Chapter 17: Chapter 17: Magic and Witches
Then he realized his hands were bound behind him. He struggled to free himself, but his arms remained firmly locked. Someone sat beside him, leaning close enough to whisper in his ear.
"Quietly, laddie. Quietly. There's nothing to fear."
A voice, smooth and low, rumbled through his mind. At first he thought it belonged to Bjorn, but instead he recognized Alasdair's calm tone.
Beside him lay the sack that held the treasure they had gathered from Gorm's hoard. In truth, he did not think it amounted to much. Even the gold ring given to him by Brandr felt light and cheap in comparison to what he imagined the treasures of Asgard might be worth. But he wanted to keep it secreted beneath his clothes.
He searched the ground for his sword. Nothing seemed amiss. Nor did his cloak seem missing. Had someone taken his weapons before tying him up? Were these bonds magically binding him? Was this some spell cast on him while sleeping? How long had he slept?
Alasdair continued whispering words in his head. He was afraid to let them pass his lips. This man knew too many secrets to risk revealing more without knowing who he spoke to. So he waited patiently until Alasdair finished whatever he had planned to say. Then he sighed and whispered back.
"I'm sorry for waking you, lord."
His captor chuckled again. "You've done me no harm, lad. You'll forgive my caution. You're young and inexperienced in such matters. I didn't want to take any chances with your safety."
Now he remembered the guardsman calling him 'lord.' That explained the whispers. These people were royalty!
"Lord…you called me Lord?"
"It seems you possess certain gifts, and I hoped to discover whether they extended to magic. Now I can confirm there is none. Your power lies elsewhere."
Yngvar turned his head toward the sound of the voice, trying to find its source among the shadows of the tree line. Wherever he faced, however, all he saw was the same pale glow that surrounded everything else.
"Your eyes adjust quickly, lord. Soon you will realize I am sitting next to you. Until then, do not strain yourself looking about."
Again came the soft chuckle. It reminded Yngvar of an old woman, her wrinkled skin draped in a shawl of gray hair. She leaned forward now, pressing closer to him. Her breath smelled faintly of fish and she wore little clothing under her robe. Though he tried to remain still, the contact made his heart race.
"My name is Ulfrik Ormsson," he said, hoping to gain information from the fact alone. "What is yours?"
The old woman laughed outright. "Oh, don't waste your time with names. Names are just numbers assigned to things. They change from one life to another, and often they are forgotten entirely. What does matter is what you call me."
She pressed herself up to kiss him, which startled him so badly he nearly screamed. She smiled like a cat licking cream and brushed a hand across his cheek. His flesh tingled where she touched him. When she drew away she cupped his chin between her thumb and forefinger.
"This is how you address me," she said. "In private, please."
Her smile widened to reveal teeth yellowed with age.
"Of course, Mother Sun," he said. "Forgive me. My mind has been wandering ever since I awoke."
"And yet you have not answered my question."
Yngvar shrugged, feeling foolish. He should know better than to trust strangers. Still, something about this woman commanded him. Perhaps it was the authority in her voice or the warmth emanating from her body. Whatever it was, he felt compelled to answer honestly.
"Since we cannot speak freely here, I must ask you directly: Why have you captured us?"
Mother Sun released her grip on his face and folded both hands together atop the sack holding their meager prize. The darkness around them seemed darker when contrasted against the brightness of her palm.
"We capture men because we need them. Do you understand what I mean?"
Yngvar nodded. "But why would you require our help? Are you planning war against King Hakon?"
"Do you really imagine we plan anything at all? We merely exist as part of nature's order. We serve those above us, those below us, and even those beyond us. Sometimes they send out messengers to collect tribute, yes? And sometimes we hear rumors of plots and plans. Who knows what goes on behind closed doors?"
Despite himself, Yngvar could only agree. If anyone understood the workings of kings, it was gods. Yet if Odin sent his messenger, it meant nothing good. No godly being wanted peace. Only chaos followed after.
"So, you are simply waiting for the right moment to act?"
"Who says we wait at all? But perhaps I sense a particular opportunity coming soon. One that requires the talents of two clever young warriors. Don't worry, though. I won't kill either of you. Not unless I think you might be useful."
He stared into the dark green depths of her eyes. Again he sensed something familiar. Something deep within him recognized these features. In the next instant, the memory fled, leaving him confused and frustrated.
"Well spoken, wise son of Thor. For once I believe I see the truth of things. So tell me more about yourselves. How did you come by these captives? Did some other group attack you first?"
Unexpectedly, she stood. The faint light revealed a tall figure wearing brown robes and a hood pulled low over her brow. Despite the dimness, she appeared taller than any man who had walked with them thus far. Her footfalls echoed off the walls of rock surrounding them. A small puff of dust rose beneath each step.
"I didn't expect to meet a goddess tonight," Yngvar said. "Especially not one dressed like a monk."
She paused before responding. "Are you mocking me?"
"Not at all, lady. I'm just surprised to meet someone who doesn't fear the gods themselves. You seem fearless enough to risk death without flinching."
At last, she removed her head covering. Underneath sat short white hair. She tossed back her cowl but kept her hood drawn high over her face. From beneath its shadow, her eyes glowed like moonlight reflecting from polished silver.
"Fearless isn't quite accurate. I am afraid of many things, especially violence."
Now he saw her true form. Dark skin covered a thin frame wrapped tightly in black cloth. Her arms were bare except for strips of gold hanging down past her elbows. Around her neck hung several golden chains, each bearing symbols of power. Atop her head rested an iron crown studded with jewels. On her forehead, three lines ran vertically through her hairline. It reminded him of runes carved into tree trunks.
"You're a witch!" Both Bjorn and Gyna shouted at once. Their voices collided then fell silent again.
The girl—the mother-goddess—turned toward them. "Didn't your mothers teach you never to curse outside of church?"
Bjorn lowered his sword and looked sheepishly at Gyna. She slapped his shoulder hard and laughed.
"Sorry," Bjorn mumbled.
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