by Alane Adams
“I went in to clean, like I always do,” Beyla said, twisting her apron between her rough hands. “Dusting the table and the dresser and the odd trinkets you have. And that’s when I noticed the ship was gone. I looked under the bed and in every corner, but there’s no sign of it.”
Tyr, the one-handed Son of Odin and God of War, leapt to his feet. “It must be the work of Loki. No other has the power to enter this world and steal from us.”
“We must find him, bind him, and unwind him,” the poet Bragi said, striking a harsh chord on his lyre.
“Cut him to pieces and bury the parts in the four corners of the earth,” Thor added, gripping his mighty hammer.
Frigga rammed the staff she held into the ground. “Silence! Loki has not been anywhere near Valhalla. I would smell his evil stench in these halls.”
A woman with pale milky eyes stood. Vor, Goddess of Wisdom, moved into the circle and waved her arm. “Let us see where Skidbladnir is.” The floor beneath her was solid stone, but the moment she stepped on it, the gray stones disappeared and became a scenery of clouds. The servant, Beyla, fainted cold. Geela snapped her fingers, and two Valkyrie hauled her away.
The clouds parted and shifted to show a night sky shining on the sea. Far below, a ship could be seen sailing across the ocean. The view zoomed closer, and the gods leaned in, giving a collective gasp as they recognized who was at the helm.
Tyr shouted, jumping to his feet. “It is that witch-boy. The one who killed Father. I will go after him and cut his thieving murdering heart out.”
Frigga seemed unconcerned. “Calm yourself, Tyr. I have no idea how the boy came into possession of Skidbladnir, but, I assure you, he will be punished for his crimes.”
Vor turned to face the goddess. “Your highness, surely the boy is not to blame for Odin’s demise. He was bespelled under the power of the Volgrim witches. He did not understand what he did.”
“That is no excuse,” Frigga thundered. “He took Odin’s life with that cursed blade of Rubicus. He must be made to pay. I have sent him into the underworld to face Helva. If Odin is there, and the boy can free him, then he will be redeemed. If he fails, Helva will see that he suffers for eternity.”
Several of the gods thumped their feet in agreement, but Vor held her hand up for silence.
“Would Odin have let a mere boy end his reign after thousands of years? Have none of you questioned how this boy could get close enough to cause harm to Odin? Perhaps he is nothing more than a pawn in Odin’s great plan.”
The gods began shouting and arguing, but Vor waved her hand, and the image disappeared, returning to solid stone. “You are wise, Frigga, and compassionate. Sam is a Son of Odin, a descendent of Baldur, your most precious son. He has a good heart. He has chosen the right path.”
“Too late!” Frigga thundered. “Odin trusted him, just like he trusted Loki. Loki was blood brother to my husband, and look how he betrayed him. He killed my dear Baldur, and for that he was cursed to an eternity of suffering, which only ended with this boy’s friend interfering.”
Vor turned in a circle to address the gods’ council. “All know the story of Loki, the lost boy Odin found one day and brought back here. They formed a bond, a brotherhood forged in a blood oath they shared. None know why Odin took Loki in. Only Odin. Yes, Loki is trouble. Full of mischief.” She turned to face the queen. “And, yes, he was at fault for Baldur’s death. But who set apart Baldur with such power to be immune from death? Who challenged the fates that one might be so much more blessed than any other?”
“You dare criticize me?” Frigga demanded, her face a mottled red.
Vor demurred. “No, my queen, I seek only to remind you that giving Baldur such invincibility was a challenge to someone like Loki. He has been punished greatly for his bad deed.”
“I will never forgive Loki for taking my son,” Frigga said bitterly. “And this Barconian boy is no different. Mischief, you call it? Destruction and chaos, say I. Since Loki was released, the veil sealing off the Eighth Realm from us is torn. Even now, our greatest enemy, Surt, gathers his army of fire giants to invade Orkney and destroy the very people Odin spent his lifetime protecting. If Surt succeeds, what will stop that red monster from coming here?”
The assembled group gasped.
Frigga left her throne to stand in the center of the circle next to Vor, turning to look at each god as she spoke. “You all know the Ninth Realm is like a house with many rooms. When Surt enters Orkney, he will be worming his way into our home like vermin. If he is not stopped, we will have no choice but to destroy Orkney.”
“No!” Vor said, her hand going to her throat. “Odin would never allow it.”
“Odin is lost to us. Destroying Orkney will be the only way to protect Valhalla,” Frigga said coldly.
“If there is a chance to bring Odin back, we should help the boy, not condemn him to certain death,” Vor argued. “Alone, he will surely perish. Send a battalion of Valkyrie to assist him.”
Frigga glared at Vor, and then her face fell as the lines deepened around her eyes. “In my heart, I know Odin is gone. He has been lost before, but I could always feel him here,” she laid a hand on her chest. “But now it is like an empty vessel. I did the boy a mercy sending him to Helva rather than face this court.” She sat up straighter. “But you are wise, Vor.” She turned to Geela. “You will go after the boy and assist him on his quest. If he gives you any reason to doubt his purpose, end his life.”
The Valkyrie bowed low, but before she could move away, Frigga rose.
“We must come to a decision,” she said to the council of gods. “If it appears Orkney will fall to Surt, we destroy it. Are we in agreement?”
The gods and goddesses hesitated, and then, as one, they raised their right hands, signaling yes—all except for Vor.
Geela returned to her simple quarters and prepared her armor. A soft knock sounded at the door, and a pale figure entered. Vor stood in the doorway.
Geela always felt awkward around the pale woman, as if the wise goddess could read her thoughts, see into her soul.
“Come in, my lady Vor. What can I do for you?” Geela asked steadily, biting back her nerves.
“Beware, Geela, for you are being sent on a perilous mission.”
“The boy is dangerous?” Geela asked, blood zinging at the thought of a challenge.
Vor frowned, shaking her head. “The boy is no danger to you, but the journey will be hard. You must ensure no harm comes to the boy.”
It was Geela’s turn to frown, pulling her arm away. “I take orders from my queen, Frigga, and only my queen.”
“The queen does not understand what is at stake,” Vor said with a fierceness Geela had never before heard from the gentle goddess. “Grief blinds her to the truth, or she would see what I do.”
“And what is that?” Geela said.
“That the boy is being used for some purpose. That he is in extreme danger.” Vor moved away, then paused at the door, adding, “Hear me, Geela, he must complete his tasks, no matter how contrary they seem. He must complete them.”
Chapter 8
Sometime between the moon dipping low in the sky and the sun rising, Sam fell asleep with his hands on the wheel, slumped over the top, drooling like a baby. A spray of salt water woke him in time to see a large wave rolling over the front of the ship. He held on as the sluice of water nearly swept him off his feet. The placid ocean had turned into an angry roiling sea. Oddly, the winds were calm, and the day was sunny and clear. It was as if a storm raged under the surface.
“What’s going on?” Perrin shouted. She gripped the railing as water lashed the boat.
“I don’t know,” Sam shouted back. “Get Mavery up here.” Another wave crashed over the bow, pouring into the holds.
As Mavery joined them on deck, Perrin pointed at the horizon. “What is that?”
They looked in horror at the oncoming wave. It rolled across the ocean like a freight train, growing bigger with every
second. The ship surged forward, sucked in by the receding water as the rogue wave rose up, curling into a white foamy lip at the top.
“Hold on!” Sam shouted, steering Skidbladnir across the wave.
The sturdy ship steadily climbed the face of it. With any luck, they could make it over the top to the other side before the wave broke on them. The ship tilted as the lip curled over. Water began raining down on them as they sailed into the curve of the wave. It closed in over them, curling ever more sharply until the water simply collapsed on top of the ship.
Sam was flushed overboard by the crushing wall of water. He grasped at a rope but missed, and then he was underwater, choking in the cold salty sea. A sharp undertow dragged him down, rolling and tumbling in the wave’s aftermath. He held his breath, fighting to stay upright.
Kicking his legs, he swam with the current, edging outward until he broke through the surface. The water had returned to calmness, the surface flat and undisturbed. The sun continued to shine. There was no sign of Perrin or Mavery. He shouted for them, but the seas were empty. A tiny blob floated by.
Skidbladnir.
It had shrunk back to fit into the palm of his hand. Snagging the carving, he tucked it into the pouch he wore around his neck. Sam paddled, searching for a heading. A dark spot on the horizon offered the only hope. Maybe a slice of land. Setting out with long strokes, Sam held on to the hope that Mavery and Perrin would find their own way.
After endless strokes, his feet brushed something solid. He could stand. Wiping the sea from his eyes, he looked around in wonder.
The island lay before him. A strip of white sandy beach was broken by a gurgling stream of crystal-clear water. Sam bent down and drank deeply.
When he could drink no more, he began exploring. The island was pretty barren, flat with a rocky interior that blocked any view to the other side. Was this just a spit of land in the sea? Or had he found Groll, the island rock that held Fenrir the wolf?
And where were the girls? Sam began walking down the beach, shouting for his friends. “Mavery? Perrin?”
Waves crashed on the sand, throwing up white foam. Sam kept calling, but it was like the wind just laughed at him, carrying the words away and dropping them into the vast sea. As Sam clambered over some rocks, he broke out onto a sandy beach. It looked familiar. There was the stream with his footprints in the sand. He had come full circle. The island was barely longer than a football field and not even as wide. There was nothing moving on it besides Sam. No wolf, no Perrin, no Mavery. Kicking the sand in disgust, Sam sat down, grabbing his knees, and stared out at the water. What was he supposed to do now?
He reached for his pouch, thinking about the ship. Maybe he could get it to restart. Pulling it out, he rubbed off the sand and held it up.
“Hey, Skidbladnir, mighty old ship. Do me a solid and make yourself big again so I can get off this island and get back to finding Fenrir and the girls.”
He waited, feeling foolish but determined. The ship didn’t budge, didn’t vibrate, didn’t move at all. “Come on, Skid, old buddy, you did it before for Mavery. I’m the captain of the ship; I order you to take me off this rotten island.”
He held the ship high, hoping, but nothing happened. Setting it onto the sand, Sam stepped back and conjured up his magic.
“Fein kinter,” he said, rubbing his hands and then drawing them through the air, calling on his magic. “Fein kinter, enorma, sentera, sentera, acai!” He sent a blast of energy at the ship. The sand puffed around it, but the ship stubbornly remained the size of a chicken egg.
“Aarrgh!” Sam said, wanting to throw it into the sea. The sun was starting to set. It looked like he was stuck on the island for the night. If he wanted some warmth, he would have to gather some firewood and see if there was anything to eat on this deserted sliver of land.
Heading inland, he clambered over rocks until he reached the center of the island and the highest point. Standing on a boulder, he could see end to end, side to side. The only slice of greenery was a small stand of three scraggly trees just below.
The trees weren’t like any Sam had ever seen. Their limbs were graceful and narrow, with long, thin leaves that had a silvery-gray coloring. Scrambling down, he picked up what few twigs and dead branches he could find. He would have to break some off the trees if he wanted to make a fire. He reached up and tested a branch then stopped.
Was that a moan?
He tugged on the branch again, bending it backward so he could break it loose, and this time he was certain the tree moaned. Before he could process the thought, the branch sprang out of his hands, flinging him onto his backside.
The three trees drew closer together and advanced on him, as if they weren’t rooted into the ground at all but were living things that wanted to attack him. They waved their branches at him, long leaves rattling. Shrill moans split the air.
Covering his ears, Sam called out to them, “Stop it! I’m sorry I tried to take your branch; I thought you were just a tree.”
“Who are you?” the leaves whispered at him.
“I am Sam, Sam Barconian, Lord of the Ninth Realm, Son of Odin, Son of Catriona,” Sam added, just to make sure he covered all his bases.
The trees rattled and shook as they whispered furtively.
“We can’t show ourselves.”
“He’s dangerous.”
“I’ve seen his path.”
“Torturous.”
“Frightening.”
“Awful.”
“Hey,” Sam interrupted them, dusting himself off and rising, “if you’re talking about me, I’m not awful or frightening. I’m just a kid who found himself making all kinds of mistakes before he figured out who he was. But I’m on the right path; you don’t have to be afraid of me.”
The trees stopped chattering and remained still. Sam drew closer, warily studying them. It took a moment, but then he made out faces in the tree trunks. A set of eyes he thought were knots blinked at him. The curling bark formed into mouths drawn back in fear.
“It’s okay,” he said gently, holding his hands out to show he wasn’t armed. “I just want to know how to get off this island.”
They turned their trunks to one another and whispered among themselves. Sam waited, crossing his fingers they would help him.
“Turn around,” one of them said. “Don’t look at us.”
Sam obliged, turning his back, hoping they wouldn’t try to choke him with their branches when he did.
“You may look now,” a voice said, and this time it didn’t sound raspy. It sounded female and, well, kind of pretty.
Sam turned slowly, and his jaw fell open. Three beautiful women stood dressed in simple gowns of thin gauzy material, long silvery hair falling past their shoulders to their waists. Their hair was braided with green leaves and white flowers. They looked identical, only different ages. One appeared to be the age of Sam’s mom, one was his age, and the other was somewhere in between.
“Who are you?” Sam asked, stepping into the circle where they stood.
“We are the Norns,” the oldest one said. “I am Urd, Goddess of the Past.”
The middle one said, “I am Verdoni, Goddess of the Present.”
And the one his age giggled and then said shyly, “I’m Skald, Goddess of the Future.”
“What is a Norn?” Sam asked.
“The Norns decide the fate of every human in all the nine realms,” Urd answered. “We see their fates and spin them in our looms at night when we take our human form.”
Behind the figures, in the shelter of the rock cairn, stood three looms, giant golden machines that held white shining thread. Stacks of fabric were piled next to the machines with words written on them that Sam couldn’t make out.
Frowning, Sam shook his head. “No, our fates are not determined for us; we make our own fate.”
The young one, Skald, giggled again, and Verdoni elbowed her. “You are right, Son of Odin, but the fate you make is as predictable as the sun risi
ng. So is it your making, or is it ours?”
The eldest, Urd, waved her hand, creating a foggy image that floated in front of Sam. It was him, riding with the witches into battle, his face twisted in rage. “Did you not choose the path of darkness, Son of Catriona, the moment it was offered you?”
Sam recoiled from the image. He brushed the fog away. “Yes, but Catriona bewitched me, drugged me with a potent spell. I had no choice.”
“There is always a choice,” Urd chided. “We knew your choice. We saw it before you did, wove it into the threads.”
Sam glared at them. “Fine, you know everything. Where am I going, then?”
It was Skald’s turn to smile. “You are going to your doom.” The youngest Norn held up a scrap of fabric. “It is written right here. The wolf Fenrir will tear you to pieces with his teeth, and that will be the end of your story.”
Every drop of blood drained out of Sam’s body. He stared at the tree spirits, not believing their words. “I can’t die,” he whispered, as real fear set in. “I have to save everyone—that’s my job. I have to bring Odin back. I can’t die!” he shouted at them, pushing forward and grabbing Skald by her arm. “You’re wrong. Do it again.”
He snatched the fabric from her hands and tore it in half. As he did, his soul felt as if it were ripped apart. He screamed in agony, falling to his knees. It felt as if a knife had been planted in his chest. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, couldn’t feel his arms or legs. He fell forward onto the ground.
Around him, the whispers of the Norns teased his ears and then faded. Slowly the feeling came back in his arms. He pushed himself upright, and the pain eased. He could take in a shallow breath, and the dizziness behind his eyes cleared up.
When he sat up, the Norns were gone. The trees were solid and unmoving again. Gray leaves shimmered in the fading light. He looked around. The island was changing. Water rose as the tide came in, erasing the sandy beach and swirling around his ankles.
“What does this mean?” he said to the trees.
