by Alane Adams
Teren just grunted. “So I guess that settles who’s in charge.”
Abigail stood staring at the oncoming horde. Her hands were white-knuckled as she gripped the balustrade. “Sam is out there. We can’t attack them.”
Teren addressed her, his voice gentle. “My lady, if he is with them, he is not Sam. Not anymore.”
She shook her head emphatically. “No. My son is not lost to us. I refuse to believe that. Let me go down and face him. I can bring him back.”
Teren shook his head. “Look at that line of witches. The moment Catriona sees you, she will try to destroy you. You are powerful, but alone against Catriona and her horde, it is too dangerous. And it will put Sam’s life at risk if he tries to help you.”
She stared at her distant son, then sagged in defeat. “I will stay back. For now.” She turned to Howie. “Tell me again what Keely is doing.”
“Keely went to get some Moon Pearl from Ymir. It’s supposed to help us bring Sam back.”
“Okay, so we just have to hold out until she gets here.”
Teren’s voice was despondent. “Abigail, we have no idea where Keely is. Or if she even lives. We don’t have the manpower to fight that army. At the first attack, we will be overrun.”
Abigail’s chin was firm, her gaze steady as she met Teren’s. “You have me. I may be rusty, but I still have a trick or two up my sleeve. And the Falcory will come, as will the Eifalians. We are not alone in this, Teren. Our friends will not desert us in our time of need. We just need to buy some time. Howie, Odin chose you as Protector. We could really use one of your clever schemes.”
Howie’s mouth opened and closed. Everyone was waiting for him to say something. “Well, I’m not sure . . .”
Sam’s mom gripped his arm. “Think, Howie. Odin must have believed you were special to have chosen you.”
Howie’s brain hummed like a high-tension wire. He tried to think of all the things he knew about battle. Heck, he had played umpteen hours battling imaginary creatures in video games. To win, he usually upgraded his weapons cache and out-battled his opponents. His hand went to his waist. Odin had already given him the ultimate upgrade . . .
“Well, I could go out there with my sword.”
“That rusted thing?” Speria said, scowling with doubt.
Howie grinned at Teren, who nodded his permission. As he gripped the handle and pulled it out, gold sparks shot in the air. Blazing light flickered from its razor-edge blade. Once again, it had changed from the rusty old heap Fetch had given him into a glowing golden sword, shining in the fading afternoon light.
Speria’s eyes grew as big as silver dollars. “By Odin’s blood,” he breathed, awestruck.
Even Selina looked impressed. “Now that’s a fine blade.” She reached out a finger to trace the edge.
“That’s Tyrfing,” Howie said proudly. “Did I mention it was made by a pair of black dwarves and had an evil curse on it?”
Abigail nodded encouragingly at him. “Okay, Howie, the sword will help, but it won’t stop an army. We need something to slow them down. Any other ideas?”
Howie scratched his head, coming up blank. And then a light went off. “Hold on. Just hold on a minute. Nobody move.”
He left them staring at him strangely as he raced down the steps across the square into the Great Hall, heading for the residence quarters. He pounded down corridors until he skidded to a stop at Teren’s door. He threw it open and raced to his bed, throwing back the covers. He lifted the pillow.
There it was.
The Horn of Gjall.
He lifted it, kissing it once, and then scurried back to the impatient group on the rampart.
“Got it, oh yeah, say, ‘Howie, you’re the man!’” he shouted as he gasped for breath.
“What in Odin’s name?” Teren’s voice was awestruck. “It can’t be.” He reached his fingers out to touch the horn.
“That’s the Horn of Gjall,” Abigail said with a fierce mixture of hope and awe. “Howie, where did you say you got these gifts from Odin?”
Howie shrugged. “Long story. A little green guy named Fetch gave me the sword. The horn’s from Mimir. He and I were joking about calling up an army of the dead. I guess that old dude doesn’t kid around. Look, I think I’m supposed to blow on it.” He put it up to his lips, but Teren stayed his hand.
“Do you know what the horn does, lad? When you blow on it?”
Howie nodded. “It calls up some kind of undead zombie soldiers.”
Teren’s hand was like an iron manacle on his wrist. “And you’re sure this isn’t some plan of the witches’?”
Howie studied the old thing. Mimir had given it to him, so he figured it was part of Odin’s master plan.
“Well, I guess we’ll find out.” He licked his lips once and then took a deep breath. He held up his sword for courage as he blew a long blast. At the sound of the first note, the sword began to send out golden sparks. As everyone looked on in awe, Howie blew the horn again. A golden beam of light shot out from the sword, stabbing at the ground below just outside the walls of Skara Brae. Howie stopped, and they all waited, holding their breaths. A large crack in the earth appeared, zigzagging in a line. Then the earth split apart, opening a chasm. A skeletal head appeared, looking around, and then pulled itself out of the earth. It was followed by an unending line of skeletal men, trailing swords and wearing tattered uniforms over their bony remains.
They filed out in procession, dragging their jerky frames into formation.
“By the heavens, I have never seen such a sight,” Teren exclaimed. “Those are Huns. You can tell by their armor.” Ragged fur trimmed their pointed helmets, and long beards drooped down from the sides of their skeletal jaws.
What had Fetch said? That some king named Agantyr had destroyed an entire army of Huns with the Sword of Tyrfing on its last evil quest? Howie’s respect for Odin’s gift rose to new levels because he had no doubt the sword had helped conjure up this batch.
Selina clapped her hands. “Amazing,” she murmured. “Way to go, Protector.”
Heppner slapped Howie on the back.
Speria looked dour as ever. “Don’t celebrate till we know whose side they’re on,” he grumbled.
Howie’s initial excitement turned to mounting unease as reality set in. I’ve just called up an army of dead Huns I have no idea how to control, so I can go after my best friend and his witch buddies, he thought to himself. Why couldn’t I have been picked as the Sacrifice?
The assembled squad of skeletons looked up and rattled their swords at Howie. They seemed to be waiting for him to come down.
He straightened his shoulders, holding the golden sword with a sweaty hand. “So I guess I’ll just go down and introduce myself before my best friend gets here and tries to destroy us.”
“I’ll go with you,” Selina offered.
“No way,” Howie said. “You stay with Teren and help.” He looked at Teren as he pointed at Selina. “She’s a better swords-man than any one of your recruits.”
“The fight’s going to be over before it’s begun.” Teren spoke with little enthusiasm. “My men are scattered around Garamond fighting battles. We’ve only a handful of recruits on hand. That and a legion of dried-up bones aren’t going to win this battle.”
“Don’t be so sure.” Selina nodded over his shoulder. Behind them, a group of men had assembled along the narrow rampart. Howie recognized Milligan, the weathered farmer who had given them a ride to Skara Brae.
“We reckon we’re in this, we might as well fight,” Milligan said. Behind him stood bakers still in their flour-covered aprons, the blacksmith with grease up to his elbows, more stable boys, even the old apothecary—all nodding firmly in agreement. “So we’ll fight if you’ll have us.” He gripped a pitchfork.
Teren grinned. “It would be my honor to stand with you. But first, I have an important honor to bestow.”
The captain shrugged out of his armored chain mail and red Orkadian vest and
slipped them over Howie’s head. The chain mail went to Howie’s knees. Teren drew his sword and tapped Howie on both shoulders. “I hereby induct you into the Orkadian Guard.”
Howie felt a grin split his face from ear to ear. The feeling was better than anything he had ever experienced. Better than winning science fair sixth-grade year. Better than the kiss he had gotten at science camp. Better than anything he could ever imagine feeling.
Teren’s eyes gleamed with hope. “I think I have an idea how we can use Howie’s army and give those witches a fight they won’t soon forget.” Teren explained his plan. Once they had agreement, it was time for Howie to head out.
“Don’t be afraid, Howie,” Abigail said, putting her arm around his shoulder. “I’ll be watching over you. Just promise me you won’t take Sam’s head off with that sword.”
Howie clutched the powerful weapon in his hand, swallowed back his fear, and made his way down the steps, marching past a sea of frightened faces until he reached the front gate. With every step he felt as if he were striding closer to his death. He hesitated in the archway of the gate as it rattled up. The moldering band of skeletons grunted with shouts of huzzah when he appeared, eyeing his sword like it was a beacon from the heavens.
One of the skeletal figures strode forward to meet him as he crossed the bridge. A thick Fu Manchu mustache marked its skeletal jaws. A rotted velveteen robe trimmed with dark fur was flung over its bony shoulders.
“Ta nar khen yum?” it barked at Howie.
“Yo, skeleton-face. How’s it hanging?”
The zombie leader looked at the other men, then thrust his sword in Howie’s face.
“Ta nar khen yum?” it shouted, breathing clouds of dust in Howie’s eyes.
Howie coughed at the centuries of bad breath. “I get it. I’m as confused as you. Here’s the thing. Odin made me Protector, and I could use some help.”
At Odin’s name, the leader quieted down.
“Odin?” it muttered.
“Yes, you know Odin?” Howie asked.
The skeleton shouted nonsense, and then the entire crowd of skeletons moved in around Howie like an angry mob.
“Okay, bad idea, no Odin. Back off.” He wielded the sword, swinging it awkwardly over his head, and they stepped back, clearly afraid of the golden blade.
“Does anyone here speaka the English?” Howie asked.
A skeleton thrust its way through the crowd.
“I speak your language,” it muttered between clenched jaws. Its teeth were rotted along bare jawbone. Armor hung in tatters over a bony chest. A broken clavicle bore the round mark of a spear. “I am Blad.”
“Great,” Howie said. “Can you translate what the boss man here is saying?”
The lead skeleton began shouting. “Ild bidend khorigdlyg ezemshdeg. Ild temtsekh, bid gargasan bolno!”
Blad nodded and turned to Howie. “General Octar says that cursed sword led to our death. Why would we fight for you?”
“Uhm . . .” Howie had no idea. “Well . . .”
The Huns pressed in closer. Bony fingers went to their dirt-crusted swords. Howie began to sweat. “Tell Octar-man, you tell him . . .”
Howie began to cluck like a chicken. “What’s the matter, Octar-man, you afraid of a few witches?” Howie continued to squawk, flapping his arms and dancing in a circle. The Huns drew back, looking at each other like he was crazy. “I thought you were Huns,” he taunted. “I thought you were the baddest army on the face of the earth, but I guess you’re just a bunch of sissy pants.”
Blad translated Howie’s words. Octar shouted in Howie’s face. Dirt flew from his dried-up lips. Whatever he was saying, the Hun-master was not happy.
Howie stopped his dance. “What did he say?”
Blad put a bony hand on Howie’s shoulder. “He said you are crazy. But he will fight.”
Howie gaped. “He will?”
In reply, General Octar shouted, “Kherev tiim bol. Temstel!”
Howie didn’t need a translator to know temstel meant fight.
“Temstel,” he answered, waving the sword over his head.
“Temstel!” the group shouted, joining their swords with his.
At that moment, Howie would have given his life for a cell-phone camera and enough Wi-Fi to post this picture of him commanding an army of Hun skeletons all over the Internet.
“Bring it in, my Hun buddies. It’s time to make a plan.”
Chapter Forty
Arush of excitement filled Kalifus as the red flags of Skara Brae came into view. It had been an age since he had been to this city that was his second home. A wave of nostalgia rolled over him as he remembered Teren and his other Orkadian friends and the good times they had shared. Those days were gone forever now. Kalifus squashed the sappy feelings and gripped the reins tighter. By end of day, Skara Brae would be in shambles, and Kalifus would be celebrating its destruction.
He rode by Catriona’s side. Her back was ramrod straight, eyes facing forward. The Balfin army marched behind. Such ugly hairy brutes with twisted faces and ropy, muscled bodies. Vena had made them nearly invincible. The once-harmless Balfin puppets had become snarling monsters that knocked down trees with mere swings of their meaty paws.
The day was bright and sunny, the air crisp with the light winter chill. Weather in Skara Brae was mild, even in the middle of winter. By nightfall, smoke would be rising from the turrets of Orkney’s last stronghold. With Teren out of the city and probably dead by now, there would be no one left to lead the defense.
Catriona raised her hand to stop the horde. Before them, less than two football fields away, the walls of Skara Brae shimmered. The flags snapped sharply, like rifle shots in the afternoon breeze. The ramparts appeared empty. Where were the sentinels? The manned towers? Had they given up already? A slow smile crossed Kalifus’s face. This was going to be a blowout.
The Balfins spread out, loping across the fields in waves, halting a safe distance from the walls. Catriona rode through the center, heading straight for the wooden gate of the main entrance to the city. Kalifus accompanied her along with Agathea and Beatrixe. Vena stayed back with her creations, cracking her whip over their heads as she marshaled them into position.
They had no siege weapons. They didn’t need them. Their sheer numbers and potent magic would provide all the offense they needed.
Kalifus squinted as a tiny figure came into view. It couldn’t be. Standing outside the gates of Skara Brae. All alone.
Howie.
He should be holed up in an underground bunker, quaking with fear. Not brazenly loitering outside the gates of the city. A murmur of unease made Kalifus wary. Howie could be bait. His eyes scanned the area, searching for any sign of a trap.
They rode up to where his old friend stood, gangly arms hanging awkwardly at his side. Howie had walked a stone’s throw from the castle and was completely unprotected. He had an old rusted scabbard looped through his belt. It was so long it dragged in the dirt, leaving a trail of dust. The armor he wore was two sizes too big. The red Orkadian vest hung to his knees. Chain mail sagged off his shoulders. He looked like a scrawny kid standing up to an army that would as soon tear him to shreds.
Laughter rippled through Catriona as she halted her horse. “Is this the boy?” she asked Kalifus. “The one Odin named Protector?”
“That’s me,” Howie answered before Kalifus could speak. A stupid grin was plastered to his face. “I’m the Great Protector.” He turned toward Kalifus, waggling his fingers in a salute. “Heya, Sam, how’s it hangin’?”
“My name is Kalifus,” he snapped back, dismounting from his horse to eyeball his old friend, walking in a half circle around him. “Is this some kind of joke? You couldn’t defend a flea from a dog’s scratching.”
The rest of the coven chuckled.
Howie joined in the laughter. “Yeah, you’re probably right, Sam, I mean, Mr. Kalifus, sir. But I’m not worried about a dog. Just the yellow-bellied coward standing in front of m
e.”
Kalifus’s rage flashed into a boil. Did Howie not understand what he had done for him? For all of them? He threw out his hand and lifted Howie as if he weighed nothing. He twisted his fingers so the boy felt his choking power.
“You dare insult me?”
“Yeah, I dare.” Howie grabbed at Kalifus’s hands, prying at them. “I dare, because I’m your best friend.”
“I despise you,” Kalifus swore, staring into Howie’s glasses. Kalifus’s own red-rimmed eyes stared back in the reflection.
“Enough,” Catriona said, sounding bored. “Kill him.”
Obediently, Kalifus threw Howie back so forcefully that the boy tumbled head over heels in the dirt. Gathering his energy, Kalifus sent a blast of witchfire to annihilate him, but Howie rolled away faster than Kalifus expected, and his blast struck dirt. Howie looked up at him with hurt in his eyes.
“Why are you doing this, Sam?”
Blood pounded in Kalifus’s ears. Next time he wouldn’t miss. “The Orkadians are too weak to rule this land. Power belongs in the hands of those willing to seize it.”
Howie got to his feet, brushing off the dust. “Yeah, well, the Sam I knew stood up for the underdog.”
Kalifus stalked forward and shoved him. “Sam is dead! I killed him, the same way I killed Odin. And now, I’m going to kill you.” Kalifus enjoyed the shattered look of pain on his friend’s face. The hapless boy looked like he was about to burst into tears. Twin balls of witchfire appeared over Kalifus’s hands. This time, he wouldn’t miss. He drew his arms back.
Howie shrugged scrawny shoulders, his chin sagging in defeat. “Then I guess there’s only one thing left to say.”
Kalifus paused. “What’s that?”
“Your buddy Fetch says hello.” Howie’s chin came up, and his eyes sparkled with a fierceness that was out of place for Kali-fus’s meek and mild friend.
Confusion raced through Kalifus as he remembered Odin’s little green-furred helper. “Fetch?”
Howie drew his sword from the rusted scabbard at his side. Only the blade wasn’t actually rusted. As he pulled it out, the sword transformed, glinting in the sunlight and nearly blinding Kalifus with its brilliance.
