Captured
Captured
The Sons of Gunnmarr, Book One
By Melinda Barron
Resplendence Publishing, LLC
http://www.resplendencepublishing.com
,
Captured
Copyright © 2010, Melinda Barron
Edited by Tiffany Mason
Cover art by Les Byerley,
www.les3photo8.com
Electronic format ISBN: 978-1-60735-136-8
Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Electronic release: March 2010
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places or occurrences, is purely coincidental.
For C: How does this one strike you?
Table of Contents
Should a man’s sons suffer for his wicked ways?
Rugoff took a stick from the pile he’d just gathered and touched it to the blaze, holding it up when it caught, watching the orange flame dance around the wood.
If only the fire could provide more than heat. If it could give him a woman, he would be thrilled. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the stick in his hand.
Please, please change. Let your beautiful orange burn flare up into a woman, full of curves with soft, warm flesh.
He closed his eyes, praying to feel heat from her body, the gentle slope of her breasts in his hands; he wanted warmth from another human body, wanted to see her standing before him, wanted to hear her laugh.
He opened his eyes to see the flames eating the stick, the ash falling into the fire.
Despair over took him. It threatened to steal the air from his lungs, send his body crashing down to the ground. But it was only a threat. The witch’s curse had seen to that.
Should a man’s sons suffer for his wicked ways?
His despair quickly turned to rage as he thought of his father, selfish to the end, not thinking of anyone but himself. When he called for extreme wealth, for power over everyone in the land, the witch he’d summoned had gladly given it to him.
All she’d ask for in return was the precious jewel that set in the center of his father’s crown. He’d agreed and she’d given him all. When he’d double crossed her and ordered his guards to kill her when his coffers were full, she’d had the last laugh.
With her final breath, she’d uttered a curse upon the sons of Gunnmarr, sending them to the depths of the earth, buried deep inside its core. They would never age. They would enjoy an abundance of food and comfort, warmth in the dark times and cool winds in the light.
But it was what the three would not be able to get that haunted Rugoff, as he was sure it haunted his brothers. They would have no human contact, even though at first, they were able to hear the peoples of his land as they laughed and joked and loved. When that happened, he envied the fact they enjoyed the warmth of the sun on their faces, something he would never feel again.
Damn his father to the bowels of Hel. Had he cared that he’d condemned his sons to an eternity of pain and loneliness? No, of course he didn’t. If he did, then he would have done something to see them brought safely home again.
He thought about Benedikt and Egill, and what they were enduring. Did they feel the same pain as he did? Or had they found some way out of their everlasting torment? Somehow, he didn’t think so.
If he ever found a way out of his prison, the first thing he would do was find a way to free his brothers. He would see to it.
After all, a man should not suffer for his father’s wicked ways.
“Mrs. Westergard?” Venise Stewart knocked hard on the wooden door and then rubbed her gloved hands up and down her arms. It was colder here than anywhere she’d ever been in her entire life. When no answer came to her knock, she tried again. “Mrs. Westergard, are you there?”
She wanted to add the words
“hurry up and open the door before my toes fall off,”
but she held back. It wouldn’t make a very good first impression.
A shuffling noise from inside the house made her think that maybe, just maybe, the woman would open the door and allow her to come inside. She didn’t relish the idea of going back out to the huge rental vehicle that brought her out here to the middle of nowhere—a place Venise thought could possibly be the coldest place in
Norway
.
She called out the woman’s name again, praying it hadn’t been wishful thinking that had made her imagine the noise of feet moving across the floor inside the house. When the portal swung wide open, Venise sighed in relief.
“Hello.” The old woman opened the door and motioned her inside. “Hurry, hurry, we don’t want to let in Loki or his mischief makers.”
Venise rushed across the threshold, actually looking behind her to see if the mischievous, make-believe imp was behind her before the woman shut the door and firmly threw the bolt into place.
“Let me look at you. Yes, you must be Venise, the Italian who grew up in
America
, right? You’re the first. Come in, come in, and let’s get started. We have a lot of things to do.”
Feet rooted to the floor, Venise stared after Mrs. Westergard as the strange woman scurried into the other room. The greeting made her wonder if her hostess was expecting someone else. She hadn’t mentioned entertaining other visitors when Venise asked to come and talk with her about Norwegian folk tales.
This was the last stop on Venise’s tour of the region. If all went well, Venise could go home to
Princeton
, finish her dissertation and gain her Ph.D. in literature of the Scandinavian countries. She’d already been to
Sweden
,
Denmark
and
Finland
. She’d made
Norway
her last stop because of the woman who’d just walked into the other room. Mrs. Westergard, said to be an expert in Norwegian folk tales and literature, had told her she couldn’t meet with her until today.
A heavenly smell wafted in her direction and Venise wanted to follow it, to see what the woman had prepared for the visit. Another hearty whiff of food propelled her toward the other room. When she stepped inside, she found a table laden with offerings. Several large tureens of soup sat in the center. She imagined them full of some sort of fish stews from the smell. A large platter was off to the side, filled with meatballs, potatoes and cabbage.
Venise’s stomach rumbled and her mouth watered. She’d eaten breakfast at the hotel before she’d left, but who had expected that the trip out to the wilderness would take over two hours and keep her on edge so much that her nerves would be shot?
“Eat, eat.” The woman indicated the table as she poured something that looked rich and heavenly into a mug. She offered it to Venise, who held it to her nose and inhaled sharply.
Chocolate. “Smells delicious, thank you.” She took a tentative sip, savored the taste of it on the tip of her tongue and took another. “There’s a lot of food here. Are you expecting someone else?”
She wanted so bad to say,
“I’d appreciate it if you just talked to me.”
If there were too many people around, Venise grew shy. If that happened, it would probably be the unknown guest who would take over the interview and Venise would, in essence, be using his, or her, information. That wasn’t something she wanted to happen.
The woman gave her a sly smile and once again indicated the table. “Try the meatballs. They are, if I do say so myself, quite splendid.”
Venise set down her computer bag and purse, then unzipped her heavy parka. Even inside the house, she could feel the cold from outside. This had to be the coldest place she’d ever visited. How did people live here year after year? And how did this woman live here, in the middle of nowhere, by herself?
She shouldn’t worry about that, though. The woman looked hearty enough to take care of herself. It was best if she started the interview now, before anyone else arrived.
“I’d like to talk about tales involving the nine worlds created by Odin and his brothers. I understand you have some stories that people have never heard before, some that add to the myths.” Venise shrugged out of her coat and looked for a place to put it.
The older woman hurried across the room and put it, and Venise’s laptop case and her handbag, on a chair that looked as if it had been carved out of a tree. The arms and legs contained many knots and the seat looked extremely uncomfortable.
“I need the bag. It has my laptop in it.” Venise held out her hand, but Mrs. Westergard just patted it carefully as if she were tucking it into bed. Then she returned to the table.
“Eat. Eat.”
Venise blinked, wanting to ask if she was really in Norway about to interview a scholar, or had she somehow missed her spot and ended up in a grandmother’s kitchen, who wanted nothing more than to stuff her full of food as if she’d never eaten. She moved toward her bag.
“I’d really like to get started. I only have a few hours before I need to start back to town, in case the roads get too icy. I can come back tomorrow, though, if we don’t finish today; I mean, if that’s okay with you.”
“Today, tomorrow, the next day…” The bright smile on Mrs. Westergard’s face made Venise smile. “It will make no difference to me, or to you.”