by K.N. Lee
He chuckled inwardly as the riders realized they would have to use every magic spell they could fathom in order to have a chance at winning. And, when they did, he blew red flames and killed three before they could cast.
He shifted back into his human form and slid across the ground to grab his sword and shield. Casters were slow. It took time to build the right spell and to add enough energy to it. He knew this from his mother’s stories from when he was a child. She’d grown up close to Skal, a town in Kjos, where many Mages lived, and she told him exciting tales she’d heard or stories about things she’d seen every night before he went to bed.
And so, while they stood there, hands hovering in the air and collecting energy, he rammed his sword into the belly of one Mage who screamed like a woman in childbirth. Withdrawing his sword, he watched the man bleed from the mouth and double over onto his face.
Blood dripped from Kylan’s sword as he peered down with hatred at the man. Not even a satisfying fight. Was magic all they knew?
Disappointing.
Another ran at him with a tall scepter that glowed blue like the ocean under a sunrise.
Kylan spun and separated the Mage’s head from his body.
A battle cry came from behind and Kylan turned and stabbed another cloaked man in the gut. He dropped his dagger and clutched Kylan’s face in his hands. “Dirty dog. You will regret this.”
A surge of heat came from the Mage’s palms and slammed into Kylan’s face. But, to his surprise and that of the Mage, the energy simply absorbed into his body and illuminated him.
Like a god.
The Mage’s eyes widened, and then lost their light.
“Will I?” Kylan asked, gritting his teeth. He lifted the Mage by the sword and crimson blood gushed from his mouth as the blade slid deeper until Kylan’s knuckles were flush with his ribcage. Then, he tossed him to the side, and onto his decapitated comrade.
He rolled his shoulders and caught his breath. A rush of vitality pumped through his veins as the sounds of dying men surrounded him. He could do this for hours.
Something new was happening. He looked down at his skin which glowed like the rays of the sun. Something remarkable.
The Kiss of Enit Arue.
“That’s the last of those dumb enough to meet us in battle on the ground,” Davyn, his father said as he approached. “The others have fled.”
“Shame, really,” Kylan said, the glow from his skin fading. “I was just getting started.”
Davyn narrowed his eyes as he looked at him. “What was that?”
Kylan feigned ignorance. He blinked. “What was what?”
Davyn searched his eyes, skeptically. Then, breathed in and nodded to the dead bodies scattered all over the ground. “Burn them all.”
In a heavy wool cloak lined with fur, Davyn approached with a war hammer at his side. His blond hair was as long as his beard, and braided, while Kylan kept his short and his face shaven. Davyn knelt to the ground and picked up the severed head by the hair. His eyes narrowed.
“This one has the Mark of Cannan. He will rise again with the next moon unless he is burnt and his ashes are scattered.”
Kylan wiped his sword clean on his fur cloak and held it at his side. He grimaced at the symbol on the back of the dead man’s head. A star with an X in the center. “You can’t be serious. I thought that was just folklore.”
“Most folklore comes from a place of truth,” his father said, standing and dusting his hands. “They are cursed men. With some Mages, you never know when they’ll rise from behind and slit your throat. Burn them.”
“They come here starting trouble, and we have to clean up their mess. Look at what they’ve done to half the houses in town,” Kylan turned to Holgar, the town blacksmith, who wiped his mouth clean. He’d just torn a Mage’s throat from his body with his sharp fangs and shifted back into his human form. ”Why can’t they be like normal men?”
“Normal is boring,” Holgar said. ”I haven’t had that much fun since my first raid. The gods were just testing us, making sure we still remember our roots. We’re warriors, young man. Never forget it.”
“True,” Kylan agreed with a nod. “And, warriors should never grow too comfortable.”
“That’s right. Look around you. Not one of our people fell tonight. The Mages who fled will be hunted down and slaughtered before they can return to wherever they came from and tell stories of how they found the last dragons.”
“Are you certain?” Vidar asked, standing beside Kylan. “We cannot let the world know of our existence.”
“Don’t we all know that? We will find them,” Holgar said with a grin emerging on his aging face. “I haven’t had an excuse to fight as a dragon in far too long.”
“Good job, old man,” Kylan said, patting Holgar on the back. While Holgar fought in his wolf form, he preferred to fight on his two feet, with a sword and shield. Occasionally…when the battle called for it, he wouldn’t hesitate to become the dragon who dwelled in his soul. He’d demonstrated just that on that night.
“Old man, my arse,” Holgar said, shoving Kylan’s hand from his back. “I’ll teach you a thing or two about battle, little cub.”
Kylan pursed his lips as Holgar left to aid the others with discarding the bodies.
“Well, my friend,” he said, turning to Vidar. “What a wedding.”
15
A month passed in Amalia’s new home. Berufell was nothing like Skal, but it was a place she was grateful for taking her in. It was a fishing village outside in the kingdom of Fjorn. Growing up, Amalia would help her mother tend to the cows just as the sun rose. She’d look toward the Weeping Mountain and imagined what life was like for the Wolves.
She shoved those memories from her mind. The chances of ever seeing her mother and father again were slim. It was best to try to move on, even if it did bring her comfort to remember the happy times. It was just as painful to remember the last time she’d seen them.
Looking ahead, she realized that many of the people of Berufell were watching her. It was the same every day, with the men and women carrying their goods, trading, and keeping a wary eye on the outsider.
Did she look like a Mage? Could they see her power coursing through her veins?
She pulled her hood over her dark hair and lowered her eyes. Fitting in with the blond people of Berufell would be difficult. She stood out like a weed in a bed of flowers. After the attack by the firedrakes, she’d mostly stayed in the house healing and helping Runa with the knitting.
“Now that you’re better, father thinks it’s a good idea for you to meet Uffe,” Alex said. “It’s time for you to learn to use a sword.”
She nodded, calmed by his enthusiasm and kindness. Aros made it his duty to guide and protect her. Keeping close behind, Amalia followed him from the house to the central square. The village was alive with activity. Fishermen sold their daily catch and fresh chickens were skinned with their heads chopped off at the butcher’s cart.
Hunters went off to comb the lands for fresh game. Aros’s father and two brothers were amongst them, carrying their bow and arrows and spears. Aros had been relieved of his daily duties so that he could take Amalia for to begin her training.
The smell of steel being forged in the blacksmith’s shop was new to Amalia. She watched the heavyset man pounding the steel with a mallet, his muscled arms bulging and dripping with sweat even in the cold of the winter morning.
In Skal, there was no need for weapons. It was a peaceful village. Here, swords and shields were produced by the dozens. She eyed them, wondering what it would be like to wrap her hands around the hilt of a great sword. After all she’d been through, it wouldn’t be a terrible idea to learn to defend herself.
She looked forward to meeting Uffe. He would train her the way he trained all of the girls and boys of Berefell. She’d just be a little late to begin.
“Why do you teach children to fight?” Amalia asked, as they began to approach the training ground
s. Her brows furrowed at the sight of little girls and boys barely above the age of five swinging wooden swords at one another. The ferocity in their faces was appalling. She’d never seen anything like it. “They should be playing, not fighting.”
He looked back at her. “For Wolves, they are one in the same. We don’t breed weak children here, Amalia. Wolves are strong. Wolves learn to fight because you never know when your village will be attacked by humans or rival clans. Trust me, our way has worked for us for centuries.”
She nodded, biting her bottom lip as she frowned at seeing a little girl get kicked in the chest and knocked to the ground by another girl. The girl didn’t cry, as Amalia had expected. She leaped to her feet and tackled the bigger girl, sending her falling onto her back with a thud onto the dirt.
Aros clapped and stood right before the wooden gate. The children looked up from their fighting, but didn’t stop. Not until Uffe spoke.
“All right, take a break. Get some water,” Uffe, a tall man with scars covering his bare chest. How he could go shiftless in the cold weather was vexing to Amalia. His chest was defined, strong, and he wore only leather pants that reached his ankles and carried a sword. His head was bald, but his blond beard was long. He looked Amalia up and down.
“This is the slave girl?”
She kept quiet and let Aros speak for her.
“She isn’t a slave anymore. She is a guest in our home, and father wants her to be treated like a true Berufell girl.”
“She looks like she should be scrubbing pots,” Uffe said with a smirk. “Look at those scrawny arms and legs. She’s not even worthy of being my supper.”
Aros gave a nervous chuckle and looked to Amalia. “We won’t be eating our guest, Uffe. Give her a shot.”
Uffe turned to her. With deep-set, brown eyes he looked her up and down and folded his arms across his broad chest. “Aye, I knew your family was harboring the enemy, but don’t expect me to waste my time on her. Look at her. She’s as human as they come. Her bones will break if one of my little ones gives her a push.”
“Human or not, I can learn,” Amalia said, her cheeks reddening at the insult. She’d never lifted a finger against anyone, but liked to think she could handle a child. “A warrior is only as strong as their teacher. Are you skilled enough to teach a human to fight like a Wolf?”
As expected, the idea of a challenge sparked his interest. He leaned over the gate and sniffed her. She tried to remain calm and unflinching as he reached out and tilted her chin with his cold fingers. He looked into her eyes and whatever contempt he’d previously felt for her began to melt away from his expression.
“Aye,” he said, nodding and letting her go. He opened the gate and stepped aside. “Get in here. I’ll make a warrior out of you by spring.”
16
Amalia crossed her arms over her chest, feeling exposed as she walked into the center of the training ring with Uffe. She’d changed into clothing appropriate for fighting. In a long tunic with a leather breastplate strapped to her chest and tied at her back, and dark pants and boots, she almost looked like the Wolves that surrounded her. They watched from the other side of the wooden gate, eager to see the human’s first lesson.
Uffe nodded to another girl, who watched from a bench, sharpening her sword.
A real sword, not one of the wooden ones Uffe handed to Amalia.
The girl stood, and Amalia felt the color drain from her face. She was older, maybe by a year, but big.
“Latica,” he said. “Come spar with Amalia.”
Spar?
Amalia had never heard such a word. Her shoulders were broad and she had hands as big as Amalia’s face. All she could think as the tall, blonde young woman with long braids that hung down her back approached, a glint of malice in her blue eyes was that she was probably about to die.
When Latica stood before her, Amalia found herself tilting her head upward to meet her gaze.
“Prepare yourself, human. Hands up. Sword ready. And wipe that look of terror off your face,” Uffe said. “We don’t show fear, even when facing death. No. We laugh in the face of death.”
Amalia swallowed. Easier said than done.
“Ready to taste blood, little girl?” Latica whispered, leaning down toward Amalia, a crooked grin on her pale face.
Uffe handed Amalia a wooden sword and shield, and stepped back, kneeling beside the two.
“Go.”
A yelp escaped Amalia’s lips as Latica knocked her sword from her hand by the force of her shield. The shield hooked her sword and sent it flying onto the ground. Amalia barely had a chance to register what had happened before Latica ran at her with a feral look in her eyes. She grappled her midsection and took her down. The wind was knocked out of her as she fell onto her back with a thud.
Latica grinned down at her, and pressed the palm of her hand onto Amalia’s face, pinning her to the ground. “Silly little human. I will lick the blood from your bones.”
Uffe stood, and Amalia looked to him from between Latica’s fingers. Her heart thumped loudly in her chest as she tried to catch her breath. The smell of dirt was strong in her nostrils and the pressure from Latica’s weight made it hard for her chest to expand.
“Get up,” he said, “Begin again. This time, hold tight to your shield, block Latica’s advances, and attack.”
Latica hopped to her feet and picked up her sword and shield. The onlookers laughed as Amalia lay there, looking at the sky, trying to muster the courage to face her again. Her eyes narrowed as she saw an eagle fly above her and land on the roof of one of the buildings. That wasn’t the first time she’d seen that eagle. But, could it really be the same one?
When she looked to her right, Aros stood there, watching her.
He gave her a nod, his face serious while everyone else laughed and cheered Latica on.
Somehow, just seeing him there giving her encouragement gave her the will to try again. She stood, and dusted the dirt off her bottom. She frowned at the crowd and picked up her weapon. Instead of holding her shield, she held her sword with both hands, and readied herself.
“Use your shield,” Uffe said.
Amalia shook her head, her brows furrowed as she looked to Latica. Lick the blood from my bones? We shall see.
“No,” Amalia said. “It only gets in the way.”
“Of saving your life, yes. But, if you think you know better, suit yourself.”
Latica chuckled. “You’re holding your sword all wrong.”
Amalia shrugged, her eyes focused on Latica. Somehow, the butterflies in her belly settled, and all she saw and heard was the wind and the way it blew around them, kicking up tiny particles of dirt and dust into the air. It called her. It reminded her of something hidden deep within—an ancient art—something she didn’t understand but knew existed.
Skal was home, but it hadn’t always been. Her people were once warriors, though she’d never seen a war, she could feel it rushing through her veins as she tightened her grip on her sword.
A smirk came to her lips as she thought of what the villagers back in Skal would think if they saw Amalia with a weapon. The nice girl from the nice family.
She didn’t feel so nice anymore.
Nice wouldn’t help her survive.
Nice wouldn’t keep her alive.
Her smirk vexed Latica, whose own smile faded.
The images from the cave returned to her. The girl with the crown, riding the dragon.
Could it really be her?
“Go,” Uffe said, and Latica cried out, charging.
Amalia sucked in a breath and stilled her mind as she watched Latica run toward her. Her mouth was twisted with anguish and determination. She wanted to see Amalia bleed.
Amalia couldn’t let that happen.
A rush of cold filled her body, and for a moment, she was light as air. With one smooth, fluid, motion, she sidestepped Latica, lowered her sword at an angle to her side, and swiped it upward, knocking the girl in the chin.
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The training grounds went silent as Latica fell to the ground and onto her back.
She dropped her sword and covered her mouth when she looked down to see Latica bleeding from the mouth, and not moving. Her eyes were closed and her head lolled to the side.
Uffe rushed over and knelt to her, touching her neck. When he looked up at Amalia, he had a curiosity in his eyes that she hadn’t seen before.
Her chest heaved as she looked down at the motionless girl. “Is she okay?”
Whispers filled the square.
He nodded, but didn’t speak. He simply watched her, his eyes burning into hers. Aros jumped the fence and ushered Amalia away.
“That’s enough for today,” he said, and took her from the training grounds.
Amalia looked back. Every eye in the square was on her as they walked away.
“If I wanted them to accept me before, I know they never will after today,” she said, wringing her hands.
Aros lifted a brow and gave her a sidelong glance. “Actually, they’re all thinking the same thing.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re more Wolf than you look.”
17
Life began to have meaning again. Amalia was training to become a true sword maiden and her entire new family supported her by giving her extra lessons whenever the opportunity arose.
She combed through her hair while sitting beside the brook just outside of the village. The sun would set soon, and the clouds began to darken as rain started to brew. Still, she wasn’t ready to return. She needed her solitude.
She dipped her toes into the water and washed her feet of the dirt that caked her soles. It was cold, but she didn’t mind. The fresh water was somewhat refreshing and reminder her of the times back in Skal when she would do the same thing.
Sighing, she pulled her feet from the water and pulled her legs into her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She could get used to this life. If only warnings didn’t keep popping into her head and making her queasy with every awful scenario she conjured.
