“I’m fine as I am, thank you,” Aleks said, stiffly, crossing his arms. “I see no need to be like my fey family.”
“With your powers returned to you and the Lost Well in your pocket, you could rule all four courts,” she said, tempting him.
“How do you know we’ve located it?” asked Filip, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow.
“Because it is his destiny,” replied the witch, smiling wide and revealing a snaggletooth. “He is to be their king, but only if he wants to be. That was the choice his sibling gave him by bringing him to me nearly fourteen years ago, otherwise he’d be dead.”
“No way,” Aleks swore. “Not ever – and I don’t believe either of my fey siblings would, what word did you use? Rescue. They would never rescue me.” He made air quotes when he said the word rescue. “Lukas and Nori are too self-serving. No deal. We require seven pairs of Queen Helena’s shoes. You’ll have to make us five.”
The witch raised a brow. “I don’t have to do anything, Changeling. I can give you the two pairs that belong to you. Just pay my storage fee and they’re yours right now.”
“Queen Helena would have paid the storage fee on the pair she left for her daughter,” Hector rejected. “I have in my bag the enchanted tablecloth you requested for my fee. We still need five more pairs of shoes.”
The witch held out her hand. “Fine,” she snapped. “Had I known how long the wait would have been, I would have charged Queen Helena annually.”
Hector pressed the bag into her hands. She opened it and inspected the fabric. She sniffed approvingly and tucked the bag away inside her home. When she turned back, two gleaming pairs of golden shoes dangled from her fingertips, both sets clunky and oddly shaped. They looked very uncomfortable, nothing like the sneakers that Koll had worn as the doppelganger.
“Put them on,” Hector told Zaria when she took a pair.
She removed her tennis shoes and put on the clunky golden shoes. They were heavy and awkward. Before she could say so, a flash of golden yellow light burst across her vision. When the spots faded, she saw that her shoes were re-formed.
“They’re Mary Janes,” she said, surprised, twisting and turning to take them in. They were lighter, too. She didn’t understand how it was possible.
“His are hiking boots,” Aleks said, pointing at Hector’s feet. “That’s funny. Why do the shoes change shape?”
“To fit their wearer,” the witch said.
“Oh, so like the seven-league boots. You have to have the pair though, right?” Filip said. “For them to reshape?”
The witch shook her head. “No, the shoes will change to fit whomever’s feet they sit upon. Be careful,” she warned. “Until you step foot on the Gjallarbrú, the shoes can come off. If they come off, someone else can wear them, and if they step on the bridge, you’ll never get them back.”
“This is going to be the ultimate game of keep-away,” Christoffer said, rubbing his hands together gleefully.
Zaria nodded. “We must keep the shoes from Olaf.”
“And also away from Floki,” Geirr said. “He’s still at the camp with his mounted dwarven regiment.”
“The other pairs of shoes,” Hector cut in, returning the conversation to the task at hand. “We must hurry.”
“You know, I cannot simply create Helena’s shoes,” the witch said. “The golden shoes require her touch of magic in order to cross the Gjallarbrú. I can create the base of the other shoes, but that’s it. The final magic must come from Queen Helena. The bridge knows the difference between a real pair of her shoes and a fake. You’d be tossed from it the minute your foot touches a single plank.”
“She will give them her blessing,” said Hector confidently. “Now let us work out the trade; invite me inside.”
The witch stared at Zaria in quiet contemplation before turning her gaze back to Hector. “Perhaps, just perhaps, the great sorceress might, Stag Lord.” She opened the bottom half of the door. “Do come in, and let us discuss this trade. I’ll require more than a fancy tablecloth this time.”
“I never doubted it,” he replied.
Filip tried to follow, but the witch shut the door on him. He rubbed his nose and glared. “That was uncalled for, witch.”
A muffled cackle echoed from inside the witch’s home. Zaria shook her head and circled the tree, running the pads of her fingers along the carvings. As she came back around she saw her friends sitting and talking in happy murmurs in the tall grass. She joined them, and rested her back against Aleks’, sticking her feet out in front of her.
She admired the golden shoes – how they shimmered in the diffused light, the feel of them on her feet, their old-timey look. Looking at them, Zaria felt how fictional heroines like Cinderella or Dorothy must have felt when they wore their glass and silver shoes – as if a pair of shoes could make all the difference in the world. She almost felt silly for thinking it, but somehow, at this moment, sitting here with her friends, waiting on Hector and the witch, Zaria knew things would work out.
“May I try them?” asked Christoffer.
“Sure,” Zaria said, taking them off her feet.
The blinding golden light returned and danced across her vision, reverting the golden shoes to their clunky beginnings. Christoffer shucked his hiking boots and stuffed his feet inside. He winced.
“Wow, these are not that comfortable at all. They pinch,” he complained just as the magic in the shoes flashed. “Oh, wow. I take that back. These are awesome!”
“Nice treads,” commented Aleks, turning around to look. “I bet you can hike a lot longer in those before you start whining about your feet aching.”
Christoffer threw him a mock-glare. “I have a hole in my sole,” he said, picking up his old pair and waving it under Aleks’ nose. “You’d whine, too.”
“Okay, hand them over. Let me try,” said Filip, pushing his socked feet into Christoffer’s face.
“Gross,” Christoffer said, shoving Filip away. “Your feet stink worse than troll breath. Zaria you don’t want his feet anywhere near your shoes.”
Filip laughed. “I can take off my socks if you’d like, mate.”
“And smell something even more disgusting? No, thank you. Here.”
Filip caught the shoes and donned them. He stood up, waiting for them to readjust. Golden light flared around his ankles and the shoes cobbled to fit Filip’s style and personality. They were high-top sneakers with black laces. He bounced on them.
“Lots of shock absorption. Very springy. Not at all like I expected.”
“Me next,” Geirr said, taking the shoes and sticking his large feet into them. The shoes shimmered and resized into shiny metallic loafers with tassels.
“You look like you’re going to dine with the elf queen,” Christoffer joked. “Take those off, and let Aleks have a go.”
On Aleks, the shoes turned into a pair of fancy boat shoes with thick leather laces. “These are the best fitting shoes I’ve ever worn.”
“If they’re meant to be shoes to trap prisoners in the Under Realm, why are they so nice?” asked Geirr. “Does that make any sense to you?”
“It’s magic,” Christoffer said with a shrug. “Does it have to make sense?”
Satiated, Hart rejoined them, settling onto the ground with a grunt. He looked better. Not nearly so tired. Not nearly so drained.
“Do the shoes turn into hooves on you?” Filip asked, nudging the elk’s shoulder.
Hart blinked and rested his head on his forelegs.
“Is that a yes?” Filip asked Zaria, unable to interpret Hart’s expression.
She laughed at them both and took the shoes back from Aleks, replacing them on her feet, where they resumed once more their Mary Jane appearance.
“What type of footwear does a troll wear?” she asked.
“Whatever kind they like, I suppose,” said Aleks, just as his stomach grumbled reminding them they were all hungry. “I don’t suppose anyone has any food?”
&n
bsp; The witch opened the top half of her door and stuck her head out. “With what the Stag Lord has just agreed to pay for your shoes, I can throw in a little food for the road.”
Hector appeared in the doorway. He smiled at the witch, as she came out with the tablecloth and shook it out. As the wrinkles were smoothed out, plates began to appear. Salmon rolls with asparagus, roast hare with lingonberries, lamb in buttermilk, and piping hot rolls. They would be completely sated before heading back to Silje’s and Kafirr’s camp. Zaria conjured up a second apple cake and some vanilla ice cream, much to Aleks’ delight. It didn’t even matter that the ice cream was a little soupier than it should be.
“Shoo. Out you go, so I can make the shoes. Trade secrets and all,” the witch said, pushing Hector out of her home. “I can’t have you knowing my recipe, because, then, just any fool could make a pair.”
Hector cast the witch a bemused look and left her tree to join the children at their meal. The witch motioned to Geirr and Filip to come get a jug of water, a pot of pine tea, and some yellow mugs. Then she shut the door. When everything was passed around, Hector and the boys sat on the ground. Hector beside his son, and the boys wedged between Zaria and Aleks.
Zaria tore a chunk of bread with her teeth and began to chew as strange noises came from the tree. There were clinks and cracks, clunks and clangs, crashes and curses, clatters, crunches, chimes, and clashes, not to mention all kinds of cacophony, clamor, and commotion. Zaria even thought she heard a cat at one point.
“Good Lord,” said Christoffer, staring at the tree in astonishment. “What on earth is going on in there?”
“A cobbler at her task,” said Hector, taking a bite of the salmon roll. “A lot of labor and charm work go into making a pair of magical shoes.”
Zaria looked at him and asked, “What did you agree to pay for the shoes?”
Hector nodded to Hart. “I promised her that Hart would come help her in the summer. One summer for each pair of shoes we need.”
“So five in all?” asked Aleks frowning. “That’s more than she required of me.”
Hart gave his father a side-long glance and gave him a forceful nudge.
“You’re not her slave, lad,” Hector said, rolling his eyes. “You’ll be free to come and go as you please, but you’re to help her prepare for the winters – chop wood, gather herbs, mend things, run errands, initiate trades, provide her company. The witch is a very good friend to have.”
Hart huffed and nodded. As he laid his head on his hooves and settled in for a nap, the racket in the tree came to a sudden stop. Zaria and her friends turned to the door as its top half slid open.
The witch looked smug when she said, “Well, what are you waiting for, an invitation to tea? Come, get your golden shoes.”
Nobody had to be told twice.
Chapter Eleven: Crossing the Gjallarbrú
“Our best way to the bridge is to go through the camp,” Hector said as dusk settled and blanketed the site in a purplish haze.
“But, we’ll go past all of the dwarves and trolls,” protested Aleks.
“Not a good idea,” said Christoffer. “The dwarves are traitors, and we don’t even know if the trolls are loyal.”
“There’s no help for it. We’re about to find out,” Hector replied.
The seven of them were crouched on a hill behind some rotting and putrid alder trees, which Hector assured them were not poor and blighted ellefolken.
“Not every tree in the forest is one of us, you know,” he commented wryly, when Christoffer had asked the question earlier.
Their view of the camp was diminished by the fencing the giants had completed in the night. Smoke rose from the remnants of burning tents. Fog billowed low on the ground as winter-wyverns and their riders landed and took off for patrols.
Zaria watched the sluggish scene below, as warriors changed shifts and shuffled from the perimeter to their tents and vice versa. Queen Silje was nowhere to be seen, but King Kafirr sat like a boulder on his throne, silent and impassive, a menacing presence over the scene. His pale blue eyes tracked every flicker of movement. He would spot them the instant they left their meager camouflage.
“I really, really hope he’s on our side,” Zaria said uneasily. “Can’t we go around?”
“There is no around,” Geirr said, pointing to several figures on either side of the bridge. “The giants line the path to the water on the left and right.”
“They look like they’re asleep,” Christoffer said, running his hand through his hair. “I bet they won’t be a problem.”
“How do you suppose you’ll scale one of the giants, lad?” said Hector. “No, it’s too difficult to get around the giants’ sleeping quarters. The time it would take to explain things to them and gain their help is time we do not have. It’s through the camp or not at all.”
“Well, I’m ready. Let’s do this,” Geirr said, leaning down into a runner’s crouch.
Hector laid a hand on Zaria’s shoulder and looked them each in turn. “Children, it’s imperative you do not let the shoes leave your feet; and no matter what happens, keep running to that bridge. Do not stop.”
“When is it safe to stop running?” Zaria asked.
“Once you step foot on the bridge,” Hector said. “The river’s wild magic will seal the shoes to our feet. Hopefully, Helena does the rest.”
Worried, Zaria clenched her hands around the hilt of the Drakeland Sword, where it rested on her hip. “Will she? I know my shoes and yours will work, but what about the others?”
“We have to hope that Helena is paying attention and can bless the other five pairs before the wild magic chucks them off the bridge.”
“How likely is that to happen?” asked Aleks, joining Geirr in a runner’s starter position. “Getting tossed from the bridge, I mean.”
“Not likely,” Hector said, before adding under his breath, “I hope.”
“At least there’s that,” Christoffer said, readying himself for the race to come.
“What?” Zaria asked, distracted as Floki appeared from his tent and walked across the camp to Kafirr.
“Hope,” replied Christoffer.
“Princess, get on Hart. He’ll run you to the bridge,” Hector said. “Keep the sword sheathed if you can. Don’t lose it. It’s the best weapon against Koll.”
“I won’t,” Zaria promised, letting the Stag Lord help her onto Hart’s back.
Hart’s hindquarters dropped under her weight and he almost fell to the ground. He scrambled for purchase, regaining his balance with a grunt. She patted his side and leaned low over his neck, holding tight.
“You four will be first,” said Hector to the boys. “I need you to flush out all the dwarves.”
“Lovely, we’re bait,” Geirr muttered, feeling for the short sword at his waist. “I hope I won’t need this.”
“First one to the fencing, wins,” Christoffer joked.
“On my mark, lads,” said Hector, watching Floki and Kafirr with narrowed eyes. “Now,” he yelled the second Floki’s back was turned toward them.
The boys sprinted forward, barreling through the last of the trees. Aleks reached the fence first and scaled it in a single bound. Filip, seconds behind him, used two hands to propel himself over.
They vanished from sight for a single, tense, second before Zaria saw them halfway through the camp. Aleks had his bow notched with a single arrow, ready to go. Firelight glinted off their golden shoes gaining the attention of several dwarves patrolling between the tents.
“Intruders,” yelled one with a smushed face and stringy beard. “Get them!”
Dwarves, elves, ellfolken, and trolls poured out of the tents by the dozens. The giants sat upright, blinking in confusion at the woods on either side of the camp. Most were struggling to grab their weapons and to pull up their pants.
Christoffer and Geirr shouted to each other and scaled the spiked fence in an uncoordinated tangle of limbs, falling out of view on the other side. Near
by dwarves heard them and looked over.
“They’re wearing golden shoes,” shouted a young, freshly-shaven dwarf. “Stop them! They can’t get to the bridge.”
Zaria wanted to yell in frustration. Where were Christoffer and Geirr? She hadn’t seen them reappear. Aleks and Filip were halfway to the thrones, drawing Kafirr’s and Floki’s attention. The boys pivoted and dashed off in another direction. Hart shifted in agitation under her. He bugled at his father, who held him in place.
“Not yet,” said Hector. “Wait. We have to see how many we may have to fight. We have to see if the trolls are loyal. Patience, son.”
Zaria’s fingers clenched in Hart’s fur as Kafirr shouted something unintelligible and lumbered off his throne to a nearby tent. Floki sauntered after him. Silje poked her head out, her blonde hair in rollers.
“Who’s wearing golden shoes?” she said crossly, wrapping a robe around her form. She shooed her guards away.
“Hector and the children,” Zaria heard Kafirr say.
“Then, they’re not intruders,” Silje retorted, glaring at the mayhem in her camp as dwarves and trolls, elves and ellefolken, chased after four boys. “Stop this madness,” she shouted.
Her guards sprang into action, issuing orders to nearby elves and ellefolken. The fervor in their eyes melted away as the message passed through them to the rest of the camp.
“I agree,” said Kafirr, calling to his trolden and doing the same. “Anyone can see these human children are not our enemies.”
“Prince Floki,” Silje shouted above the din of armor rattling and clinking. “Call off your dwarves. Let the children pass.”
“Oh, I think not, Silje,” Floki drawled, grinning at the elf queen’s flummoxed expression. Kafirr lunged at Floki with his bare hands, snarling like a rabid beast, just as the prince yelled, “ATTACK!”
“Now,” Hector shouted, catching Hart and Zaria off guard. He vaulted forward and took off running, leaving them behind.
Dwarves swarmed over the scene, appearing from everywhere and nowhere. Zaria stared in aghast at their numbers, which were so many more than the contingent she had seen arrive at the camp last night.
Zaria Fierce and the Dragon Keeper's Golden Shoes Page 12
