The Legendary Inge

by Kate Stradling

  She pondered her father as she gently stowed each piece of his legacy under her bed. Torvald Geirson had been broad-shouldered and strong. He should have lived into decrepit old age with his beloved wife at his side. Instead, disease had swept through their village, and the parents had been too busy nurturing their children back to health to tend to their own needs.

  Their deaths a scant few days apart had been hard enough, but when word spread that the great Torvald Geirson had died, fortune-hunters and rogues alike showed up one by one at the smithy, each seeking to make off with any remaining work Torvald had left behind. Gunnar, barely recovered from his own bout with the illness, had fought off the intruders in turn, while Inge hid every scrap of metal that her father had ever touched.

  The moment she deemed all the younger children well enough to travel, they had boarded up their home and abandoned it for unfamiliar lands. With them, they took only the barest necessities and the family’s rug, which deftly concealed all of Torvald’s completed weapons, an assortment of blades that included the last four Virtue Swords, the true aim of the brigands.

  So far, she and Gunnar had been successful in keeping the swords from falling into any unscrupulous hands. Their father had made Loyalty for Gunnar, and Patience and Obedience were twin blades intended for Eirik and Einar once they were old enough. Respect had been Torvald’s own blade, a prototype of the entire series, and supposedly identical to the first sword, Valor. By all rights, it should have been buried with him, but neither Inge nor Gunnar could stomach the thought of grave-robbers. Given the rabid interest in his work, their father’s final resting place was sure to be disturbed, and together they determined that such fiends would not profit from that unholy exploit.

  Thus the Virtue Swords, which should have been a mark of excellence, became a burden, a secret to be kept above all other secrets. As a fresh army enlistee, Gunnar could not carry such a conspicuous weapon, and Eirik and Einar were too young to wield their swords, let alone defend themselves against those who might wish to confiscate the blades. When money troubles had hit, she couldn’t even sell one of the smaller blades without risk of exposing the secret. The cache required as much protection as the younger children did, lest her father’s life-work pass to hands that would use it with evil intent.

  Colonel Raske’s revelation about his own sword and Captain Bergstrom’s weighed heavy on Inge’s mind as she went to bed that night. Her father had chosen very carefully the recipients of the Virtue Swords. Each was commissioned for a specific person before he so much as smelted the ore. He made scores of other weapons, but the Virtue Swords were special. Inge had to reassess her growing dislike of Captain Bergstrom, if her father had honored him to such an extent. She thought she should probably confide in Gunnar about Colonel Raske as well, though she didn’t know if he would believe her.

  She drifted off to sleep amid thoughts of swords and family, longing for former days—days that could never be reclaimed. Above all, she wondered how long it would take King Halvard to humble himself enough to admit that she was a girl and send her on her way.

  If only the situation had been that simple.

  Hours later, Inge awoke to a strange scratching on her doorway. Her room was still dark, her windows barely illuminated from the first threads of dawn on the far-off horizon. She sat up blearily and peered at the door. Instinct told her it was rats gnawing on the posts, except that the sound didn’t seem to originate near the floor and she had yet to see any evidence of rats in this part of the castle. Swinging her legs from the mattress, she gathered her blankets around her shoulders to help ward off the morning chill as she crept quietly forward.

  Scritch, scritch, scritch…

  The sound sent chills up her spine. Inge carefully pressed her ear to the wood. The scratching continued for a moment, and then she heard what sounded like an ominous chuckle. Panic gripped her. She flung away from the door, swiftly padding back to the bed. In an instant she stooped to retrieve the first weapon her hand could grasp beneath the frame. Her fingers scrambled at the ties that bound its cloth covering, which she quickly cast away. The small dagger bolstered her spirits with its familiarity. Grasping it expertly in one hand, she crept back toward the door.

  The scratching had resumed.

  Her breath came in short bursts now as she reached her free hand forward to grasp the knob. She paused long enough to take a slow, deep inhale. Then, decisively, she twisted the knob and wrenched the door open.

  Fire exploded in the hallway beyond. Its sudden ferocity flung her back into the room with a crash as loud as thunder. Pain flared in her head and points of light whirled around her fallen body, like a flock of ravens circling a carcass. In the moment before she lost consciousness, Inge glimpsed a sinister shadow that fled past the doorway and escaped down the hall. Then, blackness descended upon her.

  Chapter 9: The Curse of Prince Osvald

  Fleeting images and sensations flashed across Inge’s consciousness. She heard a flurry of voices and scuffling feet, followed by the jostling awareness that she was being carried in the arms of someone who insisted upon running. Her head flopped and her limbs felt like dead weight.

  The person who carried her unceremoniously deposited her on a cold, flat surface. An urgent exchange of voices sounded in her ears, too muffled for her to make out any words. Her eyelids fluttered, but only enough for her to glimpse a vaulted circular ceiling and several bright-burning lanterns. The light seared her vision; an involuntary groan left her lips. The voices stopped speaking. A hand pressed to the side of her face.

  “Don’t try to talk,” a man whispered into her ear. “Hold very still. Just breathe, and hold still.”

  She tried to open her eyes again, but the hand moved to cover them, cool against her burning skin. When had she become so feverish? Clanking metal sounded nearby, like someone shuffling through a pile of cookware.

  “How much longer?” the man at her side demanded.

  “Patience, Leiv,” said the second voice, a woman. “If I don’t work the counter-curse properly, it’ll backfire and make things worse.”

  Counter-curse, Inge thought with growing panic. That’s right. Something had attacked her, something inhuman.

  “Breathe, Ingrid,” said the man. “Stay calm. Breathe. It’ll only be a few minutes. Let Dagmar do her work.”

  She didn’t know anyone called Dagmar. It didn’t matter. Pain thrummed through her chest. The metal cookware clanked again. The man’s presence withdrew and the woman hovered over her, murmuring strange words. Something frightfully cold dripped onto her skin and onto the flat surface around her, and the strange chant rose in volume. She felt as though the heat was being sucked from her very bones, but with it went a dark, sticky substance that seemed to cling stubbornly to her. It left shuddering cold and listless exhaustion in its wake.

  As the last shadowy threads pulled away, her eyes fluttered again. The lanterns above burned brighter, and a woman’s face danced in and out of her vision. The chanting ceased, and Inge succumbed to sleep a second time.

  ***

  When her eyes opened again, she still lay beneath the circular ceiling, but the room was lit from streaming daylight instead of lanterns. Inge slowly turned her head toward the narrow set of windows. The diamond-paned glass was blurred so that she could not discern the world beyond.

  “So you’re awake at last,” said a voice from the opposite side of the room. Inge jerked violently and started to her elbows. Her head throbbed with the movement, but she easily picked out the shape of Captain Bergstrom among the shadows by the door.

  “Where am I?” she asked hoarsely.

  “In the north tower, in a chamber designated to King Halvard’s chief magician, Dagmar Pehrsdotter. Do you remember what happened?”

  Inge sat upright but had to cradle her forehead in one hand. “Someone… outside my door,” she said vaguely. “There was a scratching sound and a laugh. I went to investigate.”

  “You triggered a magical t
rap when you opened the door,” said Bergstrom plainly. “It had been etched into the posts and lintel—mostly etched, I should say. The spell wasn’t quite complete.”

  “Is that why I’m still alive?” Inge asked with a shiver.

  Bergstrom leaned forward; a shaft of light fell across his severe face. “You are alive thanks to an odd stroke of luck. The spell was designed to kill the first man who opened the door. Since you don’t exactly fit that criteria, the curse that infused your body was rendered aimless long enough for Dagmar to extract it before it did any lasting damage. You’ll probably ache for several days, though.”

  This was an unpleasant prospect. Already Inge’s limbs felt stiff and injured. “Who set the curse?”

  Bergstrom only shook his head. “The malefactor got away. Dagmar and Leiv—Colonel Raske, that is—heard the commotion and came to investigate, followed closely by some of the castle guard. Doubly lucky for you that this occurred in the hour before dawn, when Raske was receiving instruction up here.”

  Bergstrom didn’t explain what sort of instruction Raske was receiving, nor did he need to. Inge’s eyes darted around the room nervously. Strange magical implements hung from the walls and cluttered the shelves and cabinets. Her gaze strayed down to the table on which she sat. It was broad and oblong, a solid piece of marble, with dark runes cut along its edge. With a gasp, she scrambled away from it, her heart racing thunderously in her chest.

  “You should be fine if you can move like that,” Bergstrom observed with mild sarcasm. Inge didn’t even have the composure to glare at him. “Is this yours?” he asked then, and to her dismay, he held up the dagger she had retrieved in those tense moments before she had triggered the trap outside her door. “It was found in your room, near where you lay.”

  Inge was in no mood to make up lies. “It’s not mine,” she said. Bergstrom’s eyebrows shot up. “It’s not mine,” she repeated. “It was my father’s. I’m only keeping it at the moment.”

  “I wasn’t aware you had retrieved any of your family’s belongings.”

  “Gunnar brought it to me for safekeeping when the little ones were moved.”

  “Gunnar?” he prompted.

  Her answer was instinctive, information given without consideration of whether it should have been withheld. “My older brother—Gunnar Norling, or Lang as he’s now called. He’s one of Colonel Raske’s men.”

  Captain Bergstrom’s face wore an unreadable façade as he digested this information. Inge took that very lack of response to indicate that he had been caught by surprise. Colonel Raske had not told him about her relationship to Gunnar.

  When he spoke at last, his words followed a different path than expected. “The craftsmanship is extremely good.” He solemnly proffered the dagger back to her.

  “I know,” she said primly. She held the blade close.

  Bergstrom rose from his chair. “If you are ready, then, I will escort you back to your room. You have a royal appearance to make this afternoon.”

  A protest began on her lips, but he cut it off before it could fully form.

  “Someone has just made an attempt on your life, Your Highness. It is imperative that you appear unscathed and able to continue on with your everyday activities, so that the villain may wallow in his failure.”

  “Won’t that just prod him to try again?” Inge demanded as she followed him from the room.

  Bergstrom spared her a grim smile. “You’ll have guards to keep you safe.”

  That was by no means reassuring. The castle was full of guards, but that hadn’t prevented this morning’s attack.

  “Why is someone trying to kill me in the first place?” she asked, feeling the injustice of her position. “I haven’t done anything to anyone!”

  “On the contrary, Your Highness. You killed the night-walker and were elevated to a position above your birth. You might find that you have more enemies than expected.”

  He led her down a twisting staircase. Inge was surprised when they emerged from a narrow door at the end of the same hall where her quarters were. It was no wonder that Colonel Raske had overheard the tumult at her doorway.

  A sentry stood in front of her room now; the door’s casing had been removed entirely.

  Bergstrom motioned her inside, and with some trepidation, she entered. The room itself appeared untouched. From her memories of the explosion, Inge had expected to find the door askew and scorch marks flared out across the floor. Instead, she found perfect decorum. When her eyes strayed to the bed and discovered its covers smoothly made, she realized that someone had cleaned while she slept. Her heart dropped into her stomach as she thought of her father’s hidden legacy.

  “We’ll leave you here to change your clothes,” Captain Bergstrom said from behind her. “Someone will be outside your door at all times from now on.” And then, he shut the door.

  Inge immediately dropped to the floor and fished out the pieces of her father’s legacy one by one. She counted them all in turn and replaced the missing dagger among them. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed, but anxiety ate at her all the same. If they had performed a thorough search of the room, the entire cache might have been discovered and confiscated. She needed to find a more secure place.

  She wouldn’t get the chance if she was to be guarded from now on, though. “What a complete and utter mess,” she declared helplessly.

  ***

  Colonel Raske looked up as Jannik Bergstrom strode into the king’s council chambers with his customary aloofness intact.

  “His Highness Prince Inge has awoken and seems not much the worse for wear,” the captain announced, to the colonel’s great relief.

  “He must be quite resilient, to have recovered so quickly,” said King Halvard. “Or perhaps Dagmar is more skilled than she gives herself credit.”

  The chief magician, Dagmar Pehrsdotter, was a pale, faded woman with intelligent blue eyes in an otherwise unremarkable face. She frowned deeply at the king’s words. “It was neither the prince’s resilience nor my skill. The spell had trouble getting a firm grasp. If the inscription had been complete, all your plans would’ve been destroyed.”

  “It would’ve killed Prince Inge?” King Halvard inquired.

  “It wouldn’t have triggered at all,” said Raske, and he pointed to the items that lay upon the table. Halvard had ordered the pieces of Inge’s door frame to be brought here. A runic text stretched across each surface, painstakingly worked into the very wood itself. “Osvald was in the process of adding a protection for women, doubtless to prevent any harm from coming to Signe should she happen upon the room first. That’s the part he didn’t finish. If he had, he would know that your Prince Inge isn’t a prince at all, but a mere girl.”

  “How troublesome,” King Halvard said, gruffly turning away.

  Bergstrom approached the table with open curiosity. “These are the posts and lintel, then? And are we certain that it was Osvald himself who carved the spell? It might’ve been a puppet or one of his underlings.”

  “It’s his style, both the shape of the carvings and the language of the spell,” said Dagmar. “Since no one saw him, we can’t say for certain, of course.”

  “Has anyone checked on Signe?”

  “Two of my men are with her,” said Raske. “There was no sign of magic at her quarters, though. It appears that he went straight for the prince, and that he escaped immediately afterward. There’s a good chance he was injured in the explosion, if he was still carving it when it triggered. The real question is how did he get into the castle in the first place?”

  “That’s what I would like to know,” King Halvard said, his voice grim. “All of the entrances should’ve been guarded, Bergstrom.”

  “This is Osvald we’re talking about,” Captain Bergstrom replied, his voice rigid. “Not only does he know this place like the back of his hand, but he has magic to assist him. I’ve ordered my men to comb the castle for any weak points, but for all we know, he could’ve climbed up through t
he toilet chute.”

  King Halvard made a noise of disgust.

  “If he’s in the area, we should be able to track him,” said Raske.

  “My men are searching for any clues,” added Bergstrom. “In the meantime, I’ve informed our Prince Inge to prepare for a public appearance. What are your wishes, Your Majesty?”

  All eyes turned to King Halvard, who had wandered to the other side of the room. “I shall have to give a speech, I suppose. Raske, how would you like to receive an honorary medal of courage?”

  The colonel snorted derisively. “No, thank you.”

  “Hm. Bergstrom?”

  “I’m too old for that sort of thing. Perhaps we could reward one of the younger soldiers, though. The people love to see one of their sons honored by the king.”

  “Anyone in mind?”

  “Make it one of Raske’s men—Lind has been doing an admirable job in daily training. And speaking of Raske’s men, I was wondering if I might steal one of them away, Leiv.”

  Colonel Raske straightened suspiciously. “Who? Why?”

  “Lang. I think he might make a decent castle guard.”

  No emotion betrayed itself on Captain Bergstrom’s face. He simply watched the young colonel through half-lidded eyes, as though he did not really care whether this request was honored or not.

  Raske’s brows drew together in a scrutinizing frown. “You know, then,” he surmised.

  “I know most everything that goes on in this castle, Leiv. I’m surprised you were able to keep this from me for as long as you did.”

  “What’s this?” King Halvard demanded, and Dagmar looked on in interest.

  Raske’s eyes flitted from his former master to his king. “One of my men, Gunnar Lang, is your Prince Inge’s older brother.”

  Understanding dawned upon the monarch, but Bergstrom asked quizzically, “Is that all?”

  “Is there something else?” Raske replied sharply.

  “No,” said Bergstrom, but a satisfied expression ghosted across his face.