by Alane Adams
Unable to tear her eyes away, Catriona would relive what happened next for centuries.
Her father fumbled to get his weapon up, and the Sword of Tyrfing unerringly found its target. When it was over, Catriona turned away and urged the Safyre skyward, arcing up and away from the fortress, steeling herself against the pain.
A fire had been lit in her heart, a raging hatred toward Odin and his precious mankind. She now lived for the day when that fire would consume all of Orkney.
Chapter One
North Shores of Garamond Present-Day Orkney
Aburst of green fire exploded the branch over the boy’s hiding spot. Samuel Barconian, youngest member of the Orkadian guard at age thirteen, flinched, brushing smoldering splinters from his hair. He had to move, and fast, or end up incinerated into a pile of ash. Breaking from his hiding place, he sprinted across the clearing, weaving side to side to avoid the blasts of crackling energy that tore up the ground around him.
Sam dropped behind a fallen log for cover and tried to catch his breath.
War had come to Orkney, the last sanctuary for magic in all the nine realms of Odin. Black plumes of destruction could be seen for miles, staining the azure skies. The flocks of sheep that normally grazed on the verdant hillsides had fled the scorching witchfire. Dozens of sleepy villages had been burned to the ground, driving the helpless Orkadians from their homes.
Catriona, that queen of evil, was extracting her revenge. A witch so nasty Odin had trapped her and seven of her cronies inside stones for all eternity. Until Sam had messed that up and released them when he tried to save his father. Known as the Volgrim witches, they wielded an ancient magic darker and more potent than anything Sam’s old adversary, Endera Tarkana, had ever attempted.
There was Bronte, a wizened hag, stooped with age, able to whip up deadly potions that raised putrid boils. Crafty Agathea, with her wide stripe of white hair, who bespelled the beasts they used in their attacks. And smelly Beatrixe, who could wipe you out with just her stench. One whiff of her made Sam want to puke. She reeked of sulfur and rotten eggs, but more importantly, she could shoot acid from her fingertips, melting whatever she touched. A handy gift Sam admired from afar.
The others—Paulina, Vena, Ariane, and Nestra—were like deadly tentacles, extending the reach of Catriona through all of Orkney.
After their escape, things had been quiet for a few months. While the shattered inhabitants of Orkney were still recovering from the deadly effects of the ancient red sun curse Sam had triggered on his twelfth birthday, the Volgrim witches holed up in the Tarkana fortress on Balfour Island, training Endera’s young acolytes to be a lethal force. And then the attacks had begun. Catriona sent her Volgrim cronies out with the young witchlings to wage war on Orkney, along with a legion of vicious creatures: swarms of bat-like shreeks that pecked and clawed their way under your skin, packs of Shun Kara wolves that hunted and snarled at your heels as you tried to fight, and droves of sneevils.
The sneevils were the worst of them. Bristly fur covered their ugly hides. Curved tusks jutted up from their lower jaws just waiting to rip a person apart with one hook of their snouts. But right now, sneevils were the least of Sam’s problems.
Another stump exploded next to him, scorched by a blast of witchfire. He had to get his butt moving. He rubbed the leather pouch that hung around his neck. A gift from his father, Robert Barconian. There was a hero, he thought. Inside, it held a shard of Odin’s Stone, a powerful talisman imbued with Odin’s magic, now destroyed except for this last piece.
Sam gripped the pouch tightly. Today, they would capture Agathea and strike a blow into Catriona’s vengeance plan. Then the witches would know that Samuel Elias Barconian, Lord of the Ninth Realm, Son of Odin, son of Robert Barconian, was a force to be reckoned with. He would avenge his father and send Catriona and her ancient cronies back into the netherworld they had emerged from. Then he, too, could call himself a hero.
Sam peered around the edge of the log.
Agathea had been leading her acolytes on a series of raids along the northern shores of Garamond, Orkney’s largest island and home to its capital city of Skara Brae. The witches were getting more and more brazen. Burning crops in daylight. Unleashing their beasts to terrorize. Then retreating to some hole where they waited to launch their next strike.
Captain Teren, the stalwart leader of the Orkadian Guard had a dozen of his best men creeping up the slope. If all went right, their ally, Gael of the Eifalians, would arrive along the flank side with his band of skilled archers. Their orders were to capture Agathea and bring her back to Skara Brae.
They were counting on Sam to stop her. With his growing magical powers, he was their only hope at trapping the witch and using her as leverage to get Catriona to stop this war. Being a witch wasn’t something Sam liked to brag about. Not when just about everyone in Orkney hated witches. But he couldn’t very well shut it out. The words of spells lit up like fireflies in his brain. The more he used his magic, the stronger it grew, like a virus multiplying in his veins. And the truth was, he secretly liked having magic. What kid wouldn’t like the ability to shoot fire from his palms?
Captain Teren signaled to Sam across the clearing, pointing up at the tree.
There.
A nasty little witch hid in the branches. She was preparing to launch another blast of witchfire.
Got you. Sam closed his eyes, centered himself, and then stepped out. He threw his hands forward, channeling the surge of power that coursed through him. A stream of virescent fire exploded from his palms, blasting the branch to pieces and sending the witch spinning through the air to land with a hard thud. Sam raised his hands to finish her off but hesitated as he saw how young she was. In a blink, she rolled behind the tree and sprinted to safety up the hill.
“Coward,” she taunted as she ran off.
Fuming, he watched her go, fighting the temptation to follow after her and finish the job. He could have incinerated that witchling to a pile of ash. But he couldn’t bring himself to win that way. Wouldn’t. He would not become like Catriona. Killing without mercy. But it was frustrating to know the witches believed him weak because he showed his humanity.
With a sigh, he hurried after Teren. The captain led his band of soldiers stealthily up the hill toward Agathea’s roost. Suddenly, a thundering sound made the ground shake. Teren’s men let out cries as the witches used magic to send a wall of earth down the mountain, tumbling boulders and pinning the men underneath. Sam did his best to deflect the debris, stepping forward and thrusting with his palms, sending a wave of energy across the field, but he quickly tired.
He had learned that magic was like a muscle. The more he used it, the stronger he got, but it had its limits. It was exhausting. Witches like Catriona seemed to have never-ending deposits, thanks to the centuries of training they had before being locked up in stone. Sam was still a novice; if he used too much magic, he grew lightheaded and jelly-kneed. He needed to get better fast, because every time he failed, people got hurt.
As the dust settled, Teren rallied his remaining men forward. Sam raced up the far side, darting through trees. His breath came in ragged gasps. He had one thought on his mind: get to Agathea and cast the containment spell he had been practicing before she fled. He heard the whisper of the wings before he saw them. Black rain poured out of the sky, armed with fangs and claws.
Shreeks.
The men cried out as the flying vermin latched on and bit. Sam turned back toward Teren to help. Shreeks descended on him, biting at his neck and arms. He winced at their sharp nips. He swung the pouch holding Odin’s Stone over his head, combining its magic with his own to create a powerful windstorm. “Fein kinter,” he cried. I call on my magic. “Fein kinter, ventimus, ventimus.”
The wind blew off the flying rats, sending them spinning into the air like black boomerangs, giving the men a fighting chance to slash at them with their swords.
Too late, Sam realized the witches had lured him o
ut into the open. Dumbhead. A rain of fireballs arced up over the trees and came down, aimed directly at him. Two of the soldiers closest to him fell to the ground, aflame, writhing in pain. Sam threw his hands out, shouting, “Escudo!” and sent every ounce of his magic into forming a shield over them.
It was one of the newest spells he had mastered; a bubble of gleaming energy formed, deflecting the deadly rain. Sam murmured to himself, focusing his strength on keeping the shield over the men around him. His arms trembled, even as adrenaline flooded his veins, adding extra gas to his magic. Teren shouted encouragement, but his voice was muffled as if it came down a long tunnel. Finally, the blasts of flaming globules slowed, then stopped.
Sam’s shoulders drooped with fatigue as he lowered his hands. But the witches weren’t finished with them. While they were huddled, a pack of sneevils had surrounded them. His magic spent, Sam drew his sword, followed by Teren and the handful of men left: the redhead, Heppner; brawny Tiber; dark and wiry Speria; the jokester, Rifkin, sporting his bald pate and gold earring; and the steadfast Galatin. They closed together back-to-back in the center of the clearing, while eight, then ten, then a dozen sneevils crawled into the open, their lips drawn into a snarl. Ivory tusks curved wickedly at the ends, tipped with sharp points ready to gut them.
“Steady,” Teren said. “Wait until they draw close.”
In a burst of black smoke, Agathea appeared behind the creatures. A thick white streak marked her swath of ebony hair. Her band of acolytes stepped out from behind the trees around her.
“Go, my pretties, feast on some fresh blood,” she cooed to the sneevils, urging them to advance. “The traitorous witch-boy will make a delicious meal.”
The beasts circled closer to the heroes, heeding her call. The sneevil closest to Sam bared its teeth and charged. Without hesitating, Sam drew his sword up between two hands and plunged straight down, pinning the sneevil to the ground.
“Kill them!” Agathea screeched. The pack of sneevils attacked with vicious snorts, tossing their heads to gore the men. The young witches blasted the small band of fighters with bursts of witchfire. Sam deflected the blasts, but he was fatigued. His arms shook with the effort. Then a volley of arrows appeared, arching high in the sky, aiming directly down at the witches.
Their Eifalian ally, Gael, had arrived with his archers. Their skill with bows made them fearsome foes. Sam almost shouted with joy as the arrows found their marks, making the acolytes shriek in pain.
Agathea took her attention off Sam’s group to deal with the Eifalians. Their pale figures moved stealthily through the trees, keeping up a stream of deadly arrows. Agathea puffed out her cheeks and blew hard, sending a tornado of wind across the clearing. The Eifalians tumbled backward, their shots careening away. Teren and his men battled the sneevils, but they were in danger of being overrun. Agathea turned back to Sam and his companions, gathering her hands in a whirling motion as she created a large ball of witchfire.
Agathea was about to kill them all, and she would feel nothing. No remorse. No regret. She was a cold and heartless witch. Anger built inside Sam. He had to stop her. No matter what it took. But his witch-magic was spent.
Then he had it.
“Gungnir!” he shouted, and held up his hand. His palm tingled. There was a familiar crackle of energy, and then—in a flash of light and heat—his fingers were wrapped around the solid shaft of Odin’s spear. At that moment, all thoughts of mercy were shoved aside. All Sam felt was the raw power of the spear and the thought of making sure Agathea never bothered them again.
Sam threw the ancient weapon with all his might. It whizzed through the air across the clearing, heading straight for Agathea’s heart.
Chapter Two
Agathea’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the danger. There was no time to conjure herself away. She was as good as dead. But in a blur of motion, she grabbed the nearest witch and pulled her close, using the girl as a shield. As promised by the gods, Gungnir found its target, only Agathea cheated death. The young witch was understandably shocked to see the spear in her chest. Sam recognized her.
Perrin Tarkana.
Endera Tarkana’s daughter. Horror rooted him to the spot. The spear began to glow, sending sparks shooting in every direction as it vibrated in the girl’s chest, and then in an explosion of bright light, it disintegrated into flying pieces of wood. Sam flinched, throwing his hands up to shield himself as stinging shards peppered his skin. When he lowered his arms, Perrin had vanished.
Agathea used the moment to spirit herself away in a cloud of billowing smoke. Agathea’s acolytes scattered like roaches exposed to the light. Only the most powerful of witches had the ability to conjure themselves away. The sneevils halted in their tracks, sniffing the air as if confused.
Teren and his men charged the beasts, waving their swords. Without Agathea to control them, the animals turned and ran.
“What did you do, my lord?” Teren asked, a grin lighting his face. The men surrounded Sam, patting him on the back.
“I called on an old friend,” Sam said through numb lips, staring at the spot where the young witch had been slain by his hand. Guilt and remorse were like twin slivers driven into his skull, making his head pound. “The Gungnir spear. It was a gift from Odin. It comes when you call it, and never misses its target.” But this time it had. And now, all that remained was a pile of splinters.
Gael came up in a flurry of robes, along with some of his men. The Eifalians had pale skin and long white hair they kept tied back in leather laces. Their aquamarine eyes were over-sized, gifting them with the ability to read auras and see deception. Gael always acted like Sam’s aura smelled like old gym socks.
“We failed to capture Agathea,” Gael said tightly. “You were supposed to stop her from leaving.” He looked disapprovingly over Sam.
Sam sighed. Nothing he did would ever please Gael. Not after that whole mess with the red sun curse.
“Don’t be so hard on the boy.” Teren put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “He fought bravely. And we sent the message that we are not to be trifled with.”
Gael remained terse. “We shall see. An artifact of Odin was destroyed. That is a bad omen. There will be consequences, mark my words.” He took his leave of them, citing an urgent need to head north to his home island of Torf-Einnar.
Sam gritted his teeth at the unfairness of it. They needed his help to stop the witches, but he still knew so little about how to wield his magic. And now he had destroyed a gift from Odin. Way to blow it big time, Baron, a voice mocked him inside his head. He still thought of himself as Sam Baron, the boy from Pilot Rock. Being the son of Robert Barconian was too much to live up to at times.
Teren led their small surviving crew south to the capital fortress, Skara Brae. As they rode, Gael’s words rang in Sam’s ears. The temporary victory felt fragile, as if at any moment a great and terrible power would be unleashed on the world. Ever since Odin had swept these few precious islands into his Ninth Realm, Orkney had struggled to find a peaceful balance between the magical creatures that lived here and the witches’ raging thirst for power. Worry gnawed at Sam like a nest of rats that had taken root in his intestines. He had liked the power of wielding the spear, willing to take Agathea’s life without hesitation. Was he already becoming cold and heartless like them?
The blond figure of Teren rode up next to him. Teren was not only the captain of the Orkadian Guard, but also a patient teacher and friend. He had taken Sam under his wing these past few months, showing him how to swing a sword and carry himself in battle.
“You all right, Samuel?” His keen eyes searched Sam’s face. “You seemed upset earlier. It’s not your fault Odin’s spear was destroyed.”
Sam shook his head. “It’s not the spear—I mean, that’s bad, too. But I knew that girl. Her name was Perrin. She was Endera Tarkana’s daughter.”
Teren’s eyebrows rose. “That witch is a mother?”
Sam grimaced. “I know. I couldn’t beli
eve it either.”
He told Teren how he had come face-to-face with Perrin one day in the forest. After skirmishing for days, both sides were worn out from lobbing firebombs and arrows at each other with no clear winner. Sam was resting against a tree trunk when someone plopped down against the same tree.
He held his breath, drawing his dagger as the unseen witch took a long drink.
“I know it’s you,” she said into the silence.
He gripped his weapon, palms sweaty.
“So you can put your skinny little blade away. I’m not going to kill you today.”
Sam waited, not daring to move.
“But I am going to kill you one day,” she whispered, and then she turned so her face was an inch from his.
He was surprised by how pretty she was. Dark green eyes framed a slender face with overripe red lips.
Her fingernail extended into a sharp blade. She drove the tip of it into the soft flesh under Sam’s chin. “I could end your life right now, Son of Odin.” Her voice was mesmerizing, trapping him in a fog of inaction.
“So why don’t you?” Sam asked, feeling the sting. He’d seen that fingernail trick before, but his brain felt like it had been fried to a crisp.
“A favor to your friend, Howie. He’s more than he seems. He tamed one of my mother’s rathos.”
Sam found himself entranced. “Your mother? Who is she?”
“Endera Tarkana. She would kill you outright.” Perrin withdrew her finger and leaped to her feet before Sam could recover from his shock. “See you soon, brother witch. Next time, one of us will die.”
Sam was left speechless. That’s where he’d seen that trick. Endera had used it on him once. How could someone as ruthless as Endera be a mother? he wondered. Howie had mentioned Perrin. The witchling had been kind to his friend when he had been locked away in Endera’s dungeon, sending him hot scones and little notes.
