Captured Read online

  Captured

  The Sons of Gunnmarr, Book One

  By Melinda Barron

  Resplendence Publishing, LLC

  http://www.resplendencepublishing.com

  Resplendence Publishing, LLC

  P.O. Box 992

  Edgewater, Florida, 32132

  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

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Prologue

  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.

  Chapter One

  “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.”

  That statement made Venise’s eyes widen. What did she mean by that? “Actually, it does. I’m only here until tomorrow. I have a few meetings with professors at the University of Oslo the following day, but I wanted to talk to you first.”

  It wouldn’t start the interview out right, Venise knew, to say she wanted to see what Mrs. Westergard said because her theories about Norse mythology were a little…unusual. She was a well-known scholar, yes, but she had anecdotes that most other professors thought were pure fiction she’d made up herself. When she’d retired from the University of Oslo, most people had said it was a good thing. In fact, several of her professors had warned Venise about talking to Mrs. Westergard.

  But Venise liked to go the extra mile. She prayed talking to this woman would provide her with information that would make coming all the way up to the northern edge of Norway worth her while.

  “Sit,” her hostess said, indicating the table. “We can eat and talk.”

  Venise hurried to her bag. She took out her cell phone, then extracted a pen and paper before going back to the table. Mrs. Westergard had already loaded up a plate for her, food filling the entire disc from side to side. There was no way she would be able to eat all that food, but she wouldn’t be rude and say that. She’d eat what she could and then, maybe, she’d ask for a doggie bag. Was that kosher in this part of the world?

  Venise wasn’t exactly sure, but she would cross that bridge when she came to it.

  “Do you mind if I take your picture? I’d like it for my records.”

  “Of course.” The attractive woman smoothed down her hair, then smiled as Venise held up her cell and snapped the photo.

  “Thanks.” She tucked the phone into the pocket of her jeans. “Let’s talk about Odin,” she said, sitting down at the table.

  Her hostess had already sat down and was eating one meatball after another as if she hadn’t had food in days. Venise tried to hide her surprise. The older woman was thin, and didn’t really show her age, which was seventy-two according to the research Venise had done. She didn’t look a day over fifty, if not younger. There wasn’t a wrinkle on her.

  Maybe it had something to do with living up here. Venise bit back a laugh. If that were true, lots of women would be running toward the outer edges of Norway.

  “So, let’s talk about the creation of the world.”

  “Ah, Odin.” The older woman waved her hand in the air as if she were shaking a pom-pom. “Such a virile man he was, in his younger years, that is.”

  She stood and walked to a tapestry, letting her fingers trade the image of a man on a rearing horse. Venise recognized it for what it was, an image of Odin entering Valhalla.

  There was a long, pregnant pause and Venise almost had the feeling that Mrs. Westergard was mourning a lover.

  “Everyone knows about Odin,” the woman finally said. “Let’s talk of something else.”

  “Something else?” Panic seeped into Venise’s bones. Had she come all this way only to be denied the information she sought? Mrs. Westergard had told her she had tales about Odin that would ‘burn her ears’, and that’s what Venise wanted to hear.

  The woman came back to the table and sat down, popping another meatball into her mouth, chewing, swallowing, and then repeating the action again. What was it with this woman and food?

  “Mrs. Westergard?”

  The woman swallowed, then took a deep swig from her mug. “King Gunnmarr had three sons.”

  “Who?” She’d never heard that name before and wondered exactly what the woman was talking about.

  “Three. Rugoff, Benedikt and Egill.”

  Venise opened her book, flipping to find an empty page. “Is this a folk tale?”

  “The king was quite a popular man, always making sure his people wanted for nothing. He was victorious in battle, slaying his enemies and battling monsters. And, he was quite popular with the ladies.”

  Venise put down every word, making a mental note to ask Mrs. Westergard about spellings and accent marks before she left.

  “One day he met a beautiful woman and she bore him three sons.”

  Venise wanted to tell Mrs. Westergard she didn’t need to mention the fact there were three of them. She’d already made that perfectly clear. “Rugoff, Benedikt and Egill?”

  “Correct.” The storyteller inclined her head in approval and Venise felt a thrill of anticipation. This might be better than hearing yet another story about Odin.

  “As Gunnmarr grew older, though, he changed. He could never get enough. He wanted more money. More land. More women. He cast aside his wife and took a different woman to his bed every night.”

  Venise looked up from her notes. “In other words, he went through an ancient mid-life crisis?”

  The joke didn’t get the response she wanted and Venise turned back to her notepad.

  “As he grew older, he demanded what he thought was his due. His people, upset with his dismissal of his wife, were no longer as giving as they had once been. They refused to send in taxes and other tributes. He fought many battles to take lands and he lost. So, to gain his ends, he summoned a witch.”

  Of course he did, Venise thought. There’s always a witch of some sort in these tales.

  “The witch promised him gold, and victory in battle. But she demanded one thing in return.”

  “Money?” Venise regretted the suggestion as soon as it was out of her mouth. If the witch could provide Gunnmarr with gold, she wouldn’t demand it for her payment. “What did she want?”

  “She wanted him to give her a jewel that was set in the center of his crown, a beautiful emerald that was very rare at the time.”

  The woman really didn’t need to tell the rest of the tale, Venise thought. Gunnmarr agreed to the trade-off, then stiffed the witch, leaving her with nothing.

  “Exactly.” Mrs. Westergard pushed the plate toward her and Venise followed the woman’s lead, picking up a
meatball with her finger and eating it quickly. She’d done it mainly to hide her shock at the fact her hostess seemed to have read her mind.

  A drink of chocolate washed down the meatball and Venise tried not to think about how the two flavors didn’t match.

  “So, what happened?”

  “Well…” Mrs. Westergard toyed with her cup, staring into its contents. She remained silent and Venise could swear she saw tears in the woman’s eyes. “The worst thing that could have happened did. After the witch gave the wicked man all he wanted, and he had her condemned to death.”

  “Ouch.” Venise made a few notes. “I’ve never heard this story before.”

  “It’s been forgotten through the years.” Mrs. Westergard took another bite. “But the story does not end there.”

  “Doesn’t end with her death?” She drew a figure eight on the paper. “Things always end with death.”

  “No.” The older woman sat back in her chair, and for the first time since she’d arrived, Venise could see her age. “Tell me about your childhood.”

  The change in subject shocked Venise, who stared at her hostess dumbfounded. She toyed with her meatballs as she tried to figure out what this had to do with folk tale the woman told.

  “I grew up in America, and now I’m working on a Ph.D. in Scandinavian Literature. I’ve included folk tales in my research because they fascinate me.” She picked up another meatball. “So after the witch died, what happened?”

  “What about before you moved to America? You’re Italian, correct?”

  Okay, this was weird. Usually she did research on her interviewees, not the other way around. She supposed, though, if she were going to let someone into her house, she would check up on them, too.

  “Yes, I am. I was left on the doorstep of a church in Venice. A nun found me.”

  “I see. Venice. Like your name.”