Scars (Time of Myths: Shapeshifter Sagas Book 2) Read online

  “Bring the torch this way—” a voice called, and the light was taken nearby.

  He recognized the farmhand named Rolf speak up as the fellow studied the ground. “The tracks are only on this cliff—they do not lead away. There is only sign of man and horse. But so near the farm, that is to be expected.”

  “What kind of beast is that?” Fólki scanned the surrounding hills. “A spirit that can appear in one place and go without a trace?”

  “Fenrir, that is who,” Hákon said, gripping his sword with both hands and pointing it at the night. “Only a god can do that, traveling on the Rainbow Bridge. The blood of Loki.”

  “Nonsense.” Torin rose to his feet, ignoring the cold touching his bare chest. “There must be a better reason. Ragnarök cannot be near—I do not believe it. Who here brought a hound?”

  “My wife brought her ankle biter, but it is with her still,” Hákon answered. He kept his sword held high, ready for an attack.

  Torin looked past him to study the landscape, searching for a sign of the animal in question. There wasn’t enough light to be certain, plus his bleary vision was not helping things. It was not the time to run blindly into the wilderness with so many having imbibed Ásta’s sweet honey mead. There was nothing like the shock of the cold and excitement to force him to step forward, taking charge of the situation. “I say we take our steel and steeds to the hills in the morning. We will find answers then. Keep a lookout tonight for the farm animals’ sakes.”

  The others eyed each other in silent conversation. Hákon and Fólki nodded and backed up the slope toward the farm. The mood had changed from earlier in the evening. Torin could sense what everyone was thinking, and he didn’t like it. He refused to believe the god Fenrir cared enough about Ásta and her land to haunt the countryside.

  When they arrived back at the longhouse, in an attempt to distract his uncle from the strange turn the evening had taken, he asked, “Have you told Hákon about the raids of your forefathers to the green hills of the east?”

  Rolf was stepping over the threshold when he volunteered, “I know a grand saga about a shark—”

  His friend interrupted him. “They do not want to hear about a fish startling you in the lake. Let them tell their tales of battles—something you know naught about.”

  Fólki laughed and followed Torin into the hall. “I have many stories I have not yet told, but what are you doing out? You should be with your wife. I see it was an unwelcome interruption.”

  His uncle pointed to his bare chest and waved him to the end of the room. Torin turned to go, listening to the beginning of a tale form on Fólki’s lips. Relieved the tension had diminished at the suggestion of a story, he reached for the door handle to the bed closet. When it swung open, a pair of wide eyes met his.

  A short knife was pointed at him. He held still and planted the tip of his blade in the floor. Ásta’s face pinched up and she began to sob, letting her weapon hand settle on her knee. He glanced behind him to see if anyone was watching and closed the door behind him, shutting out the noise from the feast.

  Torin set his sword against the wall and stood staring at the crying woman. He leaned down and pried the dagger from her grasp, surprised at her strength. Once it was free, he set it beside the oil lamp. Her face dropped into her awaiting hands. He thought he heard her whisper, “I am not weak.”

  The entire day and evening had flown by without his notice, he’d numbed himself so thoroughly. The howl had pulled him back down to earth as if he’d been lost in a dream. Torin looked at her as best he could, still feeling some of the effects of her tasty mead. There was something about her that made him want to protect her. He sat beside her and put his hand on her knee, unsure what men did in moments like these. “You are not, that is clear.”

  Her tears didn’t make her weak. There was no question in his mind about her ability to take care of herself. She’d done her best with what she’d been given. Although there were things around the farm that needed tending, he didn’t think it was from laziness. Her tenacity was clear, and he could feel the muscles built from hard work just beneath his fingertips.

  She lowered her hands from her face, revealing tearstained cheeks. “I know what you will tell me, but please, what did you see?”

  “There were large animal tracks on the cliff bluffs. It was no fox, but I will go out with some men in the morning to search.” He watched for her reaction.

  A calm fell over her face and she asked with a level voice, “Did anyone see it?”

  “Hákon and Fólki both said it was the size of a small pony and that its eyes glowed through the twilight, but I would not trust their word after all the mead they drank this night.”

  She sucked in a painful breath, and he looked at her. The peacefulness that had been harbored there moments before vanished. Her cheek twitched as another tear fell into her lap. Ásta’s sad eyes met his gaze, and he knew something was wrong. She shook her head and pinched her lips together. “You should not have married me. Now you will share in my bad luck.”

  For the first time in a long time, he felt something more than sadness and guilt. Anger roiled in his chest, but it wasn’t directed at her. “Well, the Norns of Fate must have put us together for a reason, for I am no more lucky than you.”

  Ásta’s eyes widened, and her cheek quivered. He took a deep breath to calm himself when he realized he’d done nothing to settle his wife’s nerves. Torin tried again. “What is this about?”

  She eyed him cautiously before a faraway look touched her eyes. “I was just sixteen, out collecting flowers near the cliffs for my ale when it came for me. The wolf. I had only heard sagas of the great ulfr from our homeland, but they do not describe the hatred in their eyes, or the blackness of their fur. It clawed me and left painful scars. I have not told a soul, but”—she paused to weep silently and brush away more tears—“since last harvest I have seen it when no one is near, watching me from the cliffs. I know what everyone whispers—that it is Fenrir come to claim me and my land. What if—”

  “No!” Torin interrupted her. “It cannot be. I do not believe a god would linger and stare when he would have the power to take what he wanted. There is a beast behind this, but we are stronger than some beast. You will see.”

  She sniffed and paused to stare at him. Something strange happened while he looked at her puffy red eyes and wet lashes. Maybe it was the fact he hadn’t been held in a close embrace since he’d left his childhood farm and missed the closeness of it, but he adjusted himself on the bed, leaving enough room for her to join him. “Come.”

  Ásta blinked his way before lifting her feet off the floor and lying on her back beside him. She stared up at the ceiling and her voice wobbled as she spoke. “I feel it watching me wherever I go.”

  “Shhh, enough of that,” he said, sensing more tears. “Tell me of your mother. I have no memories of mine. Fill my head with what I never knew.”

  He watched her expression soften. She placed her hands on the flat of her stomach before starting. “Stories were told of her brews. That they were so rich, but never seemed to spoil. Maybe that was because we drank it so fast. I remember her counting the hot stones before placing them in the wooden trough with the malted barley and water. She would stir it with her wooden paddle and ask me to help when I was barely tall enough to look over the edge.”

  Torin watched how her lips moved while she spoke and how the pale scars tugged at her cheek, fighting against her smile. Her eyelids appeared heavy while she continued, “My mother had been long in the halls of Valhalla when the wolf—” She pinched her lips together until she was able to continue. “That day, after my father had carried me back to tend to my wounds and after I had no more tears, the pain stayed with me. I could not sleep, for every time I tried, I would feel myself falling back onto the ground and feel it climbing me like I was a mountain. Like I was something to conquer. I could feel its breath on my throat and sense the fury in its eyes. The only way I found sleep was by c
ounting rocks. I imagined my mother sitting beside me like when I was a child, combing her hands over my hair while we counted rocks until I fell asleep.”

  He’d witnessed the motherly things women did for their young, holding them close, whispering secrets in their ears, or giving a gentle swat on their bottom as they ran off to play. His stepmother and Guthrún had always treated him well, showing him love and kindness, but they were not the woman who had died bringing him into this world. Torin asked softly, “How would she do it?”

  Ásta lifted a hand and let her fingers settle on the top of his head. They drifted down, following the contour of his hair and tucking his locks behind his ear. Goosebumps rose on his skin from her gentle touch.

  He breathed. “Like this?”

  He mimicked what she’d done to him. His fingers brushed over her silky hair and onto the bed. At his caress she closed her eyes, and her breathing slowed. “Yes.”

  Once he’d started he couldn’t seem to stop. Loosened up from the many cups of mead, he grew more comfortable being close to her—his wife. He let his fingers brush against her temple and cheeks and down her throat to the trim of her serk.

  Her soft breaths slowed, and he watched her sleep. His fear of failing her and failing his oath morphed and changed into a steely determination. He could not and would not let any more terror befall her. He would protect his newfound kin and land, even if it cost him his life.

  Chapter 7

  Ásta woke from a loud burst of laughter. Her eyes fluttered open. She was alone in bed, still wearing her underdress. Voices and movement came from the other side of the wooden door, and the previous day’s events came flooding back to her.

  She was married. And she’d told him he shouldn’t have done so and cried in front of him before—had she really fallen asleep before consummating their marriage? She barely remembered the end of the night. If she hadn’t felt bad enough the prior evening, she felt far worse now.

  After she’d determined to make this marriage work, she’d spoiled it all. What man would want to deal with a woman with so many problems without anything in return? She would have to admit that she hadn’t lain with her husband the way wives are supposed to. Of course, that was likely what Torin was doing right now—telling everyone that he had not been able to test the validity of the claim that she was, indeed, still a maiden and virgin.

  Not only did it mean he could divorce her if he was not pleased, even if he decided to look past it, there would be no morning-after gift. She did not care for beads, but it would be a great loss if she didn’t receive new linens or household items when they hadn’t been replaced for so long.

  Ásta sat up and sighed. It couldn’t be helped now. What was done was done. If Torin thought she was a sniveling woman with farmland haunted by an angry wolf, she would have to prove him wrong. At least, to prove she was strong enough to scare that beast away. She would hold her head high no matter what. She had purpose: to keep her ancestral land safe so that she could pass it down to her children. There would be no hope of reaching that goal if she gave up or stopped trying.

  She found her folded apron skirt and slipped it over her head. The brooches were fastened and her shoes tied on her feet. Ásta took a minute to comb her hair, which made her think of her mother. She nearly stood up and left before remembering to secure her locks in one long braid that she tucked in a coil at the base of her neck, something she’d never done before.

  Frightened of what she’d face, but prepared, she opened the door to step into the hall. Daylight beamed through the small opening in the roof. The smell of the cooking fire consumed the room. Many of the women were gathered around it, preparing breakfast and talking. The children were playing on the benches, and the men were nowhere to be seen.

  “It is the bride! Do I detect new spring in your step, Lady Ásta?” Frida called.

  Ásta gave an uncomfortable grin, not sure of what to say. “Where are the men?”

  Guthrún took a bite of something that was handed to her by Elfa. The matriarch leaned forward to say, “If you are asking where your man went, he is off with the others on horseback to search for that animal they saw. He was quite bright-eyed this morning—like I have not seen since he was a boy.”

  “I see.” I was clear Torin hadn’t told the women that they hadn’t consummated their marriage. However, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t tell his uncle.

  As long as it didn’t come up, she would leave it alone for now. There were some chores that needed tending. With Elfa busy preparing food for their guests, the milk cows would need milking. She’d likely have to brew some fresh ale if she didn’t provide anything else for her guests to drink. Milk was a source of good nutrition and kept your mind clear at the start of day.

  She excused herself to find the cows. It was an eager escape from the chatter and a good time to think about what to say to Torin when he came back from his ride.

  Torin scanned the ground from atop his horse. His head pounded repeatedly like waves on the shore, and his stomach was far from being ready for food, but the day threatened to move on without him if he didn’t take charge despite his physical discomforts. He didn’t let them interfere with studying the tracks on the ground, which were easier to see in the daylight. He took his horse in all directions but was unable to spot any others beside the ones on the bluff. The only prints that left the hill were from the men and their steeds.

  He may not have known much about wolves, but he had a deep understanding of animals. All living creatures required three things to survive: food, drink and shelter. He turned his horse to face his uncle and cousin, who were following behind. “We could ride to the highlands to see if it has been hunting. Everything must eat.”

  “Very good. I will let you take the lead. After that grand night of spirits, I am not moving fast today. I could soon use a bite of meat to quiet my stomach.” Fólki made a lazy attempt to adjust his seat on his saddle and made a face.

  “I wish to go. Father, may I?” Hróaldr asked from atop his pony.

  “Could be dangerous,” Fólki said in seriousness. He looked to Torin and his elder son, who both waited for an answer. The patriarch smirked. “You have your sword on you, right?”

  The boy nodded and clutched his hand on the hilt. Hróaldr lifted his chest in pride before leading his mount nearer to his father.

  Torin gave his young cousin a nod in approval, then cleared his throat to ask, “Who knows the land?”

  Bárthur appeared ready to answer when Dagný trotted his horse toward him. Dagný gripped the reins against the animal’s withers with one hand while he raised the other. “If I were a wolf, I know what I would hunger for. I believe the sheep go to the northeast, following the green grass.”

  “Lead the way,” Torin answered.

  They were a band of a dozen men altogether. It was a vigorous ride to reach higher ground, and Torin was unhappy to find Bárthur riding beside him. His thick brow turned upon him. “I have not seen a gyrfalcon before—quite a rare specimen. You have a fine one at the farm.”

  “She is the fastest I have seen,” Torin answered, ready to end the conversation and put his mind to the task at hand.

  Bárthur’s deep voice found him again. “I know you are aware of the contract between your wife and myself, since the responsibility falls to you as well.”

  Torin sighed deeply. It had only been a matter of time before it was brought up. He was aware of the debt owed to the man and was aware when it was due. Instead of saying a word, he only looked to the man clad in furs beside him, waiting for his point.

  “I might be willing to take the falcon as settlement,” the man offered.

  There was nothing about Bárthur that made Torin think he knew how to handle an animal properly, especially since it had been his cousin who had saddled his horse for him. On the other hand, since it had taken most of Torin’s wealth to pay the bride price and he didn’t have enough to repay the debt to Bárthur, it was a tempting agreement. “She is a fine
bird, but she is not yet fully trained.”

  “Fine, fine.” Bárthur waved his hand as though he were shooing a fly away. “I can be patient. You have until the harvest to think on it.”

  Torin nodded and nudged his horse ahead to join Dagný up front. They were now at a high vantage point, and the temperature dropped. He pulled his cloak around his shoulders to protect against the chill. The farm wasn’t visible, nor the ocean, but not much was through the dense fog that had descended into the highlands. Gray rocky patches surrounded the lush green meadows. A drove of sheep were grazing in the field.

  Torin noticed dark shapes flying against the gray cloudy sky beyond a nearby ridge. He pointed in the distance. “Those are ravens. Might be carrion close.”

  Dagný drove his horse ahead to scout and see. When he reached the top, he called out, “They are beginning to gather. Something is drawing their interest, to be sure!”

  They rode to join him at the crest of the hill and descended into the adjoining valley. Dressed all in black, the ravens called out as they drew near. Beside flowering scrub brush, a tuft of white fur was nearly hidden by the feeding birds.

  Torin put his fingers to his mouth and whistled so loud many of the men winced in response. The ravens reacted as well. They flapped their wings and took to the sky, calling their threats down at the men from a safe distance.

  Having arrived beside the carcass, Torin jumped off his horse to get a closer look. His uncle frowned as he drew near and commented, “Bad luck. Never good to lose livestock. Did it fall off a rock? They are not as intelligent as you and I, you know.”

  Torin squatted to examine it. The throat of the sheep was stained red with blood, having been ripped apart. Its stomach had begun to get pecked by the birds, but their damage was obvious, different from the neck wound. A wave of nausea hit him, and he had to pinch his eyes shut and hold his breath until it passed. “No. It did not fall. It was killed—see its neck? The body is not yet stiff. It just happened.”