Realm of Fate
Kelly N. Jane
18th Avenue Press
1
Ingrid
Ingrid knew how to breathe once; a moment ago—a lifetime ago. Now, the air seared her lungs. Not with the stench of sulfur, as it should have, but with the cloying scent of wildflowers. A suffocating blanket.
Her heart pounded like a war drum, demanding and steady.
Ingrid attempted to bring her hand up to shade her eyes from the sun, but it snagged on the arm wrapped tightly around her waist. The warm body against her back crept into her awareness, and she tensed.
“Welcome to Alfheim, Ingrid,” the dark elf whispered against her cheek.
Flinching from the warm breath, Ingrid pushed herself away from Jarrick. Her knees buckled, and she fell into the soft grass. Her back still echoed with the heat of dragon fire, the blistering inferno loosed from the skies because of Jarrick—the very creature standing before her.
Everyone she’d left in the courtyard on Midgard . . . was dead.
There was no way they could have escaped.
Bile rose as fear of what had become of those she cared for mixed with anger, overwhelming her body. Ingrid twisted and vomited into the turf. Her head spun. How could this have happened? I shouldn’t be alive if they aren’t.
Thoughts swirled in her head until she took slow even breaths, willing herself to calm and take in her surroundings. Jarrick had stepped back when she’d lost her stomach. She lifted her chin and welcomed even the tiniest addition to the distance between them. Ahead of her was a small grouping of tall bushes and beyond that, trees.
If she ran hard enough, perhaps she could get lost in the shrubbery. She had the advantage of her small size and could find a sliver of a space to hide. Then she could run farther. Get away and try a portal of her own. She’d never made one to travel between realms, and it was dangerous if she made a mistake, but what did it matter? The only person she’d hurt was herself. It was worth the effort.
Peeking over her shoulder to be sure Jarrick was looking away, she bolted. She stumbled as she rounded the edge of the first tall gorse-like bush, with its small yellow flowers and straggly branches. There were no footsteps behind her.
I got away! Ingrid slowed a half-step and twisted her neck to peer behind. Why isn’t he following me?
Before she could turn her head forward again, she ran into a wall. A solid, yet warm and springy barrier. With an oof, she fell to her backside in the grass. She groaned a bit as she sat up and refocused her eyes.
In front of her, stood a pair of long, white, slender legs with tufts of hair fluttering above glistening black hooves. She followed the legs up to the majestic arc of an equine neck with a long, flowing white mane. As she continued, her eyes took in the beautiful head, and she gasped.
Between the attentive ears turned in her direction, was a glittery silver spire. It spiraled sharply into the air half the length of Ingrid’s body and seemed to glow in the sunlight. The entire horse had an aura, like the sparkle of untouched snow on a sunny day.
Nowhere in her mind could Ingrid’s imagination create such a being. She would have thought herself mad if she’d dreamed of something so spectacular.
The large dark eyes of the creature stared at Ingrid as a song-like voice, quiet and far away, played in the back of her mind. Almost imperceptible at first, it grew louder as she kept focused on the majestic unicorn.
Hello, Ingrid.
Ingrid cringed and slid her foot backward. She stared on, wide-eyed and unable to process the voice inside her head. Had she let her mental barriers fall? How did the creature speak to her?
Your barriers are solid and well-crafted, yet they are ineffective on my kind. Have no fear of me, child. It is rare that one from Midgard finds their way to our lands—especially one such as yourself. It is an honor to meet you.
“How do you know who I am?” Ingrid whispered though she wasn’t sure if it was out loud or in her head.
For a millennium, the realms have watched the collapse of the spell safeguarding Midgard. It was foretold that Freya’s descendant would rise to restore or destroy the protections. Your name has spread throughout all the realms.
A slight shift in the air brought a cinnamon scent, and the flick of the unicorn’s gaze over Ingrid’s shoulder let her know Jarrick had arrived.
Your strength will see you through with your task. Watch your surroundings and take care, honored one. We will speak again.
Wait! Who are you? Can you help me?
Curiosity dragged Ingrid out of her nervous panic, and she didn’t want to miss her chance to understand the beautiful animal.
My name is Vimala. I am the fylgia of King Thelonius. I am at your service should you ever need me.
Can you get me out of here? Take me home?
No, I am afraid I cannot. As a fylgia, I am bonded to the king, and therefore, to Alfheim, but I will do what I can when the time comes. The king wishes you no harm and has concerns about his brother’s state of mind.
You are not alone, as you believe, Ingrid. But take heart, you have the strength and ability to save yourself as much as you will others. The foretold events are unavoidable.
Vimala nodded her grand head slightly, careful of the glittering silver horn, then sauntered away. Her unhurried pace disappeared into the trees as Ingrid watched, stunned.
“Those carefully constructed mind barriers that Eir helped you create must not have kept Vimala out. You look as though you’re ready to collapse,” Jarrick said from behind her. His tone was smug as if he’d known Ingrid wouldn’t get far when she ran.
There was also a hint of curiosity. His words seemed to imply she’d blocked him from her mind, at least.
Jorg could hear Ingrid’s thoughts. They had believed it was because of their connection to each other. But when she’d trained with the goddess, Eir, Ingrid had learned that any immortal being with the desire to listen could hear her thoughts. After that, she’d studied the technique to palisade her mind.
Ingrid let out a slow breath and turned her focus to Jarrick.
“Shall we head to the palace, or would you like to stumble around in the wilderness for a while yet? You will surely come across others more dangerous than Vimala. Since that would cause trouble for both of us, I’d prefer you to come with me.” Jarrick eased into a crooked grin while his eyes narrowed with a predatory gleam.
I’d rather fall on my dagger.
Tears pricked at her eyes as she remembered that she no longer had the knife Jorg had given her. The beautifully carved handle that fitted perfectly into her palm but hadn’t helped her save his life. She’d lost that, too, along with everything else, in the courtyard’s ash.
She would find time to mourn later. Right then, she needed to stay strong. The battlefield may have changed, but the fight continued.
Ingrid reached for her energies—the healing power she held deep within her core—to calm her nerves and strengthen her body, perhaps even guard against Jarrick. But they were missing.
Not so much gone as they were inaccessible—as if someone or something had locked them away. She could feel them flutter, but she couldn’t use them. They were as much a prisoner as she was.
Ingrid and Jarrick stood on the top of a serene hillside, amid bright green grasses dotted with yellow, orange, and blue. Willowy clouds floated through a purple-tinted sky overhead.
In the distance, at the base of a towering mountain, sprawled a city with buildings of gleaming cream-colored stone. Flags of red and teal fluttered in the center where various multi-colored tents rose above one-story buildings. Above it all, nestled into the side of a snow-capped mountain, sat a castle sparkling like a gem.
It was an idyllic sight. Nausea rolled through
Ingrid’s stomach. Everything was wrong.
Her view should have been warriors—stretched to the horizon in gleaming battle gear, shrieking and slaying. Axes, maces, and swords flying with deadly accuracy. Berserkers preparing for Ragnarök on the fields of Valhalla.
That’s where everyone else was. At least she hoped they were. Would Odin’s valkyries choose a dwarf or a half-elf? Would they get a chance for glory in the afterlife? Ingrid had never considered an alternative. What was Alfheim’s place for their dead? Was Jorg welcomed there if he wasn’t in Valhalla?
There was no doubt in her mind that glory awaited Selby, and Bremen, too, most likely. But what of the others?
She wanted to scream, but instead, she clamped her mouth tight. Inhaling, she’d let the pretentious dark elf have his way for now. “Where are we going?” she asked between clenched teeth.
Jarrick gestured to the city in the distance. “I had thought we’d go into Lyallona, to acquaint you with your new home, but it appears you need time to adjust first. We’ll go straight to the palace.” He offered his hand to Ingrid, with a look that was clear she needed to accept.
There was a flash of light, and then they were in the middle of a wide, pebbled pathway in front of the main gates to the palace. Ingrid wobbled on her feet, and Jarrick braced her against himself.
“Careful now, you’re still weak.”
As much as she hated to accept his help, her legs felt like young saplings that couldn’t withstand a simple breeze when he ushered her forward.
“Using a portal unexpectedly doesn’t help, either,” she mumbled. It occurred to her then that it was daytime. The moon had been rising over the embattled courtyard she’d left behind—before Jarrick had ripped her away. “How is it daylight? Twilight had fallen when we left.”
“The solar cycle is different. Midgard moves at the hurried pace of a petulant child. Alfheim has a more reasonable atmosphere for immortal life.” Jarrick slipped her hand under his elbow as they headed toward the gates.
“Why didn’t we portal inside?” Ingrid asked as she absorbed all the sights.
“There are wards that prevent portals within the palace grounds. Annoying more than anything, but they exist by the king’s orders.” A hint of disdain laced Jarrick’s words.
As they walked through the gates and followed the wide path that curved upward to the glittering building sitting high above the city, Ingrid took special notice of the casual way the guards carried themselves. Unprepared for invasion, they appeared bored as if they were merely ornaments to complete the look of security.
I doubt they’ve ever had to defend the palace. That will work for me.
Jarrick didn’t lead Ingrid to the front of the palace, but instead, they followed a smaller path around to the side. A different set of stairs greeted them, equal in splendor to those in the front, and they led to doors made of glass that shimmered like crystal.
Stone that shone like silver and seemed embedded with tiny diamonds formed the palace walls. Starburst pops of colorful light shimmered off the smooth surface from all directions. Ingrid had to arch her neck to see the top of the palace spires.
From the front, when they’d sauntered up the winding pathway, it had looked like the building was square, but as they stepped around to the side doors where they entered, another long wing extended toward the back. It was impossible to estimate how large the structure was. Ingrid lost count of how many longhouses would fit inside it and gave up trying.
The grand doors opened on their own as they approached. Not three steps inside the marble-floored corridor, Dúngarr stood waiting.
Bile rose to her throat. The one who had terrorized her family and threatened to destroy her village stood within an arm’s reach.
2
Ingrid
Dúngarr should be dead, not standing there in front of her as if nothing was wrong. One way or another, she would make him pay for his crimes.
“Hello again, Ingrid. I’m sorry I missed you earlier,” Dúngarr said. The implication of her village’s demise twisted his lips upward in sinister glee.
Numb to any more pain, she accepted the confirmation of her destroyed family without an outward flinch. In her mind, it made little sense to her why she was left to suffer as the lone survivor. The responsibilities of her destiny required too much. Why did she need to be alone?
“Ingrid is here, as our guest. There will be no more talk of the past,” Jarrick commanded. Dúngarr nodded, though it appeared to pain him. “Good, then what other news do you have for me?”
“Urkon has arrived and is waiting in your parlor. He has expressed that you should not delay, as he is busy with many tasks.”
Jarrick chuffed with an amused look on his face. “Perhaps one day he’ll truly be as important to the realms as he thinks he is.” Turning to Ingrid, he met her hardened gaze and glanced down at her fists held tight at her side. “There are rooms ready for you that I believe you will find quite comfortable. Dúngarr will escort you as I tend to my business.”
Ingrid snapped her glare from the guard to Jarrick. Flames shooting from her eyes as she saw the hint of amusement in his. She held her breath. The cinnamon scent that surrounded Jarrick flared into a burning sensation in her nose and clawed at her throat. Without her powers, Ingrid had to accept that she was the weakest in the room.
“I’m sure I can find my own way,” Ingrid offered. She tipped her chin up and held firm. The rush of blood screamed through her ears.
“As I said earlier, you are an honored guest here, Ingrid. You’ll be treated with the utmost consideration.”
So valuable that you killed everyone close to me without care.
Ingrid bristled—it might be a gilded cage, but she was no less a prisoner. In her peripheral vision, she saw the momentary curl to Dúngarr’s lip. He didn’t want to be near her any more than she did him.
An ironic pleasure passed through Ingrid. Dandelion eater. That’s what Plintze had called the henchman when they’d first met. It made Ingrid smile at her friend’s ability to stand against such a threat. She would do the same.
“Follow me,” Dúngarr growled as he strode down the hall, not looking to see if Ingrid followed.
With one last glare at Jarrick, she sighed and shuffled after the guard. Deliberate to keep her steps slow, she bit her lip to keep from grinning as she watched Dúngarr slow, so he didn’t get too far ahead.
“Keep up,” he snapped over his shoulder when they were away from Jarrick.
Ingrid slowed.
She busied herself studying the gleaming cream-colored hallways with plush rugs and golden sconces. Before long, they all blended together, and Ingrid was sure she’d never find her way anywhere on her own. It seemed as though they might have walked in circles, but she couldn’t be sure.
Finally, they stopped in front of a set of double doors that gleamed with flecks of gold against polished ebony wood. A circle of interwoven designs was split down the center where the doors met, and as Ingrid peered closer, the looped lines appeared to be some kind of writing.
A flicker in the back of her brain made her search her memories. Like a faint shadow of something she had known before, but it disappeared in the dark corners of her mind.
Just like my powers.
Dúngarr wiped his fingers on his trousers after he pushed Ingrid through the doors. With a hard swallow, she peeked down at herself. A lock of her hair fell across her face, and she brushed the golden strands aside, reminded that her appearance was as disorderly as her mood. The braid down her back had tugged free in spots during the earlier battle. A breeze coming through the open archways on the other side of the room lifted a smell from her body.
Afraid to leave smudges of blood and dirt in the pristine room, Ingrid took several tentative steps inside. From where the curtains fluttered, she could see a balcony and drifted toward the open air.
With a start, she realized Dúngarr was still there. She’d become mesmerized by the large open space. A
n oval dining table sat to her left with a silver candle holder with more than a half dozen candles. Not a bit of wax dripped down the edges though they’d clearly been lit before.
Beyond the table was a fireplace as tall as Ingrid with oversized cushioned chairs on either side. Flames sparked to life as she watched, and screams tore at her memory. The smell of smoke and burning flesh searing through her.
“Stop! Put it out!” she screamed and spun to face Dúngarr. Confusion flashed over his features before one corner of his mouth tilted in mocking derision. Yet, he flicked his fingers toward the fire and snuffed it out. Wispy tendrils of smoke left abandoned, wavered until they dissipated.
Ingrid turned away from the guard and closed her eyes. The nauseous feeling rolled to a stop before she opened them again. She needed fresh air.
Ducking past the gauzy fabric as it lifted on its own with a breeze, Ingrid slipped outside. In the distance, she could see the hillside where she’d arrived on Alfheim. Lazy creatures that seemed to be large cats, but had twin horns spiraling from their brows, lounged among the fields of green from her new view. The breeze looped around her and brought more of the insufferable floral scent, making her dizzy.
Movement below on the grass surrounding the palace caught her attention. Jarrick spoke with another man as they strolled.
“Spying is a dangerous game, Ingrid.” Dúngarr’s gruff voice rasped against the back of her neck.
Why won’t you leave? Or die? “Who is that?” If the guard planned to stay, he might as well provide her with some information.
Dúngarr raised the corners of his lips but stared with the eyes of a predator. “That’s Urkon, the master of all seiðr magic. Once he destroys Freya’s lineage, he can take back full control of the power that emanates from the Yggdrasil tree. He’ll be unbound and the most powerful force in all the realms. Then all those haughty Asgardians will be reduced to slaves or dead.” The tone of his words slipped from admiration to disgust in a blink.
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