by Alane Adams
The stone sat on his palm, warm and vibrant. It was a piece of his father. A talisman of Odin. He couldn’t destroy it. The witches were all staring at him. If he wavered here, he would never gain their trust. Slowly, Sam’s fingers curled around the stone. He clenched it tightly, then directed his magic toward it, trying not to cry as a fine sand trickled onto the dais. When he was finished, he opened his eyes and stared wordlessly at the tiny pile of sand.
“See, Hestera? He cares nothing for his father’s precious gift to him. Now, whom do you serve?” Catriona asked.
He dropped down onto a knee, clenching his fist over his heart. “I am blood of your blood. Son of Rubicus. Son of Catriona. I can serve no other.” Like a doctor with a probe, she poked at his thoughts with her magic, searching his intentions. He ruthlessly squashed Sam’s existence, the part of him that longed to lash out at her. He raised his head and met her eyes. Victory gleamed in them.
“Do you hear that, sisters? The boy has chosen sides.” Catriona’s voice was thick with triumph.
Hestera gripped her emerald-tipped cane. “He is still an abomination. A danger to us all.”
Catriona rose to her feet. “Silence, or I’ll turn you into a pile of ash myself.” She raised one threatening hand at her challenger.
Argument broke out among the witches from both sides.
Sam rose and sent a blast of crackling witchfire at the wall of tapestries, incinerating the image of Rubicus kneeling before the sun. As the woven fabric crumbled to ash, the witches stopped chattering. All eyes turned on the witch-boy.
“Tell me how to earn your trust,” he demanded.
The witches offered no response.
“I am not one of your pets.” Stalking forward, he sent a blast into the web, incinerating half of it and sending the hulking spider scurrying back into the corner. “One day I will rule over this coven.”
He stopped before Catriona. Her glittering green eyes returned his stare. “Very well. You shall have your chance. There is one more test.”
“I will not fail you,” Sam said, thrumming with the power the witches had unlocked with their noxious gas. “What must I do?”
“Do that which you were born to do. Kill Odin.”
Her words staggered Sam, taking him by surprise. He recalled the words spoken in his dungeon, but he’d thought they were part of an evil dream to torment him. “No one can kill a god.”
She waved him off dismissively with her hand. “Then you are not Kalifus, Son of Rubicus. You are weak. And those earth children will die, each of them, painfully and alone, thanks to your failures.”
Desperate determination filled him. “I never said I wouldn’t try.” He stepped forward. “Tell me what to do, and I will find a way.” He’d let the witches think he was going to kill Odin. Once he was on Asgard, he would be able to reason with the god. Hatch a plan to defeat Catriona once and for all. Catriona must not suspect. He would be Kalifus with every thought, every action.
She smiled with satisfaction. “Take this knife.” She held out a dagger made of polished black onyx. “It belonged to my father, Rubicus himself. It holds a dark power, enough to bring Odin down. I would kill Odin myself, but he would never let me close enough. You, he has a fondness for—the old Samuel Barconian, that is.”
Sam took the ancient weapon. The blade was decorated with carved symbols of their magic totems. It was heavy. Powerful. “How will I find him?” he asked, tucking it into his waistband. “His island is hidden, constantly moving.”
Catriona tossed him a familiar satchel. He opened it and found the heavy compass Endera had given him on his first journey to Asgard. The device was contrary, but with some luck and patience, it had deigned to shown him Odin’s secret location. “Where did you find this?” The last he had seen it, Rego had taken it to be stored in the archives under the Great Hall in Skara Brae.
“Not everyone is united in their support of Orkney,” Catriona sniffed. “I have a traitor among them, one who does my bidding. It is far too valuable to collect dust in that hole.”
Excitement made his heart jump. “With this, I can find Odin anywhere he’s hiding. All I need is a ship.”
“The Balfins will take you.” She clapped her hands, and two hulking figures stepped out of the shadows. “As you can see, we have enhanced them to better suit our needs.”
Shock turned Sam’s blood to ice. These were the creatures the glass orb had shown Howie facing off against. They were big as Neanderthals, with bulging foreheads, recessed eyes, and massive jaws. Their noses had flattened out like someone had punched them in. Thick black hair stuck up in every direction from their heads. A pair of sneevil-like tusks jutted up from their bottom jaws. Muscles bulged under their armor, straining it to its limits. They let out loud grunts, ramming their lances into the stone in greeting. So that part of the vision was true. Which meant the other parts probably were as well.
“They’re all like this?” Sam asked in fearful awe.
Catriona just smiled and nodded with pride.
The witches are going to win this war, Sam realized with a sinking horror, unless I find a way to stop them.
Lemeria clapped her hands giddily. “Tell him, my queen, tell him of our plans.”
A ripple of pleasure made Catriona appear younger as she addressed Kalifus. “Once Odin is dead, then we will have the power to destroy the magic that separates our world from that of mankind. We will once again rule over Midgard. And you, boy, are going to seal our victory. Come, sisters, we must prepare for our coming battle. Kalifus, these Balfins will escort you to your ship.”
Catriona stood with a swish of her skirts and swept off the dais and out of the room, followed by her cronies, leaving Sam with the Balfin monstrosities. Horror left Sam rooted in place. Destroy Odin’s magic? Could she do that? If Odin was dead, she could. His feet were like lead as he turned to follow, but he paused when he spied the small pile of sand. Grief rippled through him.
Turning to his escorts, he tested his powers. “Wait for me outside.” When they hesitated, he drew a ball of witchfire and threw it at their feet, forcing them to stumble back. “Disobey again, and I will incinerate you.” They fled, leaving him alone.
Sam swiftly knelt down and scraped the traces of sand into the pouch Catriona had discarded. Slipping it around his neck, he hid it under his shirt.
Asgard awaited, and with it, a divine appointment with Odin.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The armory soon became Howie’s second home. That is, when he wasn’t out on the training field being beaten to death by Teren’s trainees. They used him as a punching bag during matches, expecting him to dodge the thrust of every sword and hold on to a shield while they pounded him with maces. He had bruises up one side of his body and down the other. They didn’t even let him hold a sword, but he had polished a hundred of them to a bright sheen.
And then there was the armor. Lingas sat on her perch entertaining him with her incessant bird chatter, while he spent hours cleaning off mud and grime. As soon as he finished one lot, they brought another in, filthier than before. The only fun he had was the few hours he snatched in the early morning to take Lingas out flying in the fields outside the gates. He loved to watch her soar high in the sky. She didn’t listen to a thing he said, but she regularly delivered offerings of rabbits or small squirrels, which he passed onto the cook in the kitchen in exchange for extra servings of stew.
Not that I have time to eat, Howie grumbled to himself, as he rubbed a cloth over a sword. His arms ached. He slept on a mattress of straw that poked and made him sneeze. The truth was, he didn’t feel anything like a Protector. More like a slave.
“Time to train,” Selina announced as she pranced in, looking fresh as a daisy.
Howie groaned. “Again?”
“Yes, Howie, again. Unless you want to lose to the witches on the first swing.”
“How are we supposed to defeat magic with a bunch of swords? What’s the point?”
&nbs
p; “You can’t give up just because it’s hard, Howie. Come on, move it, lazy bones.”
Howie wearily set down the armor he was polishing and picked up a training blade, tipping it to his forehead and saluting Selina.
“Okay, give it your best shot.”
He parried her first thrust but missed the second.
“Faster,” Selina ordered, smacking Howie with the flat side of her wooden sword.
“Easy, chiquita, we’re just practicing,” Howie reminded her. He was sweating, his shirt damp and clinging to his bony frame. Bruises pocked his arms and legs.
They continued on, working well past sundown, as they did every night, training like the entire pack of witches was going to descend on them any minute.
“You’re slow, Howie. You have to move like a cat,” she said, dancing from foot to foot. Lingas squawked in approval, flaring her wings in support.
Howie rolled his eyes. He wished with every bone in his body that he had Selina’s agility, but, no matter how hard he worked, he was clumsy as ever. Why did Odin choose me to be Protector? he thought, as she knocked the wooden sword from his hands for the umpteenth time.
“What’s wrong?” she asked as she bent down and picked up his weapon.
He took the sword from her but didn’t answer, just gripped it.
“You doubt yourself,” she stated.
“Every day,” he said glumly, letting his sword arm drop. “Even Lingas doesn’t listen to a word I say.”
She put one hand on her hip, flipping her long dark hair over her shoulder. “So you’re saying Odin was wrong to choose you.”
He nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. He spread his arms wide, looking down at his scrawny form. “Hello, Selina, I’m not exactly hero material.”
“That’s because you’re looking at the wrong place. In here,” she lifted the tip of her practice sword and poked at his heart. “This is what matters. Are you a coward?”
“No.”
“So I ask again: Was the all-knowing father-god wrong?”
Howie sighed. “Naw, I guess he was just being optimistic about my prospects.” He slashed his blade through the air and took a fighting position. “Show me your cool parry move again.”
The next day on the training field, Howie was receiving his usual pummeling from the recruits. They seemed to enjoy beating on him with their practice swords until he crumpled to the ground. At the moment, he had two bruisers thrashing at him with ferocious intent, as if they were in a hurry to get on with something more challenging. Even Captain Teren looked bored, standing on the sidelines, talking to Speria.
Howie thought about all the reasons he should just go down and end this quickly, but Selina’s words echoed in his head. Was Odin wrong to choose you? No. Odin didn’t make mistakes. Which meant these bozos weren’t just disrespecting the Protector of the Realm, they were dissing the Creator of the Realm himself. He had seen these lunkheads practice often enough. He knew their moves to a tee. And all that armor polishing and practice sword fighting had given him some newly added muscles.
Feeling suddenly energized, Howie dug his feet in and rose up under their swords, throwing them back with a thrust of his shield. They were startled, trading bemused glances. With a shrug they attacked again. But this time, Howie ducked and swung his leg around, taking one of them down hard. He grabbed the soldier’s blade and drove upward with the hilt, the way Selina had taught him, and knocked the wind out of the second one.
The only sound on the practice field was the two recruits lying on the ground gasping for air. Everyone else watched in stunned silence.
Finally, the sound of clapping came from the sidelines. “Howie, you’ve been practicing,” Teren acknowledged with raised eyebrows.
Howie strode over to the captain of the guard, picking at his nails nonchalantly. “Yeah, maybe a little.”
“I think it’s time you took on more responsibility.”
Howie drew himself up tall, ready for Teren to put him in charge of a battalion of men. “Anything you want, Teren, my man.”
“Excellent. You can be my squire.”
Howie blinked. “Your squire?”
“Yes, it’s quite an honor.” Teren’s eyes twinkled.
The ever-dour Speria joined in, leaning one arm on Howie’s shoulder.
“A lot of great soldiers started as squires, lad,” he said, waggling his dark brows. “Even me.”
“So it’s a promotion?” Howie said, looking from Teren to Speria. “Because I’m really tired of polishing armor all day.”
Teren laughed. “Oh, you’ll still be polishing armor. But being my squire is the highest honor I can pay you. It means I will train you myself. In return, you will attend to me every day.”
“You mean polish your boots,” Howie said despondently. Being the so-called Protector of the Realm had so far been one big disappointment.
“Yes. Clean my boots . . . but you get to stay in my quarters in the Great Hall.”
Howie perked up. The men’s barracks were drafty and cold and smelled like trolls’ feet. “Is there hot water?”
“There will be when you draw my bath for me.” Teren grinned, showing his white teeth.
“What about Lingas?”
“The bird stays in the armory,” Teren said sternly.
Howie hesitated, then shook his head. “No can do. The bird and I are a package deal. It’s both of us or neither.”
Teren glared at him, but before he could argue, Heppner came up and pulled him away.
“See that the bird doesn’t disturb me,” he tossed over his shoulder.
Howie saluted him, grinning up at Lingas. “We just made it to the big house, my friend. We’re in the lap of luxury now.”
The bird squawked and nipped Howie’s ear, but it didn’t dent his excitement.
A few hours later, Howie missed the barracks.
His new bed had more lumps than the old one. More straw poking him. Howie pounded his sawdust pillow and turned on his side. Teren occupied a spacious room with a four-poster bed for the captain and this narrow bunk in the corner for his squire. A large changing area was screened to give privacy. A carved oaken wardrobe held various sets of uniforms and fancy clothes. But while the surroundings were an improvement over the barracks, there were annoying drawbacks.
Howie lay wide awake as wind whistled through the walls. Doors creaked. Shutters rattled in the windows. Teren snored like a hibernating bear. And with Lingas snoring away on her perch next to his bed, the racket was in stereo.
Howie sighed. Sleeping Beauty couldn’t nap in here.
He pulled the old horn out from under his pillow, the one Mimir had given to him. The Horn of Gjall. Not so fancy up close. It was full of dents. Dirt pitted the carvings. He held it to his lips, puffed his cheeks out, and pretended to blow on it. He imagined himself controlling a massive army of zombies in an apocalyptic battle against the witches. He was almost asleep, a dreamy smile pinned to his face, when a scratching noise made his eyes open. It sounded like someone tapping lightly on the door. He raised his head and looked over at Teren, but the task-master was out cold.
Shoving the horn under his pillow, Howie threw back his woolen blanket and stood uncertainly, shivering in the chilly night air in the castoff long johns Teren had supplied him. He had to roll up the sleeves and ankles, but it was an upgrade over the grungy nightshirt he had in the barracks. His bare feet recoiled from the cold stone as he tiptoed to the door and cracked it open.
Dim torches glowed in the hallway. He stepped into the empty passage and heard the noise again. Now the sound was clearer. A scratching sound like someone filing their nails on the stone. It came from around the corner.
He knew he should go back to bed, but curiosity won out. Howie crept to the end of the corridor and peered both ways. More torches flickered, casting long shadows. The hallway appeared deserted. Then he saw something small and green, like a furry monkey, scrambling around the bend.
“Hey, wait
up,” Howie called. He hurried after the creature.
When he turned the corner, he didn’t see the little pest lying in wait, one leg stuck out.
Howie tripped, falling face-first on the stone. He threw his hands out to break his fall, but instead of hitting solid ground, Howie tumbled through space. He let out a long yelp that squeaked all the air out of him. His legs went over his head, his elbows knocking against his knees as his arms flailed, trying to find some kind of grip.
“Heeeeeeelp!” he shouted. His voice echoed in whatever freaky bottomless pit he had fallen into. Wind rushed past his face, making his eyes stream tears. His glasses slipped to the end of his nose and then fell off, lost to the void. Probably better not to be able to see the ground when he splattered.
After a long agonizing minute where Howie anticipated his death every other second, he decided it was time to man up. Gathering his courage, Howie shouted into the nothingness, “I am Protector of the Realm, and I order you to stop!”
In an instant, his falling slowed to a crawl. The wind stopped making his eyes burn. He was still descending, but it seemed likelier he would survive the landing.
“That wasn’t nice,” Howie said loudly. “Not cool, monkey man. You set me down gently, you hear me?”
Snickering laughter reached his ears, but Howie’s feet dropped lower, and he drifted slowly to a stop until he touched ground.
He breathed a deep sigh of relief. Then reality set in as he took in the fact that there was sand beneath his feet and unbound blackness all around him. Wind ruffled his hair. Salty ocean sprayed on his cheeks. A crab scrambled over his toes, making him step back. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Howie could just make out a sweeping coastal shoreline. In the distance, a gigantic tree was outlined against the purplish night sky.
Behind him, he heard that same tittering laughter.
“Who’s there?” Howie called, whirling around.
“Who’s there?” the voice answered, followed by a long snicker.
