The Legendary Inge

by Kate Stradling

  The cacophony unnerved her. She fought to control her instinctive panic, but the deathly cavern beneath the swamp pressed upon her memory. In the thick dark she could imagine any number of insidious monsters lunging for the kill.

  Only one monster lurked in these corridors, though, and he was of no danger to her.

  Raske’s hand again sought hers in the dark. He tugged her forward. “Be careful how you step,” he warned.

  She learned why when she stumbled over a body sprawled across the way. “How can you see where you’re going?”

  He did not reply, but she already knew the answer. All of the magic she had seen him cast had to do with light and darkness. It only made sense that he knew a spell to see through the shadows that encompassed them. It made sense, too, that he had not cast the same spell on her. He would need to conserve his strength for the battle yet to come.

  A twist in their path revealed more dancing firelight. Raske again left her side. She watched his ghostly silhouette as he crept toward the light, sword in hand. His spell whispered through the hall like an errant wind; the fire winked out.

  Another sequence of deathly noises followed. Raske returned to Inge’s side and pulled her forward again.

  “Careful,” he whispered as she stumbled over another hidden obstacle. Her foot landed on something that squished, and she was suddenly grateful for the darkness, and for shoes. Like a child she clung to Raske’s hand, trusting him to lead her where they needed to go.

  “It’s just up ahead,” he told her. “Stay here.”

  Even as he stepped away from her, though, an ominous chuckle sounded from the depths of the shadows.

  “You’re so predictable, Leiv.”

  Ghoulish light suffused the hallway, its source an anemic orb that hovered against the ceiling. Raske instinctively recoiled, shielding Inge from view. She had witnessed him work a similar spell, but this one was not his. This belonged to Osvald, who stood in their path, a maniacal grin on his face. His injured hand was bandaged. He seemed not to notice the pat-pat-pat of blood that dripped from his fingers to the floor.

  “Divination is such a useful tool,” the fallen prince said. “Pity your studies haven’t gotten that far yet.”

  Raske tensed for a fight. “Osvald, you don’t have to do this.”

  “Don’t have to do what? Claim my rights? I think I do. That rotten old man certainly isn’t going to give them to me.”

  “King Halvard took you in. He protected you.”

  A sneer twisted across Osvald’s face. He stepped forward, listed to one side, and immediately corrected his balance.

  Pat-pat-pat.

  “Oh, yes,” he agreed, senseless to his growing weakness. “He gave me everything I could never want and withheld everything I desired—a protector who protects only himself.”

  “He’s protecting Signe,” Inge interjected before she thought better of speaking.

  Osvald froze, his eyes large as he searched for the owner of that voice. Cautiously Inge peeked out from her hiding place behind Raske. She decided to take a gamble.

  “Shouldn’t he protect his own daughter? Don’t you want to protect her as well?”

  “Little Sister…?” Osvald intoned. His harrowed mind sought an explanation. “What sorcery is this? A doppelganger? A spirit, summoned from the netherworld? Little Sister is dead, Leiv! What have you done by calling her image here?”

  Belatedly Inge remembered Dagmar’s counsel not to show herself. Osvald had witnessed her death, and her presence before him now snapped what little grasp on sanity he possessed. “Eitr eyth!” he cried, and a bilious green liquid lashed from his injured hand. He launched himself in a feral frenzy.

  Raske shoved Inge against the wall as he dodged the attack. Osvald clipped him on one side, knocking Mercy from his grasp; the sword clanged and skidded away across the floor, well beyond Raske’s reach.

  Osvald landed in a crouch. The green liquid, to Inge’s surprise, did not dissipate or disappear. Instead, it formed a weapon in his hand, an oozing whip that ate away at everything its caustic length touched. As he side-stepped, readying to lunge again, the trail of green bubbled and hissed against the stone floor. His hand, though protected from the acidic magic, pattered more blood upon the ground. Osvald paid it no heed.

  “You cannot summon the dead from their rest,” he scolded Raske.

  “Did you really see her die?” Raske replied, very much on his guard. “Perhaps you only saw what Bergstrom meant for you to see. He doesn’t care about you or your rights. He’s only using you to take the throne for himself—perhaps even to take Signe for himself.”

  Osvald hissed. “He wouldn’t dare! If anyone wants to take Signe, it’s you. You were always my rival, always drawing her attention away, always looking for opportunities to prove you were better than me. You’re not better than me, Leiv! You only inherited your father’s legacy, and he was just a peasant before he rose through the military ranks!”

  “Bergstrom was just a peasant, too,” said Raske calmly. “Will you pave his pathway to the throne? Or do you really believe he’ll let you rule?”

  His words infuriated the fallen prince. “Bergstrom is a lackey!” he frothed. “He’s no better than the knife in my belt!”

  “You’re the lackey, Osvald. Why else are you out here while he governs the throne room?”

  “Because he doesn’t wield any magic, and you’re likely to cheat in combat.” On these words, Osvald sprang again. The oozing whip wrapped around Raske’s forearm, eating through the plate of armor there. Raske seemed not to notice. He kicked the fallen prince away, even as he wrenched the acidic whip from his grip.

  The instant it left Osvald’s hands, it dissolved into thin air.

  Osvald hit the floor hard, but he only grunted. “You think you can stop me? I can summon a thousand poisoned flails, and you’re powerless!”

  “You’re bleeding to death, Osvald,” Raske told him bluntly. “If you keep fighting, you’ll only bleed all the faster.”

  “It’s just a scratch,” Osvald snarled. “Little Sister wasn’t playing nice!”

  “A scratch would have sealed itself long before now. You’re bleeding to death. Bergstrom must have realized. He sent you after me to bleed your life out. He’s not going to let you live!”

  “You think I’m stupid? I’m not going to let him live!” He gathered his strength and leapt bodily upon Raske. The pair crashed into the wall, grappling with one another. Inge took this opportunity to bolt past them, up the hall to where Mercy lay upon the ground. Hastily she snatched up the sword.

  Behind her, Raske slammed Osvald into the opposite wall. Osvald jerked away and immediately lunged again, pitching both him and Raske back across the hallway and straight into a door—the servants’ door that led into the throne room. It gave way to the impact. Both men tumbled through as torchlight spilled from the opening.

  Her heart in her throat, Inge dashed for the door, which had swung half shut again. She sidled up to its casing, careful to remain concealed, her attention split between the occupants of the room and the dark hallway where any patrolling enemies might emerge.

  Within, Bergstrom stood before a makeshift throne—a chair brought from the dining table in the great hall adjacent. Signe sat bound by the wall nearest to Inge’s door; four men guarded her. Further in the room, King Halvard himself stood surrounded by the patrol to which he had surrendered. They had separated Dagmar from him.

  Raske and Osvald’s abrupt entrance had disrupted the proceedings. Bergstrom’s soldiers tore the two apart and tossed Osvald to one side as they subdued Raske.

  Inge scanned the faceplates, trying to discern which one was her brother, but they were all too similar. Her search cut off when Bergstrom spoke.

  “Leiv, how good of you to join us.”

  It had required four soldiers to secure the Demon Scourge. They shoved him to his knees, forcing him to a subservient position before their leader.

  Across the room, Osval
d picked himself up from the floor; he wiped blood from the corner of his mouth, unwittingly smearing an even longer streak across his face from the still-bleeding wound upon his hand. “He came just as you said, Bergstrom. He played me a nasty trick, too.”

  “No doubt,” Bergstrom replied. He stepped away from the throne to approach his former pupil. “Your timing is impeccable: we were just about to execute the king for high treason.”

  At the center of the room, Halvard scoffed derisively. Bergstrom paid him no heed. “So then, Leiv, I trust you’re happy to see me alive and well.”

  Raske maintained his silence, his expression flat as he met Bergstrom’s gaze.

  “Such a tough nut to crack,” the elder warrior said with a sigh. “You’re just like your father, clinging to misguided ideals of loyalty.”

  “Why are you doing this?” his former pupil inquired. “You and my father once crushed the Mark of the Dragon together. Why would you revive it?”

  Bergstrom’s eyes narrowed, his face hard. “We did crush it, Lukas Falk and I. We crushed it in blind allegiance and established Halvard’s right to rule. And then I had to watch as he bungled everything! He forged treaties instead of expanding our borders. He awarded master-artisans with a freeman’s status and let them scatter across the realm as they pleased when their strength and craftsmanship was needed here. And when he sired only a daughter, he positioned her to inherit the throne, coddled and clueless as she was. Treasonous acts, all of these, and dozens more beyond!”

  “Signe is not clueless,” Raske said, allowing the other accusations to slide. “Sheltered, yes, but not clueless.”

  “After tonight, she’ll be very enlightened,” Bergstrom agreed. “There’s a place for her in the new order we forge. There’s a place for you, too, Leiv. You know you’re always welcome under my command, a valuable asset to the arsenal of the State.”

  “Until you decide I’m a threat to your power.”

  Bergstrom chuckled. “You’ll never be a threat to my power. I tried so many times to mold you into a leader, but you just don’t have it in you. You’re weak.”

  Silence suffused the room, all eyes upon this interaction. At the door, Inge shifted her attention to Princess Signe; her guards, like everyone else, focused only on Bergstrom and Raske.

  “He’s weak?” King Halvard inquired. “What does that make all your little underlings?”

  Bergstrom bared his teeth but caught himself from any further show of temper. “A wise man in your position would strive to remain unnoticed.”

  Halvard ignored this advice. “A coward might. But please do expound upon Leiv’s weakness. I’m curious, I must admit. To me, he’s every bit as strong as his father was, and we both know you could never hold a candle to Lukas Falk.”

  “Silence!” Bergstom yelled and, for show of power, he backhanded Raske across the face.

  “Oh, beating an unarmed and subdued opponent,” said Halvard. “How manly of you. Meanwhile, in an equal fight you couldn’t land a single blow on him.”

  Bergstrom, on the verge of losing his temper, checked it with a deep inhale. “I see what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to cajole me into one-on-one combat. It won’t work.”

  “Of course it won’t. You’re a coward at heart. All your men can see it on full display right now. Secretly each of them is thinking that they only have to band together and dispose of you if they want to take your place.”

  “They have witnessed me cut through hundreds,” Bergstrom replied. “They know of my strength already.”

  “They’ve heard stories of it, probably. Anyone can tell stories of great accomplishments, but hearing and seeing are two very different things. Go on, Coward Bergstrom. Cut us all down. Revel in momentary power, and then shore yourself against the dozens of challenges that will come your way immediately afterward.”

  “Papa, no,” Signe whimpered, her voice barely audible. Inge, too, thought this was a desperate gamble for the king to make.

  Bergstrom indulged the suggestion. “A fine idea,” he said, stepping away from Raske. He approached King Halvard with a sneer, his jagged sword prominent in his hand. “I’ll cut you down myself, in front of your daughter and all these witnesses. You can go to your grave knowing that I’ve taken both her and your throne for myself!”

  If his words were meant to intimidate Halvard, they missed their mark. The king grunted, a wry smile quirking his lips.

  Bergstrom understood why the next instant.

  “No!” screamed Osvald, and he leapt bodily upon the Dragon. “Signe is mine!”

  The room erupted into chaos. Magic suffused the air; soldiers scrambled to aid their leader, to constrain the king and Raske, both of whom had suddenly rebelled against their captors.

  At the door, Inge recognized her foretold opportunity. She abandoned Mercy against the casing. Through the shadows by the wall she darted, Firefly in hand, to cut the ropes that bound Princess Signe’s wrists. The enchanted blade sparked against the fibers, singeing them as they split apart.

  Signe jerked, but she held back her instinctive gasp, wise enough not to call attention to herself even as her disbelieving eyes rested on her unexpected savior.

  Inge knew the diversion would not last long. She pressed the dagger’s handle into Signe’s hands. “Take this. Come on.” She drew Forget-me-not from her belt, ready to defend their escape even as she pushed the princess to the waiting door.

  Across the room, Bergstrom threw Osvald to the ground with an angry roar. His helmet had been lost in the scuffle. So, too, had his command. Raske had stripped the sword from one of his captors and had already felled several guards. King Halvard had disappeared into the fray.

  “Signe!” Osvald wailed, his attention instinctively honing in upon the object of his fixation. “Signe, no! Little Sister, don’t take her!”

  The room froze, save for Inge, who resolutely shoved Signe out the door. “Hey, Bergstrom,” she jeered at that man. He stared back at her in utter shock. “Your brute strength can’t even kill one measly girl, you weakling!” Then, she zipped through the door before anyone could stop her.

  Signe had paused in the hall, torn between staying and fleeing for her life. “Where do we go? Papa’s in there!”

  “Papa didn’t want you to see him die, if that’s to be his end,” Inge replied, and she pulled the princess down the darkened corridor. She didn’t know where they were going, except out and away from the castle. In the darkness she felt along the walls, desperate for an escape, knowing all too well that Osvald or anyone else might be in hot pursuit.

  Shouts and the clash of weapons echoed through the corridors ahead. Feeble light shone through a doorway at the end of the hall, an opening to the cool night air. Inge and Signe approached with caution.

  Their path had taken them to the courtyard at the front of the castle, to a servant’s exit. They arrived on the threshold just in time to see a young man spear the last of a group of Bergstrom’s black-banded minions.

  Signe recognized the victor. “Mikkel!”

  He whirled, relief on his face. “Signe!”

  Before Inge thought to stop the princess, Signe tore across the space and threw herself into her would-be lover’s arms. Inge approached with more caution. Mikkel’s wary eyes flitted up to acknowledge her. Instinctively his arms tightened around the princess.

  Behind him, a score of men—soldiers and courtiers together—assembled on their guard to await further instructions.

  “Where do your loyalties lie, Mikkel Sparre?” Inge asked. His name had been bandied with the Adelborgs; she wasn’t going to assume fealty.

  “With my king and country,” he replied, his spine stiff. “We’ve been out monster-hunting.”

  Signe drew back with a gasp. “You might have been killed!”

  “Your father said if I could match Prince Inge’s prowess he would consider me as a rival for your hand,” he replied to her, his voice fervent. “Our party alone felled a dozen beasts as they lay in w
ait to attack the city. Two of those I killed myself.”

  Despite the dire circumstances, Signe almost laughed. She turned with dancing eyes upon Inge. “He’s bested you, then…” she started to say, but her voice died. Her attention focused on the dark doorway from whence they had emerged.

  Inge spun, her heart in her throat. Prince Osvald leaned heavily against the doorpost, his eyes fixed upon Signe in the arms of another man.

  ***

  The rhythm of battle coursed through Leiv Raske’s body, something so intrinsically ingrained that it demanded no conscious thought. He knew the weak points of the castle armor. He knew the movements of Bergstrom’s soldiers, having trained among many of them. It was perfectly natural for him, even under the direst of circumstances, to grab the nearest sword and wreak havoc, should a proper diversion arise.

  Osvald had provided the first such opportunity. Inge had provided the second.

  Bergstrom had not expected her at all. Neither had his personal envoy of guards, the ones who had witnessed her death. That created enough stupefaction in the room for Raske to carve a lovely path through their ranks. His only objectives were to give Inge and Signe enough time to escape and to destroy as many of his king’s enemies as he possibly could.

  Bergstrom shouted orders above the din. Osvald bolted for the servants’ exit to chase after Signe, and Raske was too far separated to stop him.

  “Colonel, behind you!” a familiar voice barked. Gunnar Lang, still in full uniform lunged past him to stab a would-be attacker.

  “You’re going to get yourself killed,” Raske told him as they stood back to back.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” Gunnar replied.

  No wonder he had always been so fearless on the battlefield, if he could revive after an otherwise fatal injury.

  The enemy soldiers had formed a circle around them, wary of the lethal pair. Bergstrom’s voice sounded from the side of the room. “So, we have a traitor in our midst.”