by Alane Adams
He couldn’t take another second of being alone.
“Is anyone there?” he yelled.
His voice echoed back at him. He shouted until his throat was raw, but no one answered. He remembered back when he was younger, maybe in fifth grade, when he had stayed home alone with a fever. His mom had been called in to work. He had felt this same helplessness as the fever rose and there was no one there to stop it, until he had phoned her, sobbing. That day, she had rushed home to give him medicine and a cool towel for his forehead.
Not this time.
Sam almost missed Catriona in that moment. The silence was killing him. The inescapable horror that no one was listening. That no one cared.
“Please,” Sam moaned, “just somebody answer me.”
Isolation pressed in on him like a suffocating blanket until a yawning chasm opened up in him. More painful than the stings was the growing certainty that no one was coming for him. His friends had forgotten him. His father was dead. And his mother might well have been on another planet. He was completely alone.
As Sam closed his eyes in despair, he sensed a Deathstalker slither from the cracks. He had just fought off the last round. He had nothing left to fight with. It skittered forward, crawling across the stone slab. It reached his boot and crossed the toe, inching up his leg. Sam shuddered, waiting for the bite. Why fight the inevitable? Maybe he should just give up. But some part of him held out, fighting back. Was he not a powerful witch? Was he just going to lie there and take it from a bunch of overgrown roaches?
“Stop,” he whispered. “I command you.”
Oh, really, Baron? he instantly mocked himself. Talking to overgrown insects.
But the little beastie stopped, its pincers waving as it perched on his knee.
Sam sat up. His hands were shaking, but he conjured up a small light. He studied the nasty creature. “Really? That’s all it takes, is to say stop?” He laughed, a harsh sound that sounded more like a moan.
The Deathstalker just stared at him with its tiny black eyes. Its tail was still coiled toward its head, waiting to strike him with its venom-laden tip.
But Sam couldn’t quash the bubble of laughter that rose up, a mixture of joy and despair, and maybe a touch of insanity. “If you really want to do me a solid, get me something to eat.”
The creature waved its claws at him as if it were receiving a signal and decoding it.
“Yeah, I’m thinking a big cheeseburger with a side of fries,” Sam mocked, realizing he had finally lost his mind. He was talking to a Deathstalker.
I’ve gone totally insane.
But the creature retreated and scuttled down Sam’s boot, then scampered across the floor, disappearing into one of the cracks.
Alone again. At least the nasty thing hadn’t bitten him this time.
Sam extinguished his light, unable to sustain it.
For a moment, he felt deserted. Then the noises came again. The scrabble of countless claws. An army of Deathstalkers skit-tering toward him in a clattering storm.
A new wave of dread came over Sam, swamping him with damp fear and resignation.
Good job, Baron. This time they’re actually going to kill you.
He braced himself for the attack, hoping to find the strength to fend off the bites. But he had nothing. Nothing at all.
“Okay,” he announced, feeling tears sting at his eyes, wishing he had a chance to say good-bye to his mom. To Keely. Howie. Leo. “Just make it fast. I’m ready for a change of scenery,” he joked morbidly.
The creatures crawled in a line up his leg, up his chest, hovering below his chin. He closed his eyes, holding his breath, afraid they were going to crawl inside his mouth and burrow into his brain. But the thing that happened next was inexplicable: a crust of bread brushed against his lips. He could smell the yeast and the wheat.
Sam opened his eyes and saw the dim outline of something on his chin.
A Deathstalker.
He opened his mouth to scream, and the small sliver of bread promptly went in his open jaws. It tasted heavenly, melting on his tongue. Better than a Chuggies Deluxe with extra bacon. Sam gaped as swarms of the creatures carried miniature snacks in bucket-brigade fashion.
These Deathstalkers that had stung him for days, tried to kill him with their lethal venom, were now saving him. Another one brought him a bit of jerky in its pincer. Tiny bits of meat, fruit, and bread landed on his lap.
Why were they helping him? What reason could they have for their change of heart? Sam was wary of trusting them, trying to puzzle it out. Had they stung him so many times he was now one of them? Or had their venom changed him somehow? An uneasy feeling settled over him as he watched the growing tribute pile. Vor’s words echoed in his mind: If you fight the darkness, you will lose.
Perhaps the Goddess of Wisdom was right. Maybe it was time to stop fighting his inner demons. The ones he kept tethered when he showed mercy, when what he really wanted was to unleash his full powers. Maybe it was time to do as Vor had said and let all that darkness out.
Sam closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath, and stopped fighting the venom that flowed through him, instead embracing it, accepting it into every fiber of his being. It was like uncorking a bottle of soda that had been shaken violently. Powerful pulsating magic fizzed in his veins. He could control these creatures, he realized with growing certainty.
“Nistrasa, nistrasa venimus, fealty,” he hissed. Bow to me, bow to me, my venoms, he called, feeling his muscles swell with newfound power.
The Deathstalkers lined up in a row on the dungeon floor, tails poised over their heads. Waiting to obey.
Sam called on the creatures to feed him. To infect him with more of their poison. He would submit to the darkness in him to stay alive.
But he could control it, the same way he could control the Deathstalkers. And turn away from it when he was safe again. Because the darkness would never rule over him.
Never.
Catriona studied her glowing orb, cackling to herself in delight as the boy drew on his dark magic. He had been near giving up, and she had felt her plan unraveling. She couldn’t allow that. This boy was the key to victory, and time was running short.
So she had urged the Deathstalkers on. Bent them to his will. Let him think it was he who commanded the creatures.
So quick to believe, she mused. He craves the power.
The old witch smiled as the boy’s eyes glowed with the yellow venom that flowed in his veins. Not long now, and he would belong to her completely.
The door to her chambers was flung open, interrupting her reverie. A lanky witch strode in, waves of ebony hair flung over her shoulders. She wore riding breeches and tall black boots under a flowing cape. Vena. Ever the dramatic one. Agathea scurried in after her, followed closely by Beatrixe and Bronte. All had the same frozen look on their faces, a look of fear Catriona had not seen since her father had been alive.
Catriona rose from her seat. “What is it? What has happened?”
Vena crossed to her side, clasping her by the forearms. “Sister, I bring terrible news. Nestra and I got tied up fighting off Falcory warriors.” She hesitated, and then added, “Nestra didn’t make it.”
There was a moment of silence. Agathea let out a wail. Beat-rixe just twisted her hands over and over. Bronte’s hunched shoulders slunk deeper before she wordlessly retreated to her precious workshop, clanging vials and bottles around.
Rage filled every pore in Catriona’s body, sending seismic shudders through her as she exploded. “I will string up every one of those Falcory savages by their intestines and let them twist in the wind! I will burn the entire countryside with witch-fire until not a living thing grows! I will starve them, and then when they are on their knees begging for mercy, I will feed them to the sneevils.” Catriona’s chest was heaving as she finished her tirade.
Vena didn’t cower. Oddly, she smiled. “Calm yourself, sister. Lovely as that sounds, let me take revenge. I can change every one of t
heir lowly cattle into horrible beasts with gnashing teeth longer than their forearms. I can turn their house pets into deadly menaces that spit poison in their soup.”
Catriona’s rage simmered to a low boil. She sat herself down on the sofa next to Agathea and stared at her youngest sister, turning her words over in her fertile mind. Ever since she was a young witchling, Vena had excelled at making transfiguration potions that could change harmless creatures into deadly ones. Rats became flying shreeks. Ordinary boars became vicious, gut-tearing sneevils. Vena had single-handedly created some of the most awful creatures Orkney had ever been plagued with.
Catriona snapped her fingers at Beatrixe, who seemed locked in a trance.
“Fetch our sister a drink. I believe I have just the task for her special talents.”
Beatrixe crossed to the serving tray by the fireplace and poured Vena a glass of brandy. Vena tossed the drink back in one long swallow, then slammed the glass down on the low table, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and waited for Catriona to speak.
“We are winning this war today, but the tides could shift at any time. There are only eight of us—seven now with Nestra gone. What we need is an army loyal only to us,” Catriona crooned. “An army of fearsome men that will seal our victory and turn our enemies’ will to dust.”
“Where will we find an army like that?” Agathea sniped. “The Balfin ranks are full of spineless men with no will to fight.”
Catriona leaned forward. “Then Vena will change them.”
Vena looked from her to Agathea in confusion. “Change who?”
“The Balfins.”
“Into what?”
Catriona threw her hands in the air. “Use your imagination. Make them stronger than ten men, with teeth sharp as a sneevil’s tusk. Make them an army to be feared,” she crowed. “It will be your greatest masterpiece.”
Agathea was speechless. From her potion lab, Bronte let out a loud cackle of pleasure. Even Beatrixe looked pleased, her eyes bright with the idea of destroying their enemy.
Vena clapped her hands like a little girl. “Ooh, I like it. I like it very much. I’ve never changed a man before, but I believe I know just the potion. It will take some time to find the right ingredients.”
She leaped up and spun in a circle, arms flung out, tilting her head back as her laughter filled the air. She spun faster and faster and then disappeared in a cloud of smoke. Long after she left, her laughter echoed in the room.
Chapter Eleven
Keely’s spirits continued to rise when, after less than an hour of walking, the trees thinned out and they came upon a heavily rutted road that was bound to have a lot of traffic. Or so said Leo after studying the tracks. To the south, a distant plume of black smoke rose into the sky, as if something large were burning.
After a quick vote, they turned away from the smoke and trudged along the lane. Minutes later, a wagon came careening down the road. As the driver cracked his whip over the team of horses, Leo waved his arms to slow it down. The wagon thundered past them, leaving only a trail of dust. They were about to continue on, but a loud rumbling sound caused them to turn. This time there wasn’t just one wagon, there were dozens, all loaded to the brim with household items and packed with people clinging on for their lives.
The wagons passed by in a blur of whips cracking over horses’ heads and frightened faces of passengers. Finally, the horde thinned out until the last wagon came into sight.
“This one, Leo,” Keely urged.
Leo jumped out into the road, waving his arms. But the driver either didn’t see him or seemed bent on running him down.
Then an ear-splitting whistle sounded, and the horses snorted wildly, rearing up as the driver wrestled to get control.
It was Howie. He had two fingers in his mouth, his cheeks puffed out like a blowfish.
“Whoa, whoa, hold up, girls.” The driver calmed the horses, reining them in, and the wagon came to a stop an inch away from Leo.
“Are you crazy?” Keely stormed, glaring up at the driver. “You could have run him over.”
The man had leathery skin like he spent his days in the sun, and he wore a straw hat pulled down low over his face. His wagon was piled up with a rickety tower of furniture and a few dusty sacks of grain. “When a man’s running for his life, it’s wise to stay out of his way,” he griped. “In case you haven’t noticed, there are witches everywhere.”
Keely almost laughed. Boy, had she ever noticed. “Look, we need a ride to Skara Brae. Can you take us there?”
His eyes narrowed. He looked over his shoulder, as if worried the witches were right on his tail. “I might be able to. For a price. Can you pay?” He held out a hand. It was grubby and stained with dirt.
“No.”
He immediately picked up the reins and whipped them over the horse’s backs. The wagon lurched forward, but Keely wasn’t giving up.
“Hey!” She grabbed the harness of the nearest horse, jerking him back. “I didn’t say you wouldn’t get paid.”
He eased up on the reins.
“I’m listening.”
“We’re going to see Captain Teren of the Orkadian Guard. He will pay for our safe transport.”
The man skewered his lips to the side, expressing his skepticism loudly. “You lot know the captain of the Orkadian Guard?”
“Yo, man,” Howie chimed in. “The captain is my bud’s bud. He will be, like, mucho apreciado for your help.”
The man ran a hand over his rough chin, then nodded his head toward the back. “Get in. If you’re lying, I’ll take it out of your hide.”
Keely didn’t hesitate. She clambered over the side and landed on some hard sacks of grain. Leo and Howie quickly followed. With a jerk, the wagon was off. They made themselves a little nest among the sacks and one by one fell asleep.
Keely awoke with a jolt. She had been dreaming she was a wraith, flying through the sky with soulless eyes and bony arms. She rubbed her eyes, looking around. The stone walls of a city rose before them. Red flags snapped in the breeze.
She elbowed the boys, rousing them awake.
Howie’s face was split by a gaping yawn that exposed his tonsils. The boils were beginning to fade but still left round welts across his cheeks. “Are we there yet?” he asked.
The wagon driver shouted to the horses to stop as they crossed a bridge to the gate.
A sentry called down from the ramparts. “Who seeks entrance?”
“Name’s Milligan. I’ve got a delivery of grain. The last you’ll be receiving from me. The witches burned my crops to the ground, same as the last ten wagons that came this way.”
“Who’re they?” the sentry asked, still suspicious, pointing at the children. “And why are they dressed funny?”
“Them’s here to see the esteemed Captain Teren.”
Keely waved up at the guard. Howie saluted him. Leo just nodded.
“How do I know they’re not witches in disguise?” the sentry asked.
Milligan leaned over in his seat and spat on the ground. “Because I would have executed them on the spot and put their heads on a pike if they were. Now open the gate before I climb up there and make you.”
The man conferred with another guard, and then they disappeared. The gate rolled upward, and the wagon rumbled through, past the city walls.
There was no welcoming party awaiting them. Instead, they entered into a city that appeared under siege. Citizens scurried about, clutching children by their hands, looking scared as if they expected the witches to attack at any moment. The shopkeepers they passed cast wary glances at them. Many were busy boarding up their windows. A smell of fear and desperation tainted the air. They clattered along paving stones until they entered a large open square. A lofty building rose up with the words great hall etched in stone over the columned entrance. A tower rose from either side, one with a bell, the other with a clock.
The square was lined with shops and other less-imposing buildings than the Great Ha
ll. The smell of cinnamon teased Keely’s nostrils as they passed a spice shop. A butcher had a single hunk of meat on display, dangling from a metal hook. The stables held a handful of horses, attended to by a young man in dungarees. He nodded at her as they rolled on by. A burly soldier eyed them suspiciously from the doorway of the armory. He was built like a lion with a mane of blond hair.
“How are we supposed to find Captain Teren?” Keely asked.
“No worries, lass, I know where to find the captain,” Milligan called out over his shoulder. “Only one place he’d be this time of day.”
Milligan drove the cart down narrow cobblestone streets. Glum faces peered out behind curtains on the second floors. The farmer drew up the wagon outside a large muddy field. In the center, a tall blond figure fired orders at the dozen or so men lined up in ragged uniforms attempting archery practice. Keely snorted as they fired arrows off in every direction but the targets—she could do better blindfolded. The man turned, frowning as they approached. It was Teren himself.
“You’re Sam’s friends,” he said when they drew near enough. “But what are you doing back in Orkney?”
“I brought them,” Milligan bragged. “And now, I’d be expecting my payment.” He held out his grubby hand.
Teren’s frown deepened. “You brought earth children to Orkney? What are you, some kind of wizard?”
“No. Just a farmer with no farm. Got the last of my crop on that wagon. Thanks to those witches, I’ve got no home to return to.”
Teren’s face softened. He put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Then you are welcome here inside these walls. Here,” he unclipped a satchel from his side and shook out two coins. “Take this, find yourself a room. We could use more men in the fight.”
Milligan took them, scowling before he grudgingly nodded. “I’ll just see to my business, and then you can count on me. And a lot more like me coming this way.”
