rolf’s. Her melody caressed him, dulling the agony
inside. Rolf picked him up from the ground, cradling him like a child. Erik
wondered how his lanky brother managed his weight, but was too weak to question
him.

Soon, Erik found himself
wrapped in his bedroll, as the songvari hummed over him.

“Will he be alright?”
Rolf’s voice drifted over Erik, while he struggled to keep his eyes open.

“The Shadow has touched
him,” said the songvari between her humming.

Erik’s eyelids won the
fight, closing to darkness. He drifted off, the woman’s words singing into his
head as sleep overcame him.

“Some can fight the
Shadow, others cannot. He has given much of his strength to the girl. I don't
know if he has enough left for himself.”

Armored men sprung up from
a ditch as Hallad’s entourage appeared from the edge of the IronWood. Sunlight
glinted off the gold façade of a distant temple rising out of the vast and
desolate field before them, blinding Hallad. He raised his hand over his brow
to block the beam of light, restoring his sight.

A dizzying array of
images presented themselves. A temple bedecked in gold peered over a sloping
hill, its spires reaching toward the sky. What appeared to be a golden chain
encompassed the massive temple’s entire circumference. The chain captured light
and cast it hundreds of paces across the meadow like a ray of static
lightening. The slope of the meadow chafed with lifeless wheat from last year’s
harvest, without a hint of spring buds beneath, as the attacking men’s boots
crunched over the dead stalks. A grove, visible near the temple, had unnatural
shapes hanging from trees and foul-smelling air swept through the meadow. The
hoard of menacing men plunged toward Hallad, war-painted faces exaggerating
their features, their swords and axes hefted for battle, their guttural screams
resounding in his ears.

Rota bellowed, “To
arms!” and the Lion Clan divided in twos, back to back. Swords, axes, saxes and
arrows howled through the air toward their attackers.

Hallad reined in Thor,
spinning the gelding around to circle behind Swan’s carriage. He sprang off
Thor’s back to guard the wooden door of his sister’s chamber, swan sword poised
as the attackers moved inward, their metal clanking against the steel of the
Lion Clan's.

Olrun and Rota danced
with their spines a hair's width apart, as if one mighty being with arms on
both the front and back of a singular body. They disarmed two oncoming
assailants, swinging their blades in rhythm—Olrun slicing first, Rota finishing
the blow as they spun, sending the first warrior’s axe flying. They repeated
the move with Rota in the lead to dispatch a second man within a breath of
time.

Hallad counted the
assailants. Only twelve. Against twenty of the Lion Clan. Perhaps they figured
they could easily overtake a band of women. Their attackers were bulked-up men,
dressed in full scale battle gear—blue painted faces, leather mail shirts, iron
helmets with nose guards, wooden shields decorated with the triple horn emblem
of the god Odin, and a variety of weapons.

The skirmish did not
last. The drengmaers unarmed most of the warriors. Hallad watched as Rota
strong-armed a remaining warrior to the ground. She hefted the man’s body over
her shoulder after Olrun buckled the man’s knees with a well-placed jab of her
foot.

The warrior hit the
ground with a thud and immediately called, “Withdraw!” to the other men.

The few warriors who had
managed to remain standing against the Lion Clan’s defense turned and ran off,
sprinting over the meadow toward the tower.

Olrun poked her sword
under the prostrate man’s neck, lifting his chin with the point, as Rota
demanded, “Why do you attack us?”

“These are our god
Odin’s lands,” he replied, staring at his captors with disbelief.

A wide grin broke over
Olrun’s face as she towered over the man. Though on his back, the man was
larger than the Head Drengmaer, but she matched him muscle for muscle in the
size of her arms and thighs. She moved her sword to the right and left, forcing
the man to turn his face along with her blade as she examined him.

“And your god gives you
the right to attack a group of helpless women?” Olrun asked, an edge of sarcasm
tainting her tone.

“We stand guard for any
who threaten the Temple of Upsalla.”

“And how did we threaten
you?”

Olrun trailed her sword
down the man’s chest. Though he was protected with thick squares of lamellar
armor, the drengmaer's sword found the chinks and whittled in and out between
them as she traced her point downward. Her grin broke wider, splitting her
freckled face as she watched her captive. She made it apparent she appreciated
what she saw—a handsome man with eyes full of contempt and confusion. The tip
of her blade caressed the man’s belly. She abruptly jerked her sword to his
crotch, pressing her point between the man’s legs.

Hallad blushed at the
man's humiliation. He strutted toward the Head Drengmaer of the Lion Clan.

“Let him stand,” Hallad
said.

Olrun’s attention
snapped to Hallad.

“He attacked us.”

“Ja,” said Hallad, “but
that doesn't mean he doesn’t deserve his dignity.”

The drengmaer stared at
Hallad.

For a moment, Hallad
thought she’d turn her sword on him, but she let out a loud laugh instead,
slapping her thigh as her entire body shook with her bellows.

Olrun lifted her blade,
letting the man rise, but whispered at his side, “You are a comely man. You and
I can have fun later.”

Her words were tainted
with a strange mix of threat and seduction as she slapped the man’s rump with
her large palm and winked. The rest of the Lion Clan joined in Olrun’s
laughter, a cackle of women clucking at the poor man as he floundered for his
pride, adjusting his lamellar shirt before facing Hallad—all except Rota, who
cast her sal drengmaer a disapproving look.

The warrior took in
Hallad’s appearance, flicking his gaze across the signet pinned to Hallad’s
mantle and the swan on the hilt of Hallad’s sword.

“We seek Upsalla,” said
Hallad, trying to ease the tension.

“Why?” asked the
warrior, shooting apprehensive glances toward his assailant.

Olrun puckered her lips,
kissed the air and laughed again. The man’s eyes darted away in an attempt to
ignore the enormous drengmaer, but his face flushed as he directed his
attention back to Hallad.

Ase and Gisla emerged
from the carriage where they had ridden with Swan, watching over her. The priestess
must have had the sense to stay hidden while the fight raged, but now she came
to Hallad’s rescue with an answer.

“We seek the counsel of
the High Priest.”

The warrior took in Ase, her pine-green garb, the cat fur
lining, and the cat and moon emblems embroidered on her overskirt peeking out
through her cloak, and nodded with respect.

“I will escort your group,” he said. “But the warriors must
abandon their weapons upon regulation and respect of the Holy Temple.” He
tipped his chin toward Olrun, without looking at her directly.

“We will not drop our weapons,” replied Olrun, her freckles
darkening as her skin reddened.

Rota stayed her with a hand on Olrun's elbow.

“My sister speaks truth. We would jeopardize your safety and
the safety of . . . ” Rota hesitated. “Of your sister.” Her eyes communicated
she meant the Savior, but would not say the word in front of a stranger.

“If we ride to Upsalla
bearing arms, we insult our host,” Hallad argued.

“We do not know if the
High Priest is hospitable or hostile,” countered Olrun, who pushed her bulk
into Rota, her thick arm resting at her sal drengmaer’s side.

Hallad glanced to Ase
for her opinion, but the priestess kept her lips in a straight line, deferring
to his command.

“We graciously accept
your escort.” Hallad tipped his head at the warrior. “Our retinue will relieve
their arms, but our weapons remain in our carriage for safe keeping.”

The warrior bowed back
toward Hallad.

Rota grunted, hand
signaling her clan to drop arms at the wagon while she leaned into Hallad, her
tone fierce.

“If you are to lead, you
must think like a leader and protect your troops.”

Olrun reluctantly
released her sword, following Rota’s lead. Then she closed the distance between
herself and the male warrior, smiling as she approached him. The drengmaer
removed a mead bladder from her belt and extended a drink as a peace offering.

The warrior reached for
the bladder, eyes questioning, then took a swig of sweet mead.

“I do not bite.” Olrun
clapped the man hard on his shoulder for emphasis.

He gagged at the force
of her slap.

She laughed and added,
“Unless you want me to.”

Her face broke into a
grin and she howled at her own joke, while the man wore confusion knit into his
brow.

Rota instructed the
twins to collect the drengmaer’s arms and store them inside the carriage. Once
the task was completed, the company proceeded across the rolling plains.

As they neared the Temple
the figures hanging within in the grove came into sight. Carcasses. Men,
horses, dogs, bears, rabbits, foxes, cows, goats—all strung from ropes over
branches, their bodies picked with holes from feasting ravens. The birds
swamped the grove, their rustling on leaf-bare branches raising the hairs on
Hallad’s skin. The intense smell of rotted carcass caused his stomach to rumble
a warning as the sharp odor reached his insides, choking his throat and causing
his eyes to water.