The Legend of Eydis Read online

  The

  LEGEND

  of

  EYDIS

  ۞ ۞ ۞

  Not all legends are born of lies ...

  C. S. Johnson

  Copyright © 2020 by C. S. Johnson.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher.

  ebook ISBN: 978-1-948464-44-4

  Book ISBN: 978-1-948464-43-7

  Also by C. S. Johnson

  Birds of Fae

  The Princess and the Peacock

  Favan & Flew

  One Flew Through the Dragon Heart

  Once Upon a Princess

  Beauty's Curse

  Beauty's Quest

  Beauty's Kiss

  Beauty's Gift

  The Divine Space Pirates

  The Heights of Perdition

  The Breadth of Creation

  The Price of Paradise

  The Divine Space Pirates Trilogy

  The Legend of Eydis

  Eydis: The Island of the Dragon Bride

  The Legend of Eydis

  The Moonlight Pegasus

  The Moonlight Pegasus

  One Night of Moonlight

  The Order of the Crystal Daggers

  Kingdom of Ash and Soot

  Prince of Secrets and Shadows

  The Realms Beyond the Rainbow

  Kitsuneko

  The Starlight Chronicles

  Searching

  Slumbering

  Awakening: A Christmas Episode of the Starlight Chronicles

  Calling

  Falling: A Starry Knight Episode of the Starlight Chronicles

  Submerging

  Seeing: A Wedding Episode of the Starlight Chronicles

  Remembering

  Belonging: A Date Night Episode of the Starlight Chronicles

  Continuing

  Reflecting: A Dream Episode of the Starlight Chronicles

  Outpouring

  Reawakening: A Rebirth Episode of the Starlight Chronicles

  Everlasting

  The Starlight Chronicles Collector Box Set

  The Starlight Chronicles Collector Box Set

  The Starlight Chronicles Collector Set

  Till Human Voices Wake Us

  Across the Floors of Silent Seas

  Till Human Voices Wake Us

  Standalone

  A Knight's Quest for the Holy Grail

  Night of Blood and Beauty

  The Girl of All My Memes

  Should I Go to College? What About Student Loan Debt?

  Good Writing is Like Good Sex: Sort of Sexy Thoughts on Writing

  Northern Lights, Southern Stars

  Watch for more at C. S. Johnson’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By C. S. Johnson

  The Legend of Eydis

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  Further Reading: Across the Floors of Silent Seas

  Also By C. S. Johnson

  About the Author

  Dedicated to Sam. There are dragons to be conquered in this world, but I hope I have proved to be worthy of your efforts.

  This is also for Jordan, my favorite Viking by choice, and my friend by grace.

  But most of all, this is dedicated to Ryan. You not only slay the beast inside my heart, but you also tame it and bring out the beauty inside of it. Thank you for loving me as your wife for these last ten years; as long as I have you by my side, I know the best is yet to come.

  Special Thanks to my (Almost) Famous Readers and Patrons!

  Kelly C.

  Nina P.

  Pat C.

  David W.

  David S.

  Donna S.

  Chris S.

  Natalia K.

  Beth C.

  Brynn S.

  Jerilyn B.

  Richard B.

  Marty H.

  My additional thanks:

  Amanda W., for your kindness in Northern Lights, Southern Stars; Katrina P., for your encouragement, also from Northern Lights, Southern Stars;

  Crystal M. – for your keen sight, and bigger vision; and Cathy H. – for all your editing work. My story might be good, but with your friendship and dedication, it is much better.

  And finally, one last thanks goes to the Panera Bread Company—this book was made possible in large part because of all the refills I had while I worked, so you have my thanks!

  To Get Awakening (A Special Christmas Episode of The Starlight Chronicles) as a bonus for picking up this book,

  Click Here

  Or Download It At:

  https://www.csjohnson.me/awakening

  1

  ۞ ۞ ۞

  Ever since his brother died, night was no longer kind to Bjorn Kyvansson.

  Terror filled his mind as he slept; inside his dreams, he could see the chasm between the worlds of waking and dreaming, time and timelessness, with no absolution on either side. Scenes of suffering and despair danced in his sight, stringing familiar faces alongside foreign places. Flashes of white and green and red danced together, and agony laced between each beat of his heart as he saw his brother die under the dark shadow of a dragon.

  “Brother.” Bjorn jolted awake, sitting up and clutching his chest, trying to soothe his wildly beating heart. The chill in the air spoke a tangible dread that flowed from his dreams; as his breathing slowed and his heartbeat steadied, Bjorn tasted salt on his lips.

  Tears or sweat? Bjorn frowned, and then he discarded the question.

  Some questions were better left unanswered.

  He glanced over at the turf wall separating his room from the rest of his family. From the small slips of moonlight passing through the roof thatches, Bjorn could see the faintest stream of green trails against the sky, as auroras gradually faded across the horizon. The moon rode high in the clouds, and the sun remained beyond the roof of the world for now, as it would for several hours yet. Bjorn had only slept for a few hours.

  He sighed. His nightmares were nothing out of the ordinary—not after Sterlig’s death.

  Bjorn’s harrowing dreams had come the first night after he and his family learned Sterlig was dead.

  At the time, Bjorn thought that his nightmares would go away.

  Several months later, he knew he had been wrong.

  If anything, the dreams have gotten worse of late. He dropped his head into his hands.

  “Sterlig,” Bjorn murmured. In his dream, he had seen his older brother face the last moments of his life. Sterlig had struggled to survive as he fought against his enemy, but in the end, he had died, tragically and horrifically—and all alone, far from home, on foreign, enchanted soil.

  When Sterlig had announced his intent to go to the island of Eydis to slay the dragon there, Bjorn was not surprised. Ever since the dragon first appeared a hundred years ago, prince and pillager alike had died trying to slay the monster, the dragon of Eydis. Killing the dragon was exactly the sort of challenge his older brother enjoyed. Even if no one had survived a fight with the great beast before.

  Sterlig had dismissed Bjorn’s concern.

  “But what makes you think you’ll succeed, when others have failed?” Bjorn had asked.
br />   “I have a reason to win.” Sterlig’s strong chin jutted out with pride, and there was no hint of doubt at all on his smug, sunburnt face.

  Bjorn looked over at his brother’s empty pallet across from his and shook his head. He did not want to think about his brother’s fate any more than he wanted to dream about it. He folded his hands together briefly and tried to say a prayer, grateful that his mother’s god was a god of spirit as well as flesh, and he could trust he prayed to a being who knew what Bjorn did not know how to express—or admit.

  And only God the Allfather knew there was plenty Bjorn did not want to admit when it came to his brother’s death, especially when it came to—

  No.

  Bjorn squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to stop before he thought about Arja Freydottir.

  He did not like to think about Sterlig, but Bjorn hated thinking about his brother’s intended bride even more.

  Bjorn clenched his fists. He pushed aside the blankets on his sleeping pallet and reached for one of his woolen tunics. He pulled back his shoulder-length hair, tying it back with a band. The potash soap he used to keep it clean during the summer had faded, allowing the dull, natural brown to reappear. It needed to be bleached again, soon.

  Bjorn sighed and pulled on his boots, before he started toward the door.

  Only to stop, as a loud clash interrupted him.

  Bjorn froze; his back went rigid, and his breathing stopped.

  Slowly, he turned around.

  And there it was.

  His sword laid on the floor, the blade radiating a greenish, malevolent glow.

  Bjorn felt his breathing constrict even further.

  Many of his countrymen would say the trolls and elves hiding in the countryside had cursed him, that the gods of Forn Sidr, the old way, were playing with him or that Odin’s night dragons wound their way across the coming winter skies and infiltrated his dreams. There were plenty of traders who would offer similar counsel, saying it was the work of the otherworldly and the supernatural. As Bjorn stared at the sword before him—the same one Sterlig had taken to Eydis, the same one that their friends, Finnar and Jon, had returned to him—it was hard to disagree.

  His home, Kyvan, was only an outlying trading post in a small corner of the world, but he also knew it was a mistake to give legends more credence than they were due. His dreams were not from other creatures, nor did they have divine origins. They came from the questions which had been running ceaselessly through his mind since he learned of his brother’s death.

  Or so he thought.

  Just as Bjorn reached out for the fallen sword, his father let out a loud groan from his bed one room over. Bjorn jerked his hand back, and the sword gleamed with ghoulish amusement. The eagle head he had designed for the pommel twinkled while his father fell back into mumbling silence.

  “Thank you, almighty Father.” Bjorn let out a grateful prayer of praise as he picked up his sword. If the choice lay between waking up his father and carrying a cursed sword, Bjorn was more than happy to risk the latter.

  After Sterlig died, Keyvak Ragnork was only ever angry or drunk while he was awake. While it strained their family, Bjorn knew his father was grieving in his own way. Keyvak and Sterlig had bonded over the years as they hunted and sailed on Viking raids. The proudest Bjorn had ever seen his father look was when the chieftain of Kyvan had named Sterlig among his favorite soldiers and sparring partners.

  But that was before Sterlig decided to go off and face the dragon of Eydis.

  Bjorn ran his hand over his sword, studying it carefully. Even in its scabbard, he intimately knew every fine detail of the pommel, the hilt, everything—right down to the runic inscription on the blade. While his father and brother hunted and pillaged, Bjorn had worked with his Uncle Lodd to become a blacksmith and bladesmith. After years as his uncle’s apprentice, he prepared his own sword for battle and training, pouring his heart into his work.

  Naturally, Sterlig had taken the sword from him, claiming it as his own before heading off to Eydis.

  Bjorn’s fingers dropped from the sword as the greenish tint disappeared entirely.

  The glow disappeared, but his guilt did not.

  As fine as the sword was, he couldn’t help but wonder if he was to blame for Sterlig’s death.

  Soft footsteps approached him from behind, and he tightened his grip on the hilt.

  “There is nothing you could’ve done, Bjorn."

  Elska Eliadottir’s voice was gentle as it cut through the air between them, but pain struck him squarely in the heart. He did not deserve his mother’s graciousness, no matter how much he knew she loved him. Elska’s assurance was meant as absolution, but Bjorn found no truth or comfort in it.

  “I know,” he lied.

  “When you speak like that, you sound just like your father,” his mother replied smoothly as she brushed back her loose curls of dark hair, now streaked with gray, that trickled out of its braided knot. A small glimmer of wry amusement sparkled in her jasper eyes. “Especially after I tell him he needs to stop drinking.”

  “I’m nothing like Father.” Bjorn cleared his throat and tried to soften his tone. “He tells me that often enough.”

  “All men are prone to self-destruction,” Elska told him quietly. “Keyvak has mead and ale as his poison of choice, a slow-acting one that easily passes through his system, assuming he doesn’t injure himself on the way home. But you’re young, Bjorn—no matter if you’ve reached eighteen summers and you’re a head taller than me. I know you well enough to know your method of personal affliction has nothing to do with the head and everything to do with the heart.”

  Is it possible she knows? Bjorn stiffened, briefly thinking of Arja again. He did not like the thought that his mother could guess at his secrets.

  “There’s no need for you to keep blaming yourself for Sterlig’s death,” Elska continued, allowing Bjorn to slowly breathe again. “Your father says many things and repeats them many times, but you and I know that doesn’t make them true.”

  Despite his mood, Bjorn laughed quietly, still unwilling to wake his father with careless noise. “He seems to think that’s how it works.”

  “Authority without truth is only imagined power.” Elska came up beside Bjorn and put her hand on his shoulder. “And if you are blaming yourself for my grief, you may stop. The Living God has given me peace over Sterlig’s death. And he can do that for you, too, my son.”

  Bjorn finally turned to face her, his eyes catching the twinkle of gold from the small chain around her neck. The necklace disappeared under the collar of her woolen aprondress, hiding the golden crucifix it bore. He knew from her stories growing up that it was the last gift his grandmother gave to her before she passed, and it was his mother’s most prized possession.

  “I’m thankful God is willing to give you peace.” Bjorn kept his tone neutral, not wanting to admit how he envied his mother.

  “I know Keyvak has not been easy on you,” Elska murmured quietly. “Don’t let him fill your mind with falsehoods.”

  “I can handle the falsehoods better than his debts.”

  The light in his mother’s eyes dimmed. “If he’s not careful, Keyvak is going to end up a slave.”

  Bjorn quickly pressed a kiss to his mother’s cheek, already sorry he had said anything. It had been an act of self-defense to keep her away from his secrets, but he had caused her pain.

  “There are plenty of details Father and Frey Gilsson haven’t discussed,” Bjorn told her. “Jon’s told me that he and Finnar are in just as much trouble. Father blames them for stealing our family’s knarr.”

  “I’m sure Sterlig was behind that. He needed a ship to get to Eydis.”

  “But Frey’s thralls are the ones who ended up burning it.” Bjorn gripped his sword uneasily. “They said it was haunted.”

  “What foolishness. But in regards to our family’s debts, I will remain hopeful for now,” Elska murmured, touching the gold chain at her throat. “N
o sense in worrying when there’s nothing else to be done.”

  “Frey will give you plenty of grief if you let him. He’s always been a miser.”

  “Arja’s always said so, too.”

  A telling silence slipped between mother and son as Bjorn busied himself by tying the sword to his belt.

  “I’ve missed Arja’s visits.” Elska gave Bjorn an amused look. “I was hoping she would still come by, but perhaps it’s too painful for her yet.”

  “Perhaps.” Bjorn’s jaw tightened. “For now, we should respect her wishes.”

  “Have you seen her in town at all?”

  Yes.

  Bjorn could conjure a picture of Arja inside his mind in the blink of an eye, and he’d done it often enough there was no lack of detail in his memory. He could see her bright blonde hair styled back from her large, bright green eyes and her smooth, wintery skin. He’d seen her at least four times in the last three days as he delivered his commissions and haggled for goods in Kyvan. The last he had seen her, she was beside the perfume traders from Eydis. Her small mutt, Ulf, had been barking happily at the crowd while she talked with a large, dark man in a friendly manner.

  “I haven’t talked with her,” Bjorn said. “If I see her when I go to town later, I will pass along your greetings and well-wishes.”

  “Thank you.” Elska smiled. “So, you are going to town? Geira mentioned you have a good reputation for your work. Lodd would be proud.”

  A small lump formed in his throat at the mention of his uncle. His good humor and insightful instruction, not just in metalworking but in other areas, sustained Bjorn’s spirits even on the worst days. When Lodd had succumbed to a fever two winters before, it was the first time Bjorn had felt truly alone.

  “I miss him,” Bjorn admitted.

  “We will see him again one day,” Elska whispered, her own grief evident. She patted Bjorn on the shoulder. “Until then, honor his legacy for me, will you?”

  “Yes, Mother.” Bjorn nodded. It was not a question of honor. Honor was a given, was sacred to their way of life in Snæland, among families and communities alike. Everyone from the chieftain of Kyvan, Jarl Vidur Thordirsson, down to the youngest farmhand had a duty to fulfill to others. Bjorn took his duties and his honor seriously. He knew firsthand how destructive the sacrilegious could be.