The Legendary Inge

by Kate Stradling

  “It’s all the Virtue Swords!” Bergstrom replied. “Do something!”

  “Is it Osvald?” asked Dagmar. “How did he—?”

  “It’s this insolent little whelp!” Bergstrom interrupted, and he leveled an accusing finger at Inge.

  Frenzied guards scrambled up the hallway from where they had carried the legacy. “Captain Bergstrom! The weapon covers burst into flames, all of them at once! The blades are too hot to touch! We cannot put out the fires!”

  “Do something!” Bergstrom commanded Dagmar again.

  “What am I to do?” she retorted.

  “You’re a sorcerer! Use your magic! Or force this child to reverse the spell she’s cast!”

  “I won’t,” said Inge fiercely. “Better that every last one of my father’s swords become molten puddles than that they be stolen by the likes of you!”

  “Father?” Dagmar echoed. Her startled gaze flew to Bergstrom’s face. “This is Torvald’s child? You fool, what on earth have you done? She’s invoked his circle spell!”

  Bergstrom growled. “So reverse it!”

  “I can’t! I’m not part of the circle! Even if I was, only the one who invoked such a spell can begin its reversal!”

  Upon the ground, the glow of the swords had turned from red to bright-hot orange.

  “Do you mean to tell me,” said Captain Bergstrom, “that we are about to lose the most precious works of the great Torvald Geirson due to the tantrum of one measly child?”

  “I told you you’d regret it,” Inge sneered.

  He would have back-handed her then, but Colonel Raske caught his arm. “I think you’ve angered her enough already, Master Jannik,” he quietly intoned.

  Bergstrom jerked away, resentment plain upon his face. The swords upon the floor would be white-hot soon enough. From there they would melt, unsalvageable. “That’s it, then?” he demanded of Inge. “You would destroy your own father’s legacy?”

  “He commanded that it not fall into the wrong hands,” she replied. “Why do you think he worked such a spell?”

  “And you’ll destroy the weapons that Dagmar and Leiv and I rightfully paid for?”

  “To Dagmar and Leiv I apologize,” she said insolently, though her gaze remained locked with his.

  Bergstrom’s upper lip curled in a nasty sneer. “You’re dungeon-bound.”

  “But I’ll meet my father in the next life with a clear conscience. The blame lies at your feet and at the king’s, for taking something that did not belong to you.”

  He made a noise of disgust and slammed his fist into the wall. Inge shrank back, knowing that but for Raske she would have been on the receiving end of that blow. She did feel guilty about the colonel’s sword, Mercy. Dagmar’s too—she had not realized that the sorceress carried one of her father’s Virtue Swords. She would have liked to see it, but it would melt away into nothingness now. There was no other choice.

  Or so she thought.

  “Inge!” cried an all too familiar voice. She jerked at the angry tone and watched as Gunnar strode boldly up the hallway. He was soot-covered and wore the heavy leather smith’s apron. His hands, too, were covered in thick gloves. He carried a pair of stout iron tongs that held aloft the bright orange shape of his sword, Loyalty. Soldiers along the way fell back from the burning weapon. He walked straight up to his sister and thrust it in her face.

  “Fix it,” he commanded.

  Inge glowered up at him.

  “I’ve told you before not to invoke that spell without some sort of warning! Fix it before the damage becomes permanent!”

  She glared first at Bergstrom and then back at Gunnar. With her bare hand she firmly grasped the sword’s blazing hilt. Her mere touch sapped the excess heat from it in an instant. Gunnar snatched the blade away and strapped it across his back.

  “Hurry with the rest of them now,” he commanded as he stripped the gloves from his hands.

  “No,” said Inge. “Bergstrom’s confiscated everything, under King Halvard’s orders!”

  Gunnar had stooped to catch hold of Colonel Raske’s sword, but he paused to look up wryly at his sister. “I’m sure he understands now that such a thing is quite impossible. Just undo the spell, and we’ll talk things out reasonably.”

  Then, he caught hold of Mercy’s hilt. Just as with his own sword, the unnatural heat instantly vanished. “Quit stalling,” he told his sister.

  Inge darted past the Captain of the Castle Guard to obey her brother’s command. Down the hall and around the corner, she discovered a line of frenzied soldiers. The blazing weapons scorched the ground beneath them, their coverings having burned to ashes. Inge quickly snatched up blade after blade. The soldiers’ warning cries turned to astonished gapes. The load became too heavy for her to carry and continue. She dropped it and stooped to retrieve Patience and Obedience, which had fallen together.

  From the corner of her eyes she saw one of the soldiers approach the discarded blades. “Lay so much as a finger on them and I’ll invoke the spell all over again,” she threatened as she caught hold of the twin blades. He arrested his movements. She cast her eyes about for her father’s sword, Respect. It blazed with white brightness at the very front of the row.

  Of all the blades, it was probably the most important for her to save. She grasped it swiftly, felt the heat snuff out beneath her touch, and turned to scan for any other weapons she may have missed. There were a few sundry knives and daggers still. Inge tapped their hilts each in turn, her arms wrapped protectively around the three Virtue Swords as she went.

  The frenzy that had reigned through the corridor only moments earlier had dissipated, to be replaced with silent wonder. Inge held her head high as she scornfully walked past the line of guards, back to where her brother would be.

  He emerged from Dagmar’s tower just as Inge turned the corner. He had saved Wisdom from destruction. Bergstrom’s blade, too, had been restored to its owner. Inge marched past that hateful man, back into her chambers, and deposited the three swords on her family’s rug.

  “The smaller blades are around the corner, Gunnar,” she said, her back to him. “If any are missing, I will invoke the spell again.” Then she sat, a silent guard over the most precious of her father’s creations, as her brother retrieved the other missing pieces.

  He deposited the load in a clatter before her. “You always overdo it, you know,” he muttered. She looked up, saw how his eyes flitted toward the doorway, and vaguely glanced over her shoulder, just in time to see Captain Bergstrom gesture to some unseen persons in the hall beyond.

  Those unseen persons were members of the castle guard. “Be so kind as to escort Prince Inge to the dungeons,” Bergstrom commanded. “Be so kind as to make certain he has a dank, dark cell of his very own until further notice.”

  Inge’s attention fixed on her brother as two pairs of hands hoisted her roughly from the floor. “You know what you have to do if he tries to take them again,” she said.

  Gunnar swallowed but nodded his understanding. She half expected him to protest her arrest, but his wary gaze again shifted to Bergstrom. He held his tongue.

  Colonel Raske was not so cowed. “Master Jannik, do you really think it’s wise to send the prince to the dungeons? Shouldn’t you at least consult His Majesty first?”

  “Theft and attempted destruction of royal property are serious charges,” Bergstrom retorted. “Really, I’m surprised that you would defend the prince after nearly losing your own weapon to such a malicious little trick. Or are you still ashamed of your sword’s virtue?” he added with a sneering glint to his eyes.

  “I’m not ashamed,” Raske replied. “I was never ashamed.”

  “That’s because you’re weak. Yes, yes, to the dungeons,” he added to the pair of soldiers that held Inge fast. They had paused by the door, curious about how much sway Raske held over Bergstrom. Both soldiers jumped and would have carried out this final command swiftly, but a new figure blocked the way.

  “What hav
e we here?” King Halvard asked, and he peered pointedly from Inge to Bergstrom and Raske, and then to the pile of weapons now at Gunnar’s feet.

  Bergstrom bowed efficiently. “Your Majesty, I regret to inform you that Prince Inge has interfered with your orders. We are in the unfortunate process of—”

  “Of course he’s interfered,” King Halvard interjected. “I take it that Torvald’s circle spell was quite effective? I’m sorry I was not here sooner to witness it.”

  Captain Bergstrom stared slack-jawed at his monarch. “You… knew?” he managed to inquire.

  King Halvard’s brows arched. “Of course I knew. Torvald’s greatest fear was that his life’s work might be turned against the innocent. He consulted at some lengths with Dagmar’s father about it long before he forged even the first Virtue Sword. A circle spell was the natural solution. It was an intricate undertaking, what with how he kept expanding the circle with each new blade. Why are you manhandling my son?” he abruptly inquired of the pair of guards who still held Inge fast. They instantly let her go.

  She stepped toward the monarch with accusing eyes. “You knew my father had a circle spell in place? And you still commanded that his legacy be confiscated?”

  “Of course,” replied the king, as though it was the most trifling of matters. “I can’t count how many times I asked him to demonstrate the spell, but he always refused, saying that it was only for emergencies. He’d spoken of initiating his children into the circle, but he was always so secretive about the whole business. If it survived beyond his death, I’ll trust that his other spells have done the same. I’m sure you’d rather I didn’t test for them.”

  Inge’s stomach dropped, and she looked instinctively to Gunnar, who minutely shook his head.

  King Halvard ignored this telltale interaction. “Well, Bergstrom, if you’ve confirmed the circle spell’s in place, I suppose our business here is done. Come along.”

  Then, he departed again without bothering to check that he was followed. Inge might have lunged after him—her fingers certainly itched to throttle his royal neck—but a hand clamped down around her arm and held her fast. From next to her, Colonel Raske maintained an expressionless façade as he watched Captain Bergstrom and the remaining guards march from the room. The captain left with his back straight and his nose in the air. In his wake, Dagmar poked her head around the doorframe.

  “You never can tell with His Majesty, can you?” she remarked, after which she retreated to the mystical trappings of her tower.

  Only Inge, Raske, and Gunnar remained.

  She jerked herself from the colonel’s grasp. “Of all the perfectly rotten—!”

  “Watch your mouth, Inge,” her brother warned.

  “He confiscated our father’s legacy merely so that we would invoke the spell!” she retorted. “He already knew it was in place! We might’ve destroyed everything for one of his mad whims!”

  “You might’ve destroyed,” Gunnar corrected. “You’re always the one to invoke that spell. Every time I lost a fight, out came the circle spell!”

  “Every time you lost a fight, I had no other choice,” she said through clenched teeth.

  He snorted. “Well, I’d say King Halvard’s got you pretty well pegged if he could predict such an outcome.”

  “And what was I supposed to do, let them make off with it? They were taking Eirik and Einar’s swords, and Dad’s as well!”

  “I didn’t say what you did was wrong,” her brother replied. “I just said you’re always quick to invoke the spell. Yes, yes,” he added when she tried to protest her reasons. “I know! Any number of weapons might’ve gone missing between here and the armory, and once they’re out of the spell’s range, it’s pointless. I get it. Obviously so did the king. Lucky for us all I noticed what was happening to Loyalty. Now if you’ll excuse me, I was in the middle of my training with Master Kettil.”

  “No one’s keeping you here,” Inge muttered. Gunner spared her a flat glance. His eyes briefly shifted toward Colonel Raske before he left without another word.

  Inge turned her own attention upon that man, wary of him.

  Raske’s expression was unreadable. “I thought you said you were afraid of magic.”

  “I am. I didn’t work the circle spell. My father did.”

  “You invoked it.”

  “Reciting a couple of spell words doesn’t count as working magic,” she insisted. “Besides, once you see what sort of damage a mere couple of words can cause, you’d have to be a fool not to fear it.”

  “So that’s the only spell you know?”

  “It’s the only one I can invoke,” she replied, which wasn’t exactly forthright.

  Raske let the discrepancy pass. “Your brother lost fights? Against those rogues that came for your father’s work? He really is lucky to be alive.”

  Inge grunted. “You have no idea.”

  Chapter 12: Night-Walker

  Despite the king’s moratorium on castle gossip, word of the circle spell spread. So, too, did the news that Prince Inge was a child of the famous Torvald Geirson. Soldiers skirted by her in the hallways, torn between fear and awe, and even a couple of her tutors treated her with newfound respect.

  Inge, ever prideful, refused to apologize for the havoc she had caused. She did conform to the demands required of her, but always with her nose in the air. She attended her lessons without fail and dutifully submitted to having Colonel Raske stand guard over her.

  He didn’t actually stand guard, though. Most of the time, he sat and wrote letters.

  “I’m glad you at least have something to keep you busy,” she said on the second afternoon, as they left behind her history tutor.

  He suppressed a bitter laugh. “I’m still responsible for a dozen companies at the border. I probably shouldn’t be working while I’m on guard, but the correspondence can’t be ignored.”

  Guilt slithered through her, that she was an obstacle to his real duties.

  He saw the look on her face. “It’s not your fault. I know full well that if you had your way, you’d be nowhere near this castle. But as long as you’re here, under the present circumstances, someone has to watch over you.”

  “Under the present circumstances?” she echoed. “You mean where someone’s setting magical traps at my door in the dead of night?”

  He trained his gaze forward, his mouth pressed into a firm line. He wasn’t going to talk to her about it, Inge surmised. No one would talk to her about it.

  “So how are things at the border?” she asked instead.

  “They’re at a very tense stalemate. We may yet reach a truce, if we can produce a method for appeasement.”

  “I never quite understood what started it all.”

  For the barest instant, that tight-lipped reticence flashed across his face again. He banished it in favor of carefully chosen words. “They attacked us, claiming that we had attacked them first. All evidence points to a third party, but of course they won’t believe it.”

  “A third party?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say more than that. They attacked us. We’re defending our border until they’re willing to put down their weapons.”

  Thus, he politely rebuffed her curiosity. His method was marginally better than a cagy silence or outright rebuke. Inge was half-tempted to tell him as much.

  “Is that Signe?” Colonel Raske abruptly inquired.

  Her gaze followed his. Up ahead, in an adjoining passageway, the blonde princess stood in conversation with a nobleman, one that Inge did not recognize. The man’s face wore a practiced expression of friendship. Signe’s smile, on the other hand, trembled at the corners, as though strained. Her stance suggested a readiness to bolt.

  “Hello!” Inge called.

  Signe jumped, skittish, but relief blossomed across her face when she saw the approaching pair. “Oh! It’s Inge and Leiv—Colonel Raske, I mean. You’ll excuse me, please, Baron.”

  The princess would have gladly parted from th
e man, but to her dismay, he followed.

  “This is the new prince, then?” he asked. His gray eyes swept Inge from head to toe. The affected smile remained fixed on his lips, but she recognized the underlying sneer. “May I offer my respects, your Highness?”

  He bowed with a flourish. Inge glanced quizzically at Signe.

  “This is Baron Adelborg,” the princess whispered.

  The husband to the outspoken Lady Adelborg, then, and the father to the ambitious Lina—no wonder Signe wanted to get away.

  “Hello,” Inge told him, unsure of what else she should say.

  A smirk touched his lips as he righted himself, shades of contempt bleeding through his friendly veneer. “We are all quite astonished by your feats of heroism, especially at such a young age, Prince Inge.”

  “Baron, what brings you to the castle today?” Colonel Raske interrupted, his voice emotionless.

  Baron Adelborg waved negligent fingers. “I have an audience with Bergstrom, a trifling matter that needs my attention. But I’m so honored to have met not just Princess Signe today, but Prince Inge as well. It’s not often that someone of obscure birth rises to such heights.”

  “Inge’s not of obscure birth,” Signe said. “Not unless you think Torvald Geirson is obscure.”

  Inge and Colonel Raske both looked to the princess, surprised that even she had heard of Inge’s origins.

  Baron Adelborg sputtered. “I… that is—”

  “Adelborg!” Captain Bergstrom appeared from the adjoining hall, barking the nobleman’s name. He noticed Inge and stopped short. His instinctive sneer melted away to practiced indifference as he shifted his full attention upon the baron. “I don’t have all day.”

  Adelborg nodded a curt farewell to his audience and quickly joined the Captain of the Castle Guard. They strode from sight together, a charged silence between them.

  Inge frowned at the abrupt retreat.

  “Are you and Captain Bergstrom on bad terms?” Signe whispered. “I’ve never seen him glare like that at anyone before.”