by Alane Adams
“Wait up.” Sam took a step and looked down at his feet. Sooty toes stuck out through burned holes in his socks. “Snap, where are my shoes?”
“Didn’t make it through the fire,” Rego said over his shoulder.
Sam’s clothes were singed black around the edges. The only thing to survive intact was Leo’s knife. It stuck out of the side of the beast. Reluctant to touch it, but even more reluctant to leave it behind, Sam put his foot on the wolf’s shoulder and pulled with both hands. The knife slipped out with a repulsive sucking noise. He wiped the blade on the ground several times to remove the blood, then stuffed it in the sheath at his waist.
Rego was a distant blur on the trail. Sam picked his way over sharp stones, wincing with every step until he caught up with the dwarf.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“Where do you think? Orkney.” Rego said it like that should mean something to Sam, then kept on trudging down the trail. Annoyed, Sam grabbed Rego by the shoulder and spun him around.
“I know that, but where is it? How did we get here? Why are the witches after me? How can witches even exist?”
Rego was silent as Sam finished his string of questions, staring at Sam with something close to pity in his eyes.
“Please. I just want to understand,” Sam added quietly, dropping his hand.
The dwarf sighed and took a seat on a rock. Sam sat down across from him on the ground.
“To understand the present, you have to start in the past when the world was young and gods like Odin walked freely on the earth.” Rego took an apple out of his satchel and began peeling the green skin.
“So the gods are real?” Sam leaned forward, feeling his breath catch in his chest.
Rego laughed. “Of course they’re real. The world didn’t make itself. Odin is the father of creation. Keeper of mankind.”
Sam remembered the book Keely had shown him in the library. “Is it true he divided the world into nine realms?”
“Yup, each one separated from the other by a thin veil. In the center is your world, the realm Odin called Midgard. Home of men, but also in those early days, home to all kinds of magic folk, including the witches. Odin watched over them like they were his children.” Rego carved a slice of apple and handed it to Sam.
He chewed it, savoring the familiar, if somewhat tarter, taste. “What changed?”
“A powerful he-witch named Rubicus is what changed. Rubicus wanted to control the nine realms for himself.”
“Sounds like he wanted to be a god,” Sam joked. “Bet Odin didn’t like that.”
Rego glared at him. “No. Odin didn’t like it one stinking bit. But Rubicus had big plans. He thought if he poisoned the sun, Odin would surrender to him.”
Sam swallowed the mouthful of apple. “What happened?” “Rubicus found a source of dark magic powerful enough to curse the sun. As the veins spread, the sun began poisoning everything in the land. War broke out between the witches and the gods. The spell got beyond Rubicus’s control. It was terrible. No one could stop it, not even Odin. All of Midgard was in danger of extinction.”
Sam was speechless. “So what did Odin do?”
Rego snorted loudly. “He cut off Rubicus’s head and mounted it on a stake outside the witches’ fortress.”
“Ouch!” Sam’s eyes flickered to the poisoned sun. “So what made it come back?”
Rego tossed away the apple core. “Odin never found the source of the dark magic. A few months ago, the first red vein appeared on the sun. The High Council thinks the witches found the source and used it to finish what Rubicus started.” Rego hesitated. Sam thought he was going to say something else important, but the dwarf scowled. “We’re wasting time yapping.” He reshouldered his pack and began tromping down the trail.
Sam hurried after him, slowed by his bare feet. The poisoned sun beat down, drilling into his head like he was at the dentist getting a cavity filled. The trail seemed endless, winding between large boulders. His feet were cut and raw by the time he caught up with the dwarf.
“At the house, you said the witches were after me,” he called out to the back of Rego’s head. “Why am I so important to them?”
Rego stopped in his tracks. Sam thought he was going to answer his question, but the dwarf was focused on the clearing ahead. A horse whinnied close by. They weren’t alone. A group of men clustered around a small encampment in a clump of trees across the open space. Red banners were planted in the ground. A shout went out when they caught sight of the pair. Best of all, Sam could smell a whiff of something delicious cooking.
Rego started to stride toward them, but Sam grabbed his arm. “Come on, Rego. What’s so special about me?”
The dwarf jerked his arm free, blue eyes fierce as he spat out the words. “After Odin cut off Rubicus’s head, he swore vengeance on the witches. He cursed them to never again bear a male child.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in, and then Sam’s eyes lit up. “So my mom can’t be a witch, right?”
Rego just grunted. “She’s a witch all right, a descendant of Rubicus, himself. Your father descended from Odin. Somehow, they overcame his curse. Some say it was the strength of their bloodlines, others the power of their ‘love.’” He said the last part with a touch of disgust. “I say it makes no matter how it happened. You, Samuel Baron, are the first son born to a witch in a very long time. And now the witches want to know whose side you’re on.”
“Whose side I’m on? Well, not theirs; that’s for sure,” Sam said hotly.
Rego looked at him a long time before answering. “We can only hope. But in the meantime, I suggest you keep your piehole shut about all this. Not everyone is going to be happy you’re still alive.”
A dwarf strode out to greet them, his lone arm extended. Rego clasped him heartily, pounded him on the back, and then turned to Sam. “Samuel, this here’s my brother, Amicus.”
Amicus raised one bushy eyebrow. “So the rumors were true.” Amicus extended his hand, and Sam shook it. The dwarf’s grip nearly crushed Sam’s fingers.
A soldier came forward. He was twenty or so and blond, dressed in a white shirt of fine linen and simple leggings tucked into tall, black leather boots. He wore a vest of loose metal mesh that bore the symbol of a white heron on the chest.
“Milord.” He bowed low in front of Sam. “Our hope has been restored to us. It is good to have you back on Orkadian soil.”
“Thanks. I’m Sam.” He stuck out his hand.
The soldier looked surprised. “Yes, Sam, I know who you are. I am Teren, Captain of the Orkadian Guard.” He grabbed Sam’s hand with both of his and shook it vigorously. He turned to the other men. “Samuel Elias Barconian, Lord of the Ninth Realm, Son of Odin, has returned to us.”
The men, about a dozen of them, let out a resounding cheer and raised their swords high. The horses neighed noisily, and one of them reared up.
Now, this was a homecoming. Lord of the Ninth Realm? Rego must have left out that part of his story.
Chapter Nine
Captain Teren ushered Sam into a silken tent and left him to wash up in a large bowl of steaming water. It was a relief to get out of that cursed sun. He stripped off his charred pants and then soaked his feet, washing away the grime and dried wolf’s blood. A set of clothes had been laid out for him: black breeches like Teren’s, a white shirt, and a pair of boots that were a size too big but better than going barefoot. Sam looked down at his new outfit and thought he must look like quite the swashbuckling musketeer. He pretended to slash the air with a sword and heard a giggle.
“Who’s there?” he called, feeling foolish.
The giggle repeated, and Sam waded deeper into the tent. There were piles of animal skins, saddles stacked up, and tubs of cookware. The room was bigger than he had thought and partitioned by a silk screen. He pulled it aside.
A girl, no more than eight or so, crouched behind the screen. She held her hand over her mouth as she tried to stifle her laughter.
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“Are you spying on me?” Sam asked, irritated and a little embarrassed.
“No, this is my tent,” she said, standing up. She had bare feet. Her dress was clean but worn.
“Your tent? It looks like a storage tent.”
“I’m Mavery.” She stuck out her hand. Her hair was black and uneven, as if she had cut it herself. She had shiny black eyes like those of a crow.
“I’m Sam.” He reached for her hand, only to find that he was holding a trout and Mavery had disappeared.
“What the—”
The giggle came from behind him. Sam whipped around. “How did you do that?” The fish wriggled and slipped out of his hand onto the ground.
Captain Teren entered at that moment. “Feregen, Mavery. You know better than to use your witchery around camp. Get out before I tan that backside of yours.”
The girl scampered to the door, sticking her tongue out at Teren behind his back before slipping away.
Sam had to smile. She was an imp, but he liked her already.
“Milord, are you feeling ready to begin our journey?” Teren asked.
“Sure, but call me Sam. Where are we going?”
“To Skara Brae, milord. The capital city. The High Council is most anxious to meet with you.” Teren held open the door of the tent and waited for Sam to exit.
Sam stepped out to find that the camp had literally dropped to the ground while he was changing. Behind him, he heard the slithering of ropes being released as the tent he had just bathed in came down.
He spied Rego sitting on a horse, talking to his brother, Amicus. Sam walked over to Rego’s mount. The pony was smaller than the others, a ruddy red color with short, thick legs and long, pointy ears. It reminded Sam of a cross between a mule and a Shetland pony. Amicus rode a similar mount.
“There’s a little problem,” Sam said uneasily.
“What now, boy?” Rego asked.
“I don’t know how to, you know . . .” He jerked his head at the horses.
“Don’t know how to what?”
“The horses. I don’t know how to ride them,” he confessed.
Rego let out a laugh. “And here I thought you were Lord of the Ninth Realm.” He kicked his pony in the side and moved off. “You’ll figure it out soon enough,” he called over his shoulder.
Sam glared at his back. That dwarf really got on his nerves.
Amicus was no help. He gave Sam a wink and kicked his pony to catch up to Rego.
One of Teren’s men led over a stallion, tall and majestic, black as night. It reared up, pawing at the air with its hooves as it pulled against the lead.
I’m going to die, Sam thought.
“Oh no, not that one,” he said, shaking his head. “I need an old one, a slow one, preferably one that doesn’t buck.”
The man just shrugged and led the horse away. A boy in dungarees and a cap, not much older than Sam, appeared with a sturdy brown mare.
“Here you go, milord,” he said. “Seamus was just being a daft jerk. This beauty will be steady and easy on your bum.”
“Thank you.” Sam felt eternally grateful. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Davis, sir. Here, let me help you up.” He grasped Sam’s foot and helped hoist him into the saddle, adjusting the stirrups before handing him the reins. “Now, point them where you want to go, and she’ll follow. Pull back when you want to stop.”
Sam tested the reins. “Seems easy enough.”
Davis tugged on his cap and slapped the mare on the flank. She jolted forward and joined the line of horses heading down the trail. A whistle came from the tree next to Sam. In its lowest branch, Mavery squatted on a limb. She pursed her lips together and began to blow, and a golden-brown globe floated toward him. He watched as it got closer, fascinated by the shimmering colors, until it popped in his face, spraying him with a sticky liquid. He dabbed his finger on his face and licked it.
Maple syrup.
He rode off to the sound of her giggle.
The trail converged with a river that twisted its way through the forest. The rushing water sent up a spray as it tumbled over boulders, showering the air with a mist that made Sam’s clothes cling to his skin. The thicket of trees kept out much of the sunlight; the trunks were painted green with moss. He began to shiver. Something stung his neck. He slapped it, looking down at his hand. Great—even Orkney had mosquitoes.
Captain Teren rode up next to him.
“Well, Samuel, what do you think of your homeland?”
“It’s a lot like the Blue Mountains near Pilot Rock, where I grew up,” Sam said, grateful for the company. “I used to go camping there with my dad.”
“What did your parents tell you about this place—the Ninth Realm?”
Sam shrugged. “Not much. Actually, nothing. I guess they thought I wouldn’t believe them.”
Teren smiled, flashing white teeth. “Then allow me to give you a history lesson. Did Rego tell you about Rubicus?”
“Yeah. He’s the guy who started that.” Sam pointed at the freaky red-streaked sun.
Teren nodded grimly. “Rubicus had a daughter named Catriona. She was determined to finish what Rubicus had started. She went to war with mankind, and she would have won if not for Hermodan.”
Sam looked over at the soldier. “Hermodan? Who was he?”
“Hermodan was the King of Orkney. Not this Orkney. The Orkney of your world. Back then, it was a small chain of islands near a place you call Scotland. But Hermodan was no ordinary mortal. He was a direct descendant of Odin.”
“A Son of Odin,” Sam whispered. His horse let out a whinny, as if it understood the name.
“Aye. Like you and your father. His birthright made him capable of crossing to Asgard to ask Odin for his help. Hermodan returned with Odin’s Stone, a talisman powerful enough to fight the witches.”
Sam’s fingers crept up to the pouch around his neck. No wonder his dad had kept it close. The tiny chunk of granite used to hold great power.
Teren continued. “Hermodan used the magic in Odin’s Stone to trap Catriona and seven of her most powerful witch-sisters inside the stones that make up the Ring of Brogar.”
Fresh grief shot through Sam. “That’s where my dad was killed. But how does that explain this place?”
“Odin feared magic would be the undoing of mankind. He wanted to destroy it forever. It was Hermodan who pleaded for mercy for the magic folk who had fought on the side of good. He offered part of his kingdom as sanctuary, a handful of islands that could be lifted from your world and cast, here, into the Ninth Realm of Odin. Every magical thing, creature, stick, and stone would go with it, thus protecting mankind. And still preserving magic.”
Sam couldn’t speak. The idea was fantastic. Take islands from his world and just remove them? No wonder Rubicus wanted to be a god, Sam thought. “But why did Odin bring the witches here, too? Why not just get rid of them if they were such a problem?”
Teren sighed. “Hermodan believed there was some good to be found in them. The elven folk, the Eifalians, were the first to agree to go. Then the Falcory, ancestors of the Umatilla. Next were dwarves, giants, and, yes, even the witches—all given a choice. Stay behind in your realm and lose their powers, or leave and be cut off from Midgard forever.”
“What about the people who lived on those islands, the ones who didn’t have magic?”
“Some left. The Orkadians who stayed were chosen to help oversee the new Orkney. That’s how I got here. My great-great-great-grandfather served under Hermodan.”
Sam let his history lesson sink in as the horses wended their way through the forest. After a while, he asked, “Do you know what happened to my dad?”
“The witches have never stopped trying to defeat us. Endera and her cronies are just the latest batch to attempt to bring us to our knees. Your father wanted to make peace, and he paid for it with his life. My own father served under yours, you know,” he added. “He perished that day, fighting alongside Lord Bar
conian. I inherited my commission earlier than I would have liked.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. You’re here now.”
He said it like Sam mattered. Before Sam could ask why, one of the men rode up and called Captain Teren to the front of the caravan. Sam was left alone to ride in silence, wondering if his father had suffered before he died.
Chapter Ten
The trail left the river and began to wind through thick trees. Moss hung down and brushed his face. Thorny bushes caught at his clothes. Without the cooling effect of the river, Sam felt sweaty and irritable. A bee began to fly around his head. He swatted at it, but it persisted, buzzing in his ear.
“Go away,” Sam said, as it tried to land on his nose. It flew off, and he relaxed. But then a buzzing sounded behind him. A flash of panic made him turn around in his saddle.
The bee had landed on his horse’s rump. It stuck its tail up high, then sank down and stung the poor animal. The mare bucked once and then took off at a dead gallop, veering off the trail and bouncing Sam along with her.
Holding on to the saddle horn for dear life, Sam prayed to stay in one piece. He ducked to avoid getting blinded by slapping branches. The mare finally came to a stop in a wide clearing. She put her head down and began eating grass as if nothing had happened.
As he picked leaves out of his hair, Sam realized the clearing wasn’t empty. A young woman dressed in a white gown sat on a rock in the center. Blond hair fell to her waist. She was beautiful, thin-limbed, and pale-skinned.
“Uh, excuse me,” Sam said. “I think I’m lost.”
The woman looked up at him, and he reeled. Her eyes were the color of milk.
“Yes, Son of Odin, I’m very much afraid you have lost your way.”
“Do you know me?” Sam asked, wondering what had happened to make her eyes so blank. He eased himself off the horse, glad for an excuse to have his feet on the ground. He walked over and knelt down across from her. She looked at him as if she could see him, yet she had no pupils, nor irises.
