Hidden Magic

by Melinda Kucsera

  “Is my ten years over?” A strange delight brimmed up in her.

  “Listen,” he said with his hands grasping her tightly. “Before you go—I need you to know, that…”

  A heavy mist floated into her mind at that moment, and a desperate, feverish worry arose on Antoline’s face.

  “No, no, not now,” he said. “You can’t go. I don’t want to be alone again…”

  “I’m sorry, but I have to get back to my family.”

  “Don’t go,” Pip said. “We’ll have more fun times, come back to us.”

  “We could be your family too,” Antoline said, still holding onto her hands as the mists turned to a wavy daze of bright lights.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for everything. I’ll always remember you. Thank you for keeping me safe.”

  “Fallon!” Antoline’s voice trailed off as a deep, dark black rolled over Fallon. It was as if she was fading into a dream… or awakening from one. For when she did awaken, she was so ready to be curled up in her soft bed, with her mother and father standing over her with their warm smiles. She was ready to go back to the quiet life of dancing lessons, playing her white-wood flute, and dining with the handsome prince.

  However, when she awoke, she opened her eyes to find herself standing in the middle of her room, with her hands embracing the sides of the black obelisk. She took her hands back, and as there was no one in her room, she heard commotion out on the streets. She looked around the room; everything seeming in order—except one thing… she glimpsed her reflection in the mirror at the end of the red-painted room.

  She was entranced by her reflection as she hadn’t seen it in so many years. Walking toward the ovular mirror, she was soon standing right before it. Princess Fallon ran her fingers up to feel the crow’s feet beginning to form, the wrinkles on her forehead showing their first signs, and as her hands glided up her head, she gripped two small, white horns growing on the top of her head. In her own eyes she saw a look of utter horror in her hollow, wet eyes.

  “No…” An explosion on the western edge of the castle ripped her out of her thoughts. She rushed to the window to see a legion of invaders at the castle’s gates once again. “It can’t be… Not now… Not this soon…”

  She shook her head from side to side, with her fingers intertwined with her golden hair.

  “I’ve just returned. Why now? Why now? This can’t be real. This is just a dream, it’s only a dream.”

  Another explosion from a catapult rocked the city, and a face she hadn’t seen in far too long ran into the room. It was her handmaiden, Celeste, with troubled eyes.

  “Princess Fallon!” she gasped. “Oh no, why have you come now? They’ve returned again. What timing, what horrible timing. Come dear, come, we’ve got to get you to your mother. She’s been crying for an age since you left. You must see her; you must see her at once!”

  “My mother… she’s still alive? She’s still alive!”

  Fallon is back home after all those years, but with another siege underway, what is the princess going to do this time? Find out in Wayward Magic.

  About the Author

  Having grown up in the suburbs of Kansas, but never having seen a full tornado or a yellow brick road, C. K. Rieke (pronounced Ricky) has been told more than their fair share of times while traveling, ‘You’re not in Kansas anymore.’ They just respond, ‘Never heard that one,’ with a smile.

  Early in the ’burbs, they found their passion for reading fantasy stories. Reading books with elves, orcs, and monsters took their young imagination to different worlds they wanted to live in.

  Now, they create their own worlds. Not so much in the elves and orc vein, but more in the heroes versus dragons one— there’s a difference, right? Yes, they grew up with The Lord of the Rings and tons of R.A. Salvatore books on their shelves, along with some cookbooks, comics, and a lot of video games, too.

  Other passions are coffee, good beer, and hanging around the gym. To find out more, please visit CKRieke.com. Don’t forget to 1-click Wayward Magic.

  The Catch

  Gwendolyn Woodschild

  “The Catch” follows a well respected Viking named Brandur who is just trying to live a good life of fishing, sailing, and loving his wife. When he returns from a fishing trip to find his village in shambles and his fellow villagers at their wit's end, Brandur is ready to call upon his warrior past to cut down all that threaten his home and loved ones, only to discover that the enemy isn't one he can cut with an ax. The enemy is as hidden from sight as it is his weapon, and Brandur must brave his own past to discover his heritage in order to save his home and loved ones.

  Life always throws unexpected things at people, and what shows their true character is how they handle the situation. I like discovering people's truths, seeing what makes them tick and uncovering who they truly are. Writing this story has been my own voyage following Brandur while he faces harsh realities and new enemies while attempting to stay true to himself. Would I have been as brave as Brandur if the roles were reversed? I would like to think so.

  Gwendolyn Woodschild

  Brandur had put his days of adventuring and being a Viking behind him, happily trading his ax for a fishing net. One day he returned from sea to find an unseen danger attacking his village, terrorizing his neighbors, and his beloved wife in the middle of the chaos attempting to prevent an all-out panic. Frustrated over his inability to do anything about the danger, Brandur decides he must face the hidden truth of his past and unearth his buried talents in order to save his home and loved ones.

  The perfect day was the herald to the end of all my days. My knörr Silver Storm and crew were sailing back home after a good catch, the sun was deliciously warm, the sea spray was refreshingly cool, and the Njord blessed winds were filling the dragon sails of the ship to the brim, letting us leave the oars as we cut through the swells. There would be plenty of work for all once we got back to Darlthveit and the other sailors and I took full advantage of the opportunity.

  As the land neared I climbed the bow of the ship in anticipation, the sea might have owned my soul but another owned my heart.

  “Almost there!” I yelled to those behind me. “Start pulling the sails up, drop the oars, I see... Smoke?”

  Boulders landed in the pit of my stomach. It was too warm of a summer’s day, even in the cooling sunset, for there to be many fires, and that much smoke rising could only mean one thing.

  “Armor up!” I roared as I hopped down and ran across the ship to my chest. “Half of you row us in, the other half armor up then switch with the first. Be prepared to land on your feet and attack as soon as we touch, drive the boat onto the beach to the south side. Make speed, the lives of our loved ones may very well depend on it!”

  Chain mail and padded leather was donned, helms placed, and weapons were readied. Whoever was attacking would get a nasty surprise of forty-seven battle-ready warriors flanking them. Orm Ulfson and I waited together at the prow, both of us carrying war axes in each hand. The tall, lithe man radiated a sense of calm anticipation.

  “Torhild,” I said in a harsh whisper. Orm nodded.

  “She is a strong and fierce woman, she was chosen well.”

  Orm’s dusky blond beard waved in the wind as his hand clamped onto my arm as my own bear mitt wrapped around his, the pale green of his tunic matched his determined eyes as they frowned on me. Both of us gave the other a wide grin that was half snarl. We were ready.

  “Land ahead!” I shouted over the wind as I climbed the bow and turned to face my crew. I pulled one of my battle axes out of my belt and raised it into the air. “Someone decided to go viking in our home, our village, threatening our people. Will we stand for this?”

  “NO!” forty-six voices roared their answer. Forty-six angry men and women, all battle-trained, more than half battle-hardened.

  “We are Norsemen, we are warriors, and we will not stand for such an insult! What will we bring to those who are stupid enough to threat
en us and ours?”

  “DEATH!”

  We landed with a lurch, those of us on the edge used the momentum to launch themselves off the sides. Like the sea we poured forth onto the beach and stormed into the village, blood lust and the promise of death rode our battle cries.

  The scene we were greeted with was not what we expected. The shock of the sight made my crew and I pause as one in disbelief.

  Four scattered huts were on fire, all were away from the central mead hall and towards the edges of the village. Buckets of water were being rushed over from the stream that ran through the village as men, women, and children worked together to try to save the buildings from their blazes. A few people were curled up in fetal positions, gibbering in terror, their colorful tunics or overdresses torn. A blood-curdling scream erupted from the very center of the column of sailors which made all of us jump as we spun to face the noise, prepared to cut, stab, and bash the source without a moment’s hesitation.

  There was only air.

  “Brandur!”

  My heart sang at the sound of my name coming from her lips. Disheveled, carrying an empty bucket, her red overdress soot-stained, and her golden-red waves in a tangle, Torhild had never looked so beautiful to me as she did then. We ran to each other and embraced each other tightly, my chain pressing into her as her bucket bounced on my back. She smelled of raspberries, smoke, and sea as I buried my face into her hair.

  “Alas my dear Brandur, misfortune has struck the village,” Torhild sighed into my neck. “Here, have the sailors help put out the fires. Once things settle again I’ll announce an emergency Thing to be held.”

  Even before I turned to relay the order, my sailors dispersed into the disorganized chaos that was Darlthveit with Orm at their lead. His unshakable aura of calm lending the confidence the shaken sailors and villagers were in dire need of.

  “What happened, my dearest?” I gently pushed her back and held onto her strong, well-muscled shoulders and looked into her sky blue eyes in the failing light of the sun. The darkness under them and the pinched brows further accentuated the stark cheeks and deep-set eyes within her oval face, and her long, thin nose flared with each exhausted breath.

  “An enemy has come, my dear husband, one that we don’t know how to fight, for they are unseen. The enemy cannot be touched or driven away, and it has been slowly driving the village mad. Today, an hour before sunset, four different huts’ fires were driven from the hearths. Yesterday Aleifr Einarsson’s house collapsed. Every night, since you left three days ago, we have lost someone while two more are driven mad by the screams. I fear that somehow we have angered the gods, the landvættir, or worse.”

  “Torhild, what you speak of is utter madness! How could we have angered Odin and his kin? Or the nature spirits? We live good lives, we honor the laws of the gods, we make offerings, and are kind to the land. There has to be an actual enemy, all of this must have some sort of explanation.”

  Something struck the back of my bowl helm with a quiet ting. I immediately swung around with my axes in hand, my anger and blood-lust boiling out in a wave, only to see nothing. I looked down. At my feet was a small pebble lying in the dirt, a plume of dust settled around it. I circled in place, looking for the culprit who would dare to jokingly toss pebbles at someone in a time like this.

  “This is what I mean, there is no one there who could have tossed that. The pebbles and sticks coming from nowhere are what started all of this,” Torhild rested a reassuring hand on my arm to stop me while she shook her head in defeat. “Come my husband, let us help where we can.”

  Everyone was soon gathered into the mead hall once the fires were under control. The fires in the two hearths and the torches only did so much to light the dim, smoky hall. My Torhild waived forth the Speaker of Law, grizzled old Trygve, who was hunched and stooped with old age. He relied on the strong arm of his apprentice to navigate onto the low dias. Trygve’s lean, wrinkled face, hooked nose, and deep brow earned him the nickname Old Eagle, though the children weren’t frightened by his avian appearance. He handed out sweets and toys too freely for them to have any fear of the old man.

  With the recital of the laws, the Thing was officially started. Torhild took front and center before all, a pillar of strength and confidence in her blue linen underdress that made the red of her overdress that much more startling; her amber and colored beads about her neck gently clinked as she took her place. The light of the fire made her golden-red locks glow as if they were alight, and her broad cheekbones looked stark and sharp.

  “Dear citizens of Darlthveit, as you have seen we are under a grievous attack. What is worse, we have no tools or weapons at our disposal to be able to defend ourselves. We are not being attacked by flesh and blood warriors, but by the unseen. Our minds and bodies have been put to the test these past few days, and I shall be upfront; neither I nor the council know how to protect Darlthveit.”

  I scanned over the crowd from my place on the raised dais and listened to the people as they murmured to each other and shifted nervously at Torhild’s stern, dark tone. Faces, already tight with strain, blanched, others silently dripped tears, and a few of the most stalwart tightened their jaws defiantly at the announcement. For Torhild—the Jarl of Darlthveit , the most glorified shield maiden the village had ever seen, the woman who never backed down from a challenge—to admit she was powerless, was a shock to the entire community.

  “As many of you know, people have also been taken to never be seen from again; hale men, smart women, and bright children. People who wouldn’t wander or get lost; some of the best among us. We will be enacting a curfew in all of the villages and advise people to go out in groups of twos and threes until we know more. The floor is now open. Please, if anyone has any knowledge on how to help our situations come forward now.”

  “What could we have done to anger the draugr?” Young Hilda asked from the front. Small and pale, Hilda had always been a frail child. However, what she lacked in physical prowess and constitution, she made up with her intelligence and relentless personality.

  “Nothing, dear Hilda. We honor the gods, properly bury our dead, and we live good lives. I promise you little one, we are going to do everything in our power to fix what is happening,” Torhild said; a gentle smile graced her face as she kneeled in front of the child. Hilda boldly met the older woman’s eyes with a stubborn jut of her slim jaw.

  “Well if we are being bothered by something we can’t see, we should find someone who can.”

  “From the mouth of...” Torhild shot up and pointed to a few of the oldest elders in the village. “Please honored elders, join me. Everyone else, if there are no other voices that wish to speak I shall dismiss tonight’s Thing. Anyone? Then return to your homes, stay together, and may Odin watch over all of us.”

  The gathering and its people dispersed with a low hum of anxious whispers, as if everyone was afraid to raise their voices lest they drew the attention of our unseen aggressors. Torhild waved me over to a table where we were joined by three elders; Trygve, the old widow Solveig wrapped in the bear furs she had hunted herself five years past, and ancient Lokison with his skin so shriveled one could hardly see the features of his face.

  “I remember hearing tales as a child of the völva. Is she-“

  “Torhild, I can’t believe what I’m hearing!” I pushed myself down the bench so I could turn and face her, my brows pinched in disbelief. “Völvas are children’s stories told to the unruly ones to make them mind. We need real solutions, to track who summoned Loki into our midst, not some herb addled crone that lives in a hollow somewhere like a troll!”

  “That is not a kind way to speak about your grandmother, child,” Solveig’s soft, gentle voice had a rare edge to it as she silenced my rant. “While you may be married to her, Torhild is still your Jarl and this is not your hut. Speak to her how you would like in private, if she does not like it she can easily leave your marriage bed if she so chooses, but while she is Jarl you shall treat h
er with the respect and honor she deserves or I will switch you on the rear myself.”

  I wasn’t sure which caught me more off guard: the implication that my unknown grandmother was a völva or the idea of this withered woman, who was maybe a third of my bulk and half my height, whipping me with a switch. Torhild’s shoulders shook with restrained laughter even as her jaw went slack with shock. She quietly and quickly smacked her leg with her hand, one of her tells that belied her attempt to contain her excitement. The merriment was probably from the idea of the old woman taking a switch to me.

  “The old huntress is right,” Lokison said with a toothless smile, his ancient voice still powerful and deep even though it wavered with age. “There is more to your lineage than you know boy. When I first came to this village as a battle-hardened man, your grandmother was a blossoming woman and already had a reputation for being fae touched. Her husband tried to tame her when she finally did marry, but she soon left him, your infant mother, and her husband’s beatings to live in the woods. You remember your grandfather’s scarred face?”

  “Yes,” I responded, my brows knitted together in confusion. “But that was from the bear attack that nearly killed him.”

  “Yes, a she-bear named Magnhild. Skin like polished bronze, hair as inky as a moonless sky, body as curved as the rolling hills. Your great grandfather brought her mother back with him when he went viking down south. Where do you think you get your tree bark hair, your coarse features, your broad build? That’s from your grandmother’s southern stock.”

  “Trygve?” I turned to the speaker of the laws, the wisest and most learned person in the village. “Is this true? Why has no one told me?”