by Elise Kova
Vhalla stood helplessly before him, and he seemed just as lost at the sight of her. Neither spoke.
Vhalla realized, very self-consciously, that this was the first time he’d seen her since she cut her hair. Short hair or no, could he even bear the sight of her any longer?
“I have your armor.” His low voice resonated smoothly across her restless mind.
Vhalla heard the demand in the statement, moving aside so he could maneuver a small wooden armor stand into her room.
The sound of the door shutting behind him sent a nervous shiver up her spine. The last time Vhalla had been alone with the prince was the day of her verdict. The last time she’d seen him she was being escorted out of a courtroom by two armed guards, her sentence having been read—a sentence that gave the prince the ability to kill her should she disobey.
But Aldrik wouldn’t kill her. The way he looked at her revealed that certainty. He couldn’t kill her, if the magical force—the Bond—between them was real.
“Where’s Larel?” Vhalla wanted to smash her face against the wall. That was what she decided to say?
“I thought I might help you.” It was awkward, everything between them felt awkward. It was as though five years, not five days, had passed.
Everything had changed.
“I can’t deny you, my prince.” Vhalla brought her hands together, fidgeting.
Instead of his usual scolding of her restless tic, the prince took her fingers in his.
“Why the formality?” he asked softly, slipping the gloves onto her hands.
“Because ...” The words stuck in her throat.
“Just Aldrik is fine,” the prince reminded her.
She nodded mutely, still working through the knot of syllables behind her lips. With both gloves on, Aldrik passed her a chainmail tunic. Its sleeves were full, extending to the top of her gloves. Vhalla was surprised to find it had a hood fashioned of tiny links. Her hair fell just above where it pooled at the back of her neck. The weight of his stare brought her eyes to his, and Vhalla’s hand fell from where it played with the ends of her hair.
“You had it cut.” His hands paused on the armor.
“I cut it,” she corrected, staring at a corner of the room. It felt as though she was on trial all over again.
“I like it,” Aldrik said after what seemed like an eternity.
“You do?” Her mouth fell open in dumb shock.
“Long or short ... suits you.” The prince gave a small shrug.
Vhalla didn’t point out the fact that he had just contradicted himself. Her insides were in turmoil, and she suddenly felt like crying. He liked it? What about her was left to like?
The armor she slipped into was crafted out of small scales of black steel. It hung to mid-thigh and had shoulder coverings that only minimally hindered her movement. Her heart raced with conflicted emotion as she watched the prince’s long fingers demonstrate the locations of latches up the front of the armor.
“It is just the greaves and gauntlets then.” Aldrik motioned to the remaining pieces on the stand. She nodded silently. The prince hovered for a long moment before making for the door. “I need to prepare myself.”
“Aldrik.” Vhalla’s barely trembling hand clasped his coat sleeve before she even realized it had moved.
“Vhalla?” He stopped all movement in an instant, and his eyes searched hers.
“I can’t,” she whispered.
Pain flashed across the prince’s face, riding on the wave of realization of what her words meant. “You can.” Aldrik turned slowly, as though she was a wild animal, easily spooked. One warm hand encompassed hers; it was a delicate touch that seemed to carry the weight of the world in it.
“I-I’m awful at everything, and I—”
“Do you remember what I told you?” he asked as though he could sense her emotions were about to overrun her. “On the last day of your trial?”
“I do.” She remembered her palm pressed firmly against his side, on a spot that had been a lethal wound not more than a year before when he’d come riding into her life during a summer’s thunderstorm. He would have died from that wound if she had not saved him with her sorcery, inadvertently forming the magical Bond that now lived between them.
“Vhalla, I—” A door slammed in the hallway and the sound of footsteps heavy with armor faded down the hall. Aldrik engaged in a staring contest with the door. “I must go.”
She nodded.
“I will see you soon, for the march.”
Which of them was he reassuring?
Vhalla nodded again.
“We have a long time before reaching the North. I will personally make sure you are ready,” the prince swore, accepting responsibility for her.
“Thank you.” The words didn’t seem enough, but they were all she had to give and Aldrik accepted them before silently escaping.
She stood for several long breaths, trying to calm the tempest that blew within her chest. As close to ready as she’d ever be, Vhalla grabbed the small bag she’d been told to pack her personal effects in. Tucked away in her wardrobe were Aldrik’s notes, Larel’s bracelet, and three letters addressed to her old master in the library, her friend Roan, and her father. She’d told Fritz, the Tower’s de facto librarian, and his friend Grahm about their existence. If the worst befell her, those letters would be sent.
Her eyes caught the mirror once more, and Vhalla spared another minute. She didn’t recognize the woman who stared back at her. Hollow eyes and wild hair were framed by black armor. It was the visage of a warrior and a sorcerer.
Taking a deep breath, Vhalla plunged into the hall and didn’t look back. She didn’t even bother to lock her door. The sloping spiral was full of people, but none seemed interested in speaking and only the chorus of armor filled the air. Their plate was of a similar make to hers, but it didn’t look half as fine. Vhalla made note of the small gold embellishment along the front of her steel. One or two other people seemed to notice the same, but said nothing.
The hall ended in a large foyer at the base of the Tower, the only public entrance. Vhalla leaned against the outer wall, speaking to no one. The Tower had been kind to her, overall. But she only had two true friends among them, and they were still asleep in their beds.
Vhalla felt a pang of loneliness. The room was full of the stereotypical black hair and olive skin of the West, the yellow tan and plain brown features of the East, and the pale skin and golden haired people of the South. They were all mixes of eyes and hair she knew, and yet none of them were familiar.
Some of the other soldiers chatted away nervously. Others were too calm for this to be their first tour. Even though Aldrik had said otherwise, she was alone. Vhalla stared at her toes—she brought death and destruction; it was better this way.
Over her self-pity Vhalla heard the makings of a familiar voice.
“See, I told you we wouldn’t be late,” a man was saying.
“We would have been if I hadn’t dragged you from bed,” a woman responded.
“You can stop with the dragging now.”
Vhalla’s head snapped up to see Larel leading Fritz into the room, a firm grip on his arm. Vhalla’s eyes widened. They were dressed much the same as everyone else, completely done up in armor.
“Fritz, Larel?” she called out to them timidly.
“Vhal!” The Southern man with the wild blonde hair waved in excitement as he passed Larel in a rush, leaving the other woman to leisurely follow behind.
“What are you doing here?” Vhalla asked, dumbfounded as they put their own packs on the floor.
“Isn’t it obvious?” he responded, smoothing down his unruly curls. “We’re coming with you.”
“But neither of you are in the military,” she objected.
“We’re brand new recruits.” He grinned.
Vhalla turned to Larel for some sense.
“You didn’t think I’d let my first apprentice run off to war without me, did you?” Larel scolded g
ently without any mention of the prince showing up in her stead earlier. “What kind of mentor do you think I am?” She crossed her arms on her chest. “You-you can’t.” Vhalla’s heart began to race. She put her hands on Fritz’s shoulders and saw a different set of Southern blue eyes staring back at her. The eyes of a man whom she’d grown up with, who had been a dear friend; they were eyes that now belonged to a dead man. “I can’t have any more people die on my account.” Vhalla focused all her effort on keeping her voice from breaking.
“Don’t treat us like we’re children.” Larel rolled her eyes.
Fritz grabbed Vhalla’s hands. “It’s not your job to protect us. We know what we’re doing.” He squeezed her fingers gently.
Vhalla felt a hopelessness rising in her. “You’re idiots,” Vhalla breathed.
Fritz laughed. “I’ve been called worse.” He grinned, “Larel?”
“Much worse,” the Westerner replied with a smirk.
“You look fantastic, by the way, Vhal!” Fritz held out her arms between them to inspect Vhalla’s armor. “It’s no wonder; you are our Windwalker.”
Vhalla allowed Fritz to fuss and Larel to hum and smile. These had been the only people over the past few days who had made her feel close to human, and while she was in numb shock at the sight of them wearing armor, there was a little selfish streak that secretly rejoiced. Vhalla looked at Larel from the corners of her eyes, halfheartedly responding to Fritz.
The overexcited Southerner was silenced as a hush fell over the room. Major Reale strode in, also clad in black with an obsidian cape streaming down her back. A silver Broken Moon was emblazoned upon it. Vhalla saluted with the rest of the room, bringing her fists to her chest, knuckles together. She turned one hand down, the other pointing up, still connected at the wrist to mimic the imagery.
The moon was the point in which the day and night met, light in the darkness where it did not belong. Within it, the Father was said to have entrapped a creature of pure chaos. The Broken Moon of the Tower represented strength, that those who bore the mark would possess magic strong enough to pierce the heavens and put an end to what the Gods had started eons ago.
Vhalla had been too tired since joining the Tower to give the imagery much thought beyond learning its meaning. But the longer she’d considered the symbol, the more it seemed to fit her. There was something severed and rough about her, something tainted and, yet, at the same time those jagged pieces were the makings of something fearsome. She’d wanted to become someone the Senate would fear. Why not shatter the sky?
“Well, isn’t this a sorry lot I have the esteemed honor of leading to war?” The major took in the room. “Who here marches for glory?”
The room rose in an instant cry of affirmation.
“Get out of my sight,” the woman growled, instantly silencing the previously joyous soldiers. She cut down their resolve with a scan of her good eye. “I have no room for heroes under my command. Most of you will march to a thankless death. Your comrades in silver will fear you, they’ll hate you, and they’ll ignore your accomplishments and claim your victories.”
Vhalla’s mind drifted to the Senate, hearing a very different “they” in the woman’s words.
“But, for those of you who aren’t completely daft,” Major Reale taunted with a wild grin crossing her lips. “For those of you who can meet our enemy with as much cruelty, as much cunning, and as much skill, maybe you’ll see the end of this war. So stand with me, stand with your brothers and sisters in black. We ride toward the horizon of victory, and whoever cannot see the path there should leave now.”
The major strode out of the Tower and didn’t look back to see if anyone was following her.
Everyone was.
As the sunlight hit Vhalla’s face, she looked behind her and up at the Tower, which cast a dark shadow until it became one with the mountainside castle.
Home. This magnificent palace had been her home since she was eleven. She’d came to it as a farmer’s daughter, and now she’d leave it as a soldier. Vhalla shrugged the pack on her shoulder, gripping the leather straps tightly. She tried to ball up the nerves, fears, and insecurity and suppress it into some dark hole deep within her.
They walked through an inner path down to the stables. No one said a word. The sounds of the palace waking, and the Black Legion’s armor clanking, soon joined the symphony of horses and men below.
The stables surpassed her wildest imagination. Hundreds of people filled every possible space. Each was plated in silver armor. Some were readying steeds, others were preparing carts.
Her awe was broken when the major barked a sharp order, sending Vhalla toward a side stall. She hadn’t expected to have her own mount. Vhalla’s steed was a mostly-black stallion with a white patch on its forehead. She patted its neck, and it shook a dark mane in dramatic protest. A bit of fire in the beast would suit her well, she decided. A young stable boy who gave her a wide berth worked quickly to saddle and bridle the mount. There was the echo of a voice in her that wanted to reassure the clearly fearful child, but Vhalla couldn’t find the strength to comfort anyone else. She was too dark inside to even smile, so it was no surprise that she nearly startled the boy to death when she spoke.
“What’s his name?”
“It-it’s a new one. I saw ‘im just this week. Don’t think he ‘as a name.” The boy finished tacking the horse and attaching one small saddlebag on either side. One was stocked with rations, and Vhalla’s meager possessions fit into the other—with some space left over.
She walked to the front of the horse and considered the beast. “Lightning,” she decided. It wasn’t very original, but it needed a name, and Lightning was as good as any. Lightning was fire in the sky, lightning was brilliant, lightning was fast, and lightning cut the heavens.
Putting her left foot in the stirrup, she swung her right over easily, taking the reins. Vhalla had never been taught how to properly ride, but a horse or two was something her family always kept for the farm. From a young age she’d rode astride, so sitting in a saddle seemed a natural stance. Vhalla glanced around at the other recruits; it wasn’t so natural for many.
Taking the reins in one hand, she put her heels to the beast’s sides and steered him out of the stable stall. Her armor clanked as she found the rhythm of the horse. Vhalla rode over to where the major was beginning to form the line.
“Major,” she said.
“Good to see you know your way around a horse.” The major assessed Vhalla from her feet in the stirrups to her grip on the reins. “You’ll be close to center, Yarl, at my right.” Referring to Fritz and Larel by their last names, she added, “Charem next to you, then Neiress. Then everyone else whom I can trust to not die promptly in a scuffle will be on the outside and rear.”
Vhalla placed her horse in line with enough space on both sides. There was a small commotion behind her, and Vhalla turned in her saddle. The palace’s giant ceremonial doors opened with the clanking and grinding of a large chain, and the Imperial family marched into the sun.
Prince Baldair wore his golden armor, and it shone brilliantly against the light. The Emperor wore a similar suit with large plate but all in white. Aldrik stood in stark contrast. He wore black scale that covered his entire body, similar to what Vhalla wore. Strapped atop the scale mail were large black plates rimmed in gold, which went from his hands to his elbows, his feet to his knees, on his shoulders, and upper chest. All three held helmets tucked under their arms and wore long white cloaks that flapped around their upper calves.
He looked nothing like the prince she’d seen barely hours before. But he was still utterly familiar to her.
The other members of the Imperial family had their horses brought out to them, but no one seemed interested in bringing Aldrik his. He approached the stomping beast and calmed it with a hand, leading it from its stall.
Vhalla’s stare was broken as Larel and Fritz rode over.
“Charem, Yarl’s right. Neiress, after,” the ma
jor barked, and Fritz and Larel fell in line around Vhalla.
“You’re holding the reins too tightly,” Vhalla advised quietly over Fritz to Larel, who seemed to be having trouble controlling her horse. Larel gave her an appreciative glance. Even though Vhalla would have rather them be safe in the Tower, she was glad to have her friends near her.
She began to notice strange glances from the other soldiers as more fell into line. There was a definite break between those dressed in silver and white and those dressed in silver and black. Friends were going to be in short supply on the march.
A quiet swept up from behind her, and the major turned. Aldrik sat atop his large War-strider, riding through the gap to Major Reale.
“My prince.” The major bowed her head.
“Major Reale.” Aldrik’s voice was sharp. “How many do we have?” His eyes scanned through the recruits.
“Just shy of fifty,” the major reported, confirming Vhalla’s suspicions that they were the smallest group.
“Then I want just shy of fifty coming home.” The prince took the reins in his hands as the major nodded. He directed his horse through the ranks, heading toward the front, but spared the second for a glance at Vhalla. Their eyes met, and his face relaxed a fraction, a conflicting mess of emotions building behind his stare.
Vhalla hardened her gaze as much as she could and gave him a small nod. He put his heels to his horse and posted a trot to the front of the line.
The time for sadness and pity was over. The girl who had come to the palace at eleven and lived her life in the library was dead; she’d been killed by the Senators whom she’d always been taught were sworn to protect her. The woman sitting in the saddle now had to find a heart crafted of black steel. She had to survive if for no other reason than to spite the world.
The host was in place, and the men and women shifted in their saddles. Vhalla clutched her reins tightly. She could do this, she told herself over the mental lies that her knees weren’t shaking in the stirrups.
