Land of the Gods: Isolde Saga, #4

By Robert D. Jones

Do not trust the promises of Gods and Devils…

The isle of Heroth Nuir rises from the sea like the last jagged tooth in an ancient skull. It is the land of the gods. It is Isolde's destiny.

With the scars of her past behind her, Isolde is forced to come to terms with her curse. She is a netherwalker, one who dances between worlds. But not all is so simple… no one told her that dying would be the easy part.

With no other choice, she must push forward and face the demons that have haunted her. But this time, she will be in their hell and they are not happy to see her…

Land of the Gods is the fourth book in the epic fantasy Isolde Saga series. If you like fast-paced adventure, heroic deeds against impossible odds, and magic darker than the abyss, then you'll love Robert D. Jones' brand new epic fantasy.

Buy Land of the Gods and join Isolde's epic adventure today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert D. Jones
• Release date: Dec 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386627142

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

"Vis was not always named so, the name actually means Wise in the old tongue, Skaldi explained as the troupe walked the lonely path east of the Silent Hills. He was born blind, and so was named Bolvadur, or cursed, from his father whom the man remembers nothing about. Following the customs of the far north, Vis was left on the snowy slopes of the mountains, did you know? His name etched in a wooden sign hung around his neck so that the gods would know him when they collected his soul."

That’s horrific… Isolde said.

Hmmm, it is, Skaldi agreed.

They still do it you know, Thodin chimed in.

They do, Skaldi confirmed. "However, Vis did not die. The infant was found and pitied by strangers who took him as far south as Skalloway. There he grew up as a blind, homeless, street child, who learned that sight is only one sense of many. It was there on the streets that Vis learned to hear, smell, taste, and touch his surroundings so that he could be far more intimate with them than others. He learned to beg and steal as need be, and though blind, he had glimpses of light flash to him from time to time. Slowly, this ‘sight’ developed until shapes could be seen, fragmentary motions of brilliant light, of all colours, or so he says. He learned to associate colour with intent, and so Vis could see into the soul of any who stood before him."

The group had been walking for days now, up and down the Silent Hills without as much as a bark from a wild dog to break their thoughts. No chirping birds or braying animals, just the relentless wind that howled and hissed on the hilltops and through the valleys. Isolde wondered why Skaldi was so intent on telling the story of this Vis. The high-priest of Heroth Nuir. But she tried not to think too much about it, but rather enjoy the last sunshine of autumn with the kindly tale.

He studied his new vision until the auras he could see could be discerned more easily, Skaldi went on. "Soon the colours, frequency of vibration, and opacity could all be used to read the soul of a person like a book. He could tell a person’s intent, wishes, troubles, and state of mind by merely ‘looking’ at them. As word carried of Vis’ talents, he earned himself a new income and came to the attention of the priesthood of Hēr.

These priests came to Vis, and seeing their intentions as divine, he followed them back to the island temple and submitted to their initiations and teachings. It is known only to those members of the priesthood what he learned, but when he was ordained a priest, his connection with the spirit world was beyond imagining. It is said that he can see their world as clearly as we see our own, and so he straddles the boundary between life and death."

That seems a heavy burden, Skaldi, Snorri said in his low tone.

It would be indeed, a terrible burden to carry.

Why are you telling us this? Harald asked.

Because it is good to understand the man you are about to meet, young Harald. Knowledge is the greatest power you can possess. It will help you understand the world, why people are the way they are, and give you insight on how best to take action.

The group stopped suddenly as the land dropped at the edge of the world. Before them was a wide chasm, swollen with the rushing white crests of crashing waves far below. Isolde looked down as the sea surged and swallowed the grey rocks.

A mist was rolling in from the ocean, slowly consuming the island of Heroth Nuir that stood before them. It was a great peak of dark grey rock jutting out from the ocean. Its plateau at the same level they stood, though its land looked as untamed and as wild as the times in which the gods walked the earth. Skaldi motioned toward the bridge. A thin wooden pass that connected the isle to the mainland. Fifty feet of old, dark timbers, worn smooth with the passage of time and hanging precariously above the raging sea far below.

It has never failed, Skaldi reassured.

Ancient skulls looked down at them from poles that marked the bridge’s entrance. Swirling sigils of dark dry blood adorned their foreheads. Thodin stepped forward toward one of the totems.

I wouldn’t, Harald snapped. The last man I saw playing with skulls died only a night later.

The dwarf scoffed beneath sunken brows, yet took a step back all the same. It wasn’t wise to tempt magic, not here, not when they could feel the power of the island drawing them in. Isolde timidly took the first step onto the planks. She clung to the side rail and peered over the edge at the raging ocean.

Don’t look down, missy, Snorri said.

She looked back at the greying dwarf who smiled a toothy grin at her, it did little to still her nerves, but still, she took one step after another until she felt as though she was floating above the world with nothing but chaos around her. A blast of briny air threw her against the rope rail and for a moment all she could see was the white caps breaking below her before a strong arm pulled her back.

One step at a time… she told herself. The wood creaked and rocked as she edged herself closer toward the isle. With a final step she was on solid ground once more and then the others piled in around her.

She was thankful the dwarves had come, Snorri and Thodin made her laugh and broke the tension that kept her stomach in knots. Dok, the shaggy wolfhound made her feel safe, but she knew where her path lay, and not even Skaldi could help her now.

The world was primal here. She could feel it. More painted skulls watched over the bridge and others hung from nearby trees. A rough track ran from the bridge into the wild woods before them.

It is the trail of blood, Skaldi said, it is for the precession.

What precession? Harald asked.

Skaldi chuckled, I forget how young you both are. It is the track that leads to Heroth Nuir proper. It would be wise for us to leave it unspoiled but I fear there is no other way.

Unspoiled? asked Isolde.

It is sacrilege to walk this ground, Isolde. This is the land of the gods. That is their path. We can only hope that they accept our presence.

A shudder ran up Isolde’s spine. She turned back around and saw that the mist had swallowed the bridge and the mainland behind her. She felt alone, even with the company of Skaldi, Harald, the dwarves and Dok.

A long, mournful cry from a horn rumbled the earth around them. It’s low, resonating tone cried out like a whispered warning in the wind. Isolde’s heart raced in panic and her eyes darted from left to right.

Come now! Skaldi commanded, we must make the temple before the setting of the sun. It is not wise to linger on this island after dark.

He slipped in front of Isolde and led the group up the path they had been watching. The ground was rough, the stone trail well worn, yet the weeds and grasses had begun to reclaim it for the most part. They pushed through blackberry arms that clawed out and stomped through thick growths of nettle. It was easy enough. The path led gently up the hill and they hugged a craggy wall as they wound their way around the island. The light of the sun began to fade and the still air came to life with the whispers and eyes of unseen things. Isolde could feel them all around.

They pushed through the last of the undergrowth and Isolde gasped in awe. Heroth Nuir. It stood before her as a grand temple wrought from the greatest planks of dark oak she had ever seen. It towered thirty feet high and was covered in the rich engraving of heroic deeds and dreadful deities. Around the building was the standing stones. Great monoliths twice as high as a man and older than anyone would dare guess. There were twelve. She knew there were. Just like the stone circle from the Watcher’s Wood. Twelve stones for the twelve gods.

Slowly, they moved up toward the sacred site, but it looked dead to them. No life stirred here. There were no priests rushing out to greet them as wayward pilgrims might expect.

Skaldi led them up to the temple and forced the heavy wooden doors inward. They groaned under their own weight and a low hum of chanting flooded from the open hall. They could see and smell sweet incense as it swirled between flickering flames of hidden fires. Isolde stepped into the enormous hallway, great wooden pillars lined the way, towering up to the roof above their heads, and leading toward the great effigy of Hēr, the god of death. He had been delicately carved from a single white oak, and the totem loomed above them with its dark eyes watching their every move.

Isolde couldn’t