by Alane Adams
Howie squinted. Without his glasses, everything was blurry. The clouds parted overhead, and a sliver of moonlight revealed a creature standing on a rock near the edge of the dense foliage that formed a barricade along the beach.
Pale green fur covered its body. It wasn’t anything like a monkey, Howie realized. Or any other kind of creature he had ever seen before. Long drooping donkey ears hung down past its chin. Its large almond-shaped eyes glittered with mirth. It was double-jointed, allowing it to chew on its own toenail, which it did with some gusto. Something glinted around its eyes.
“Hey, those are my glasses,” Howie said.
“Those are my glasses,” it answered, pushing them into place and continuing to chew on its toenail.
Howie took two steps forward, his feet sinking into the wet sand. “This isn’t funny.”
“This isn’t funn-eeeee,” the creature answered, stretching out Howie’s words. It proceeded to laugh long and hard, rolling back and forth across the rock.
Howie felt the first prickle of anger. This pest was highly annoying. But two could play at that game, and if there was one thing Howie was good at, it was being annoying.
“You’re a jerk,” he said.
“You’re a jerk,” it mimicked, sitting up.
“No, you are.”
“No, you are.”
“I said it first.”
“I said it second, and two is bigger than one.” It held up two spindly fingers.
Howie rubbed his chin, as if he were thinking. “So you’re saying you’re number two. Sounds like you’re poop to me.”
The creature’s jaw gaped open, and then it started laughing so hard its face turned purplish. When it recovered, it wiped away fat tears of mirth.
“Well done, Master Howie. Well played,” it said, sounding more intelligent than Howie had thought it was. “My name is Fetch. It is an honor to meet a Chosen One.” It handed over Howie’s glasses.
He took them, wiping them clean with the sleeve of his long johns before putting them back on. “Hey, how do you know my name?”
The creature leaped to its feet. “You think it’s chance that you are here on Asgard?” It waved a hand at the island behind them.
“This is Asgard?” Howie gasped. “Then that giant tree over there is the Yggdrasil tree? Does Odin want to see me?” Awe tinged his voice.
Fetch rolled spindly shoulders. “Asgard, yes, but only a Son of Odin can approach his Superior High Being.”
Howie slumped. “Too bad, it would be cool to meet the dude. So what can I do ya for? Why’m I here?”
Fetch raised a finger. “A gift have I to present to you from Odin.”
Howie brightened. “A gift, you say? Lay it on me.” Maybe Odin was giving him some mighty god spit like he gave Sam with his Fury. Invincibility was a cool superpower he could most definitely handle.
Fetch cleared its throat, drawing its slight figure up as tall as it could reach until it was eye level with Howie. Its voice boomed with gravity as it spoke.
“I hereby gift you with the Sword of Tyrfing.” Fetch looked down at empty hands and snapped its fingers. “One moment.”
Fetch dove into the bushes, rummaging around, then gave an excited sound of discovery before climbing back up on the rock, dragging an old rusty sword. “I present to you the Sword of Tyrfing.” It bowed its head low over the proffered sword, waiting for Howie to take it.
Disappointment made Howie droop. Rust had eaten holes in the scabbard. The hilt was tarnished black with age. It looked like something you could pick up in a second-hand shop for a few coins. Fetch drew the sword out of the scabbard, and Howie’s hopes sunk deeper. The blade was pitted and dull.
He put a hand out to stop Fetch. “Dude, that’s a pile of rust. Tell Odin, no thanks. I want something cool, like a shield of invincibility or a flaming sword.”
Fetch trembled, looking over its shoulder in fear. “Dear Sir, you must take Odin’s gift. Do you not know how angry his Royal Godness would be if you refused?”
Howie sighed. This was worse than any hand-me-down he got from his brothers. Odin clearly thought so little of him that he was offering Howie a rusted old broken-down useless weapon.
“Yeah, sure, whatever.” He took the sword from Fetch, tucking the blade back in its scabbard without looking at it. Selina would laugh her pants off when she saw him wielding this. It would probably crumble to pieces the first time he faced a witch.
Fetch cleared his throat again. “There are rules, caveats, stipulations on its proper use. Tyrfing once belonged to Odin’s grandson. The blade was forged by a pair of black dwarves—Dvalinn and Durin—who cursed the blade with three evil quests.”
Howie’s interest was piqued. “Evil quests, you say? So the blade is, like, enchanted?”
“Not anymore. The third quest was completed by King Agantyr of the Goths when he destroyed an entire army of Huns.”
The creature seemed eager for Howie to jump on the excitement train, but Howie slumped again. So it wasn’t even enchanted. A used-up second-hand hunk of rust.
“There’s more—” Fetch offered, but Howie waved him off.
“Never mind, little dude, I got four older brothers. They don’t call me Hand-Me-Down-Howie for nothing. Tell Odin thanks and all, but can I go home now?” A wide yawn split his face. Sleep made his eyes heavy.
Fetch’s fingers fidgeted nervously. “You do not wish to hear the rest?”
Howie shook his head, fighting another yawn. “Naw. Just tell him mucho apreciado. I’d like to get back to my bed before the sun rises.” His eyes felt too heavy to keep open. If he stood here much longer, he might actually fall asleep standing up. He had done it once before waiting for his turn to use the bathroom. With nine brothers and sisters, a guy could fit in a good nap standing in line.
Fetch hesitated and then nodded. “As you wish, Master Howie. As you wish.”
But Howie couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. His chin hit his chest, and he began to snore.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Howie was dreaming about battling witches with a fistful of French fries when a cup of cold water splashed on his face abruptly woke him up.
Teren stood over him looking impatient. “Your first day as my squire and you’ve overslept. And your bird made a mess. I expect you to clean up after it.”
Howie sat up, groggily rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Is it morning already?” Lingas squawked at him from her perch, letting him know it was high time for her to be out flying.
“Lord Drabic and the esteemed High Council demand our presence. Fetch me my dress uniform.”
Howie groaned, shaking his head to clear away the fog. That was some dream. Visiting Asgard in his sleep. He sat up, swung his legs over the bed, and planted his feet on the ground. He wiggled his toes. There was sand across the top of his foot.
“Haven’t got all day, Howie.” Teren stood in his skivvies, tapping one foot, waiting for Howie to bring him his clothes.
Howie was still processing the fact that there was sand on his feet. “Dress uniform—is that the one with the shiny buttons?” He scrambled out of bed and opened the wardrobe where Teren stored his clothes. Hanging there was a sharp-looking uniform with a row of brass buttons, shiny red epaulettes, and gold trim on the red fabric.
“That’s the one.” Teren snatched it out of his hands and went behind the screen to get dressed. “You have a uniform as well,” Teren said loudly. “It’s hanging on the door of the wardrobe. Put it on. You have to look the part if you’re to be my squire.”
Howie opened the other wardrobe door, then froze. His eyes went toward Teren, but the captain was busy getting dressed.
Hanging from the wardrobe hook was the old rusted sword Fetch had given him. So it wasn’t a dream.
“What do you think?” Teren called out cheerfully.
Howie’s eyes went from the sword to the outfit that hung next to it and groaned. A pair of satin purple breeches was matched with a frill
y shirt and green vest. “Um, you expect me to wear this?”
Teren popped his head around the screen. “I do if you expect to eat today.” He gave Howie a wink and went back to his dressing.
Shedding his long johns, Howie quickly slipped the breeches on, crossing his fingers they wouldn’t fit. But of course, everything was just his size. The shirt he buttoned on had a ruffled collar that went up to his chin. A black belt cinched at his waist. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the bureau. It was official. He looked ridiculous.
“Well, well, look at you.” Teren grinned at Howie’s obvious discomfort. “Not quite complete, though.” He took a broad floppy hat from the dresser and placed it on top of Howie’s curls. “Now that’s a squire. Come along, mustn’t keep Lord Drabic waiting. He’ll get too far along in his cups to make sense.” Teren paused, his eyes going to the rusted sword. “Where on earth did you find that old thing?” He lifted it off the hook.
“Uhm, in the armory. I thought . . . you know . . . I would try it out.”
Teren laughed. “Oh, Howie, you are ever entertaining. Do strap it on. Then come along, we’re late.” He held it out to Howie. Howie had no choice but to accept it.
He strapped the sword to his belt, suddenly grateful there were no camera phones in the Middle Ages. What little street cred he had left back in Pilot Rock would be quashed if a photo of him in his squire outfit and junky sword ever found its way onto the Internet.
He spied something odd in the mirror. Was that a scroll of paper tucked into the hilt? It was. Howie unrolled it and squinted to decipher the spidery handwriting:
A single act of bravery can change rust to gold.
Fetch had left a medieval riddle for him. Great. Like Howie had time for puzzles. He crumpled the note into a ball, tossing it into the bin, and hurried to the door.
Lingas screaked loudly, bringing him to a halt.
“Sorry, girl, important business. I’ll take you flying when I get back. Pinkie swear.” He held up his little finger and then quickly shut the door on her complaints. He hurried to catch up with Teren, one hand on his floppy hat. A servant walked past in the other direction, and Howie flipped the ridiculous item onto his head.
A guy had to have some decency.
The captain strode past the main hall to the chambers where the High Council met. Teren paused outside a set of double doors and put his finger on Howie’s chest.
“Stay in the background and keep quiet. I don’t want you to draw attention to yourself. There are many in this room I do not trust.”
Howie nodded and zipped his lips, then mumbled something unintelligible to show his mouth was sealed shut.
Teren threw open the door and strode in with his squire in tow. Howie glimpsed a roomful of important people and then ran smack into a serving girl. She carried a tray loaded with drinks that went flying. Howie’s feet went out from under him. He fell backward, crashing into a guard who stood sentinel at the door, causing the guard to tumble onto a table that held serving dishes, sending the meeting’s elaborate meal crashing to the floor.
Every eye in the room turned on Howie as a plate spun in place for an excruciating few seconds, making a wobbling noise before it mercifully stopped.
Teren hung his head in utter disgust.
“My bad,” Howie said, scrambling back to his feet.
The captain jerked his head for Howie to go stand in the corner of the room. Embarrassed, Howie slouched off, wishing he could disappear. Teren continued on toward the large table that took up the center of the room. The Orkney VIPs assembled around the table and took their seats.
Howie slumped against a column. Frankly, he wasn’t all that impressed by the meeting hall. For all its political importance, somebody had seriously skimped on the decorating budget. An Orkney banner featuring the white heron hung from the ceiling, but it was moth-eaten, and the heron was gray with dust. The meeting table was plain oak with scratches and stains like the one in his kitchen. A brown mouse ran across the floor, nabbed a stray crumb, and disappeared into a crack in the wall. Two chairs were empty, leaving three men seated around the table with Teren.
Beo impatiently spun a blade on his fingertips. The Falcory flicked a glance at Howie, his black eyes giving no indication they had met. A guy with a triple chin sat at the head of the table, fat hands shaking as he poured some red wine into his goblet.
That must be Lord Drabic, Howie reasoned. Head of the High Council. His skin was pasty like he had never spent a day in the sun.
The third guy had a shaved head and was dressed in the black robes of the Balfin. Howie recognized his slippery face from his days at the Tarkana Fortress. Emenor. Endera’s lackey. He had an urge to plant his fist between the guy’s eyes. Then a man came out of the shadows and took a stand behind Drabic. Lord Orrin. Howie’s heart kicked up a notch as Orrin’s weasely eyes pinned on Howie. He felt like a bug under a microscope.
“Captain Teren, I don’t believe everyone here has met your squire,” he said, smiling broadly.
“Howie’s just a boy I’m training, Lord Orrin,” Teren said casually, pouring himself a ration of wine. “Shall we begin?”
But Orrin didn’t let it go. Folding open his hands, he strolled toward Howie. “Now, now, I’ve spoken with the boy. Not only did he survive incarceration by the witches, but he also tells me he’s been chosen as Protector of the Realm.”
His statement was greeted by soft chuckles. Even the guards posted at the door had a laugh. Howie burned with embarrassment. It was one thing to be the butt of Heppner and Speria’s jokes, but these windbags hadn’t earned the right to make fun of him.
Teren laughed along with the group. “Stuff and nonsense. Just a story the boy likes to tell.”
“I wonder . . .” Orrin stopped an inch away from Howie. His eyes bore directly into Howie’s, making him squirm. “He does seem a bit puny to defend us all.” His eyes drifted downward to the weapon at his hip. “And he is armed with nothing but a rusted blade.”
Drabic spoke up. “Come, Orrin, leave the boy alone. We have important business to discuss.”
Orrin smiled and leaned in to whisper in Howie’s ear. “I’ve asked the kitchen to prepare a stuffed iolar for dinner. I hope you’ll join me.” He turned away and smiled at the High Council. “You are right as always, Lord Drabic. Emenor, please share your news with the Council.”
Howie’s heart rate returned to normal as attention shifted to the Balfin. Orrin was dangerous, like a viper waiting to strike. If Orrin touched that bird . . . well . . . Howie’s hand went to the hilt at his side. Rusted or not, old Tyrfing would find a final resting place deep inside Orrin’s gut.
Emenor was tugging at his collar as if it were too tight. “As you know, the Balfins have remained neutral in this senseless war with the witches.”
“Neutral?” Beo slammed the tip of his knife deep into the wood of the table. “You shelter them.”
“We have no choice if we wish to survive, Beo,” Emenor hissed back. “But I bring good news. The witches have sent word they wish to discuss a ceasefire. A treaty. They will end their assault on Orkney in exchange for being left alone.”
Conversation instantly broke out. Howie felt a buzz of excitement. A truce was a good thing. The war would end, and maybe Sam would come back.
“Why would they agree to it?” Teren rose from his chair. “Swords and arrows are useless against their trickery. My men are beaten back and pummeled at every turn. The witches are fewer in number, but their powers grow. It is only a matter of time before they set their wicked eyes on Skara Brae. If the Black Guard joined with us, we could root them out once and for all.”
All eyes turned to Emenor. The Balfin’s bald pate gleamed with a sheen of sweat. “The Balfins may be well-armed, but we do not believe in war,” he said haughtily. “Not until all efforts at diplomacy have failed.”
“A treaty is good news,” Drabic said, raising his glass and taking a long drink. “It means they’re afraid o
f us.”
“What if he’s lying?” Beo said, pointing at Emenor. “There have been rumors of beasts on Balfour Island. Passing ships have reported seeing monsters that walk as men.”
Orrin stood calmly behind Emenor. “Mere ramblings by seamen with sun-addled brains. Emenor is a member of this council. He deserves the benefit of your trust. Lord Drabic has agreed to go to Balfour Island and meet with Catriona herself. Captain Teren, you will take a squad of your best men and accompany Drabic.”
“No. I cannot leave the city,” Teren said adamantly. He planted his hands on the table to face Drabic. “Skara Brae is our last stronghold. Refugees flood our streets. If I take my men, it will be completely unprotected. The witches will have the perfect opportunity to attack. If Gael were here, he would never allow it.”
“It wasn’t a request, Captain Teren. And Gael is not the leader of this council, I am,” Drabic said irritably. “You will follow your orders or be removed from your post as captain of the guard. Emenor and Lord Orrin have graciously agreed to oversee the protection of the city.”
Howie snorted to himself. Skara Brae was safer in his clumsy hands than with that pair of snakes in charge.
“What say you, Beo?” Teren said stubbornly, looking to the Falcory to bolster his plea.
“This war cannot continue,” the Falcory said, pulling his knife from the table. “I agree with you, Captain Teren, it could be a ruse, but a truce may be our only hope. I would accompany you, but I must return to my people and bring them this news.” His eyes bore into Teren’s. Howie read the message loud and clear: Beo was worried about the fate of his son, Jey.
Back in Teren’s chambers, the soldier cursed and kicked a chair over. Howie walked an irritated Lingas to the window and let her loose, then plopped down glumly on his cot.
“So you’re leaving?” Howie said.
Teren ran his hand through his hair. “It seems I have no choice. Orrin is up to no good, and Drabic is too foolish to see it.”
“So don’t go,” Howie urged. “Tell Orrin to get stuffed!”
