Flight of Dragons(345)

A native Midgardian, Bjorn had been raised on cautionary tales of the excesses on Earth and the risky ease of a technology-heavy life. Growing up in the outskirts of Ny København, he’d lived with rolling blackouts. Having a tablet to watch shows on didn’t matter much if it couldn’t be recharged. He’d been fascinated by the teachings of monks that spent most of their time in a far-off corner of their new world, only coming to the city in shifts to preach to the interested few. When he lost Noren, he turned to that casual faith and dug deep, finding new meaning and heavy solace.

Out of his grief came a renewed calling to protect their way of life and show others by way of example the dangers of indulgence and the reward of following Christ’s teachings.

At the moment, though, his calling was to scrub floors and make meals. Humor a group of Easterners who undoubtedly thought their monastery was quaint.

The last thing Bjorn wanted anyone to think was that his way of life was a throwback or a nod to nostalgia.

That’s where the intensity in Ny København had gone wrong, he would say if he was asked. Pageantry and symbolism had overwritten common sense and safety.

Nobody asked.

And so Bjorn kept his head down and focused on fixing what was broken within himself before worrying about what was broken in the larger world. And through small acts of service, he found he made a bigger difference than any attempt to rail against the machine ever accomplished.

As they neared the guest house, maybe just fifteen minutes out, a distant rustling followed by murmurs and more rustling grabbed their attention.

They heard the women before they saw them. Soft, lilting laughter carried up the path, and Bjorn slowed, Mikka matching his pace.

“Guests,” Mikka said.

Bjorn nodded, ignoring the heavy pound of his heart in his chest. That laughter…

“Crazy easterners,” Mikka muttered. He wasn’t wrong. Who went running around in a storm? Down here it was warmer than higher up on the mountain, but it was still cold and wet, enough to give someone chills if they weren’t careful.

A blonde woman popped into view below them. The path zigged and zagged here beneath the canopy of thick green leaves, making it the driest part of the hike. She’d obviously climbed up from the guest house vicinity to escape this latest gust of stormy weather, although it still begged the question why she’d been outside in the first place. It had been miserable for hours.

Bjorn’s throat tightened as she spun around, another laugh carrying up through the break in the trees.

It wrapped around him, cementing his feet in place.

She stopped in the shadow of a giant fern tree and turned to look down the path. A friend soon appeared as well.

“See? We can wait here until the rain stops,” she said. Bjorn watched in stunned confusion as she tugged the other woman close against her body. They both giggled, and Bjorn realized they were intimate with one another.

He couldn’t watch this. It wasn’t right to spy, and his brain was doing weird things with the sound of a stranger’s laugh.

“Mikka,” he said under his breath. “Let’s go back up the trail a bit. Give them privacy.”

His brother just stared as the two women circled each other less than twenty feet below.

“Mikka!”

“Yes…”

Bjorn swivelled his head, his gaze tracking from his fellow monk’s gaping expression back to the women.

“Do I need to distract you from the big, scary thunder?” the blonde teased her friend with her words as her hands worked at the cloak wrapped around the other woman’s shoulders. It fell to the ground, baring a significant amount of skin. They were definitely easterners, Bjorn thought. The brunette was wrapped in bronze fabric—some kind of formal dress, he supposed. It accented her feminine form, but it was entirely impractical for the setting.

Her response was lost in the steady patter of the rain falling on the treetops above them, but the way she swayed closer made her answer quite clear.

“I was given strict instructions by your husband to keep you happy for this entire trip.” The blonde dropped her head and kissed the other woman’s shoulder, then dragged her mouth along the pale, creamy skin to the curve of her neck.

Why could they hear every word she was saying? It was like her voice was a clarion call, piercing though the rain and their normal boundaries of modesty and restraint.

They needed to back away.

“Mikka. Now.” Bjorn didn’t wait for his colleague to respond. He spun on his heel and moved back up the trail and around the previous bend.

So much for there not being women on the mountain.

He should have prayed after all.





2



Britt slid her arms around Inge and smoothed her hands up and down her friend’s elegant back. Together they sighed, then laughed again.