Postcards from Asgard: Postcards from Asgard, #1

By Amalia Dillin

  Ordinarily, Gwen likes goats, even makes her living by milking them, but these two are some kind of devil-spawn, and one of them is pawing the ground, horns aimed at her gut. The fact that they were followed by a blonde farmhand with a much too charming smile isn't all that much of an improvement, either.

 But Thjalfi makes himself useful. He's lean and smart, with a warmth in his pale blue eyes that makes her shiver, and she can't deny that he has a way with her horses. He seems to have a way with her, too.

 There's just one problem: Thjalfi's a slave, a bondservant to the god of thunder, Thor, and no matter how far they fall in love, he can't stay. 

 But this so-called god who owns him? He's about to learn just how far a Midwestern girl will go to free the boy she loves.

 "A heart pounding, page turning, brilliantly crafted twist on a Norse classic. Postcards is nearly impossible to put down!" -- S.T. Bende, author of The Elsker Saga

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thorskona Books
• Release date: Nov 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781393017561

Book preview

Postcards from Asgard

(Postcards from Asgard #1)

Copyright © 2014 Amalia Dillin

www.amaliadillin.com

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 1500811165

ISBN-13: 978-1500811167

Alternate Cover and Updated Interior: February 2018

Cover Art designed by Caitlin Greer

www.authorcaitlingreer.com

All rights reserved.

Faroe Islands stamp art The First Human Beings created by Anker Eli Petersen, used with permission.

Remixed image of Bothwell Castle made available for public domain usage by the British Library at:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/britishlibrary/11007741794

and taken from Select views on the River Clyde, engraved by J. Swan, from drawings by J. Fleming, with historical and descriptive illustrations by J. M. L (p 104).

Reproduction and distribution of this work without permission of the author is illegal. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between characters or events in this story and with any other person or creature, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Chapter One

Ialmost missed the postcard when it fluttered out of the pile of mail to the gravel driveway, but a rainbow splash of color caught my eye. It looked like a book cover for one of those high-fantasy novels. A rainbow bridge leading to an immense keep, roofed with silver shields. I picked it up and flipped it over. The stamp claimed to be from the Faroe Islands, turquoise and black, with two naked bodies rising from the earth before a man who looked like some kind of Gandalf. I didn’t know anyone in the Faroe Islands, least of all someone who might feel compelled to send me a postcard.

Forgive my goats, it read. Invoke my name and they will obey you until my return.

What the— I frowned and flipped it back to the front, but there was nothing there either. I looked for the postmark. Mt. Asgard, Canada? With a Faroe Islands stamp? It didn’t make any sense at all. What goats?

A series of glyphs were scrawled on the bottom corner beneath the note. A sideways triangle, a fish on its tail, and a letter that looked like an R. If that was supposed to be a name, I couldn’t pronounce it.

Well, that’s worthless.

I tossed the mail, postcard and all, onto the table just inside the door and went back out to check on the horses. Blackjack and Galahad usually got along fine, but lately they’d both been ornery with one another. I’d found marks on both of them that looked like they might be fighting, except I wasn’t sure how Galahad had gotten that gouge on his belly or why Blackjack had taken up biting him so low on his body.

Then there was the fence I’d found in splinters, though why either of the horses would have kicked it into toothpicks I wasn’t sure. Thank God neither one of them had run off. If it had been the dairy goats in that pasture, I’d have lost them for sure.

When I got to the barn, I stopped dead in my tracks.

A brown beast of a goat with spiral-straight horns had toppled over the feed bucket and stood in the mess of grain, lipping at it. Three-hundred-fifty pounds, at a guess, and built more like a big-horned sheep than any meat goat I’d ever seen in my life.

You have got to be kidding me.

The goat looked up, brown ears swiveling and body tensed. One black-booted hoof pawed at the ground. I held still, hoping he wouldn’t run. First things first, I needed to get a rope around his neck and secure him somewhere he couldn’t hurt the other animals, himself, or me. Sending him sprinting off wasn’t going to get that job done before midnight. But those horns. They looked like they’d been spun up by a blender, and just as sharp as a blade. Not safe. Not safe at all.

Good boy, I said, keeping my voice calm and even. Just stay put, now.

I reached slowly for the rope, hanging from a peg within arm’s reach. His square eyes followed the movement.

You’re absolutely fine. If he’d had any kind of handling, he’d know a friendly voice when he heard one. I may not have been a goat whisperer, but I had enough experience to know better than to antagonize a mean-looking billy. We’re all friends here. In fact, I’m even going to put you up tonight. Safe and happy. A nice warm bed of straw in a comfortable pen. How would you like that?

His pupils narrowed and he bleated loud enough to startle my own goats, in the other barn. The calls of the dairy goats stopped him for a moment, his ears swiveling and his head turning. Not that he didn’t still have one eye on me.

See? I said. You’ll even have some friends to keep you company. A big guy like you, nobody is going to give you any grief, either. You can be king of the herd. King Blender the Monstrous. Doesn’t that sound like a good time?

Meh-eh-eh! I had my eyes trained on King Blender, so I knew it wasn’t his bleat that time. The sound had come from somewhere over my head. Much too close to be one of my goats. Don’t let it be another buck. Please, don’t let it be another buck. I swallowed and forced myself to stay calm. It wouldn’t help me if either goat heard the mix of irritation and concern that was starting to crawl up from the pit of my stomach and tighten my throat.

You should have told me you brought a friend, I said to Blender.

A second goat, just as large, stood above me in the loft. It looked almost identical to the one on the ground, except for its horns. They curled back in a snail shell shape. Great for battering, I imagined. Or mashing someone into the dirt. Mashing me, into the dirt, if I wasn’t careful.

But I couldn’t worry about him yet. Blender had already dropped his head, those horns coming to bear in a way that was likely to mean a punctured lung if he managed to hit me. His forelegs were spread, straight and stiff, as if he were bracing himself for impact. At least with his head down, he couldn’t see me grab the rope. The horns would get in the way when I tried to throw it over his head though.

I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.

I grimaced. A man’s voice, of course. It was always a man delivering that stupid line. Like I needed a trespasser on top of strange livestock. I didn’t take my eyes off the goat, but Blender raised his head, his square eyes seeming to narrow.

Meh-eh! Blender challenged.

I knotted the rope. With his head up I had a better chance of the rope not fouling.

Even if you get him collared, he’s only going to drag you through the dirt, the man said. He’s nearly three times your weight, all muscle.

Then what exactly do you suggest? I asked, trying not to grind my teeth on the words.

He brushed past me, and I was happy to see Blender’s attention follow him instead. If this arrogant know-it-all was going to come into my barn and tell me how to deal with my animals, let him get mown down by the stupid goat!

You called him Blender? he asked.

Blender’s the one in the feed, and I’m thinking Masher is fitting for his buddy up in the loft, but don’t ask me how he got there to begin with.

Magic, probably. The man glanced back at me with a grin that made him dimple. Can I assume you’d rather not have any goats in the loft?

I snorted. You think?

Masher. Come. His voice echoed oddly with the words. Masher blinked.

Now wait a minute, I said. There’s no way down that won’t break his legs.

He crossed to the wall, pulling out an aluminum ladder from behind a pile of rakes, shovels, and pitchforks. If he got up there without help, he can get back down without help. But if it will make you feel better...

The ladder clattered against the loft once he had it extended. The angle was steep but nothing a goat couldn’t handle.

Masher dropped his head, and I thought for sure he meant to head-butt the thing right back down again.

Tsk, the man said.

Meh! Blender called. Meh-eh!

Masher shivered, but one hoof was already on the rung of the ladder, then two, and then he was trotting down it as if he’d spent his life climbing up and down ladders for fun. Four feet off the ground, he sprang off, sending it sliding sideways. The man caught it, and before I realized what he was doing, he had the ladder collapsed again. When I looked back at Masher, he was munching away on the scattered feed.

All right, I said. So now what?

The man was blonde and fair skinned. The kind that would flush bright red if he were embarrassed, but from the way he smiled, I thought it would take a lot to make it happen.

He leaned the ladder against a space of bare wall and shrugged. After all that food, I’m sure they’re thirsty. If you put some fresh water in one of the pens, they’ll come in after it, and then all you need to do is shut them in.

Just like that?

Trust me.

I laughed. I didn’t even know where he’d come from, or why he was on my land, never mind in my barn, and now I was just supposed to trust him? You’re crazy.

I checked the knot on my rope and turned my attention back to the goats, wondering if I could lasso them both in one go, if it came down to it.  If the water didn’t work. Stupid, know-it-all, crazy trespasser.

"I got Masher out of the loft, didn’t I? And Blender isn’t about to charge you