Iduna

by Maya Michaels

  Now Iduna was wishing she could have taken a ship, but who knew what the ports were like, and she needed to be discreet.

  Cresting the ridge, Iduna reined the horse to a welcome stop and looked back from where she came. All of Lawan was spread below her. She’d not been up here since she was a child, and she’d forgotten just how stunning the view was. The golden towers of Cha shone brightly under the midday sun, sitting in the center of Lawan like the gleaming gem of a crown. At the far horizon, Lawan met the ocean to the east and, to the south, another mountain range hemmed in the country.

  The spires and terraced roofs of the Institute were gilded with gold, looking regal and ethereal to her eyes. She thought of her life there, the contentment she had found studying the nuances of spellcrafting and the Advanced Spells. For the last ten years, that had been her world. She shook off a shiver of trepidation, and her horse jostled slightly beneath her. His breathing had slowed, and he was ready to go. The air was thinner up here and unsettling. With a nudge and an encouraging click of her tongue, the horse continued on the trail, and they headed down into Gaelen.

  The temperature dropped quickly as she descended into the land of green valleys. Gaelen was cool and misty, whereas Lawan was warm and dry except for the rainy season. Her parents had taken her through the pass a few times when she was little, and she recalled how surprised she’d been then by the difference.

  She had no plan.

  The thought struck her as odd as she sat calmly atop the horse. She really had no plan. Well, maybe this was part of acting in the real world that Reza had talked about. Iduna had gotten this far, and she was an advanced wizard. She’d packed lightly and brought mostly cold-weather clothes. The weather was kind for traveling but would become more unpredictable the farther north she went. Early spring added its own type of uncertainty to the mix.

  She rode all day, with short breaks for the horse to rest and brief meditations for herself. The border areas were sparsely populated, and it would be a while before she could expect to encounter people. The third night she stopped at Logi, the closest inn to the border that also sat at the crossroads between the north- and eastward-bound trails. She should be able to get an idea about which direction to pursue.

  The thatched inn was set in a small clearing immediately surrounded by woods. Creeping vines seemed to be taking it over. She dismounted and passed the reins of her horse to the stable-hand. He took the reins but looked at her mutely longer than was comfortable, his focus on her hair and ears.

  “Ma’am, I’m not sure if we have room.”

  Iduna peered around him into the stable. “There’s an empty stall up front.”

  He looked behind him, and a flush rose up his neck. The people of Gaelen, with their red hair and fair complexions, showed all their emotions. Before the border had become quiet and news from Gaelen had come to a halt, she’d seen people from Gaelen from time to time in Cha and had never understood them. They seemed to be ever-changing. As defenders of Lawan, Spellcrafters sometimes found themselves as keepers of the peace. Most of the brawls she’d ever had to deal with in Cha involved someone from Gaelen. Their manner was so contrary to the Path. In Lawan, only Lawanian children expressed any emotion, and, to be honest, she was actually the only child she remembered expressing feelings. It was completely unfathomable to her that adults would be such pools of turmoil. She didn’t know exactly what to make of the stable-hand’s heightened color but filed away the piece of information.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll put him in there for you,” he said.

  She barely caught what he had said as he spoke the words in a low grumble.

  “Thank you,” she said and bowed. The man left without reciprocating. Of course, she thought and berated herself for her lapse. People in Gaelen didn’t bow. She’d have to start blending in and remember the lessons from her parents.

  The bottom floor of the inn was a large dining area with rows of tables and a bar on the side. There weren’t many people and the room felt oppressive. She chose a table, sat on the bench, dropped her bags on the floor, and tossed her coat and scarves on the seat next to her. The air smelled of fresh bread and spilled ale. She soaked in the sounds around her. A violinist was playing a sedate tune, and a quiet murmur resonated from the few conversations between patrons.

  The innkeeper came to take her order. “What do you … Wait now, are you little Iduna?”

  “It is good to see you, Mr. O’Bryan.”

  “And I you. It’s been years. How are you?”

  “Very well, thank you. And you?”

  “Busier than ever. I was sorry to hear about your parents. They were good folk. Always bringing me the cream of the crop. Always fair. What can I do for you?”

  “I'd like a room for the night, food, and I have one horse with me.”

  He looked around the room before turning his attention back to her. “I should be able to find a spot for you. Today's special is root stew and beer bread. Hannah made it this morning. Do you remember playing with Hannah when you were little?”

  “I remember her well. Is she still unable to stick to the recipe?”

  “Yes,” he said with pride.

  “Then I'll take an extra large serving, please.” She smiled up at him. He laughed and shook his head as he turned away to make arrangements.

  As soon as he left, two men stood up from the table across from her. One man came to stand behind her and put his meaty hands on her shoulders, while the other slithered into the seat across from her. Her shoulders tensed automatically at the invasion, and her pulse began to thump deeply.

  “What are you doing here, you Ull trash?” the man across from her asked. His green eyes were rimmed in red, and he looked like he hadn’t shaved in weeks. He reeked of desperation, and the taut muscles of his neck and hands on the table seemed ready for violence.

  People at the tables around her had all turned. Benches scraped the wooden floor as men pushed back from their tables and came to stand around her. They weren’t coming to her defense. She heard mutters of “Ull,” “white hair,” “get what she deserves.”

  “Answer him,” said the man behind her as his hands clenched her shoulders painfully. The pressure was brutal, and she stopped the cry from leaving her lips. His cruelty demanded an answer.

  “No.”

  With a quick jerk, Iduna twisted her torso to face him and hurled her body weight into him in a manipulative flip that had him falling awkwardly on the bench.

  She didn’t let up.

  She grabbed his shoulders and pushed him so he was arching back over the tabletop. She sat straddling his legs and swapped her two-hand grip on his shoulders for a forearm pressed sharply into his collarbone. It wasn’t her weight or the placement of her arm that would keep him down. In her other hand, fire whooshed from the hearth to sit in her palm, a roiling ball of flames so close to the man’s face that beads of sweat were already forming on his upper lip.

  She looked around the circle of spectators. Thankfully they had all taken a step back, even this man’s partner, who had hopped up and was standing two strides away. It gave her some air and a better chance of slipping out.

  She returned her attention to the man beneath her. “That was rude of you,” she said.

  He snarled in response.

  “Why did you attack me?” she asked him.

  “Us? You …” His face turned a deep red, and the vein twitched in his forehead. “You elves attack our villages and storm our castle, kill our king, and you ask what possessed us?” He gritted his teeth and said in a low, charged voice, “You are the one to blame here.”

  Her tether of calm started to slip. Her Ull heritage had made her an outsider in Lawan, but she had never felt so much hate directed at her. It was unnerving. Her throat felt thick, and it was hard to swallow. She couldn’t lose control now, inside, with all these people. The fire, all these people pressed close, the results would be disastrous. It hadn’t happened in years. She knew what to do. Pushing down
her emotions, she forced a calm that ran through her forehead, her jaw, her fingers, and her toes.

  “Okay,” she said, and yet the grumbling around her rose. “I’m leaving. Now.”

  She climbed off the man while keeping the flaming threat in one hand. Snapping up her bag and scarf with the other hand, she slowly backed from the hall. Scanning the faces, all she saw was hate. “I am leaving.”

  The fresh air outside hit her like a cold shower. She gulped in the air for a moment and savored its clean, sharp taste. She had to get out of here. Heading to the stable, she now understood the stable-hand’s attitude and hoped she wouldn’t have to deal with him, too. With a whole inn full of people bent on hating her, she couldn’t afford any delay. Her best chance was to enter the stable quietly. She dispersed her fireball and opened the door to the stable bit by bit.

  Her night vision was horrible due to her recent exposure to open flame. It couldn’t be helped. She crept into the stable and was thankful hers was the first stall. Her horse whinnied. She reached into the darkness to open his gate.

  Fumbling in the black, she placed her hand on the door.

  Without a sound, a hand settled on top of hers.

  “Iduna, it’s me.”

  “Who?” she asked. “I can’t see anything in here.”

  “Mr. O’Bryan. I’m so sorry about what happened inside.”

  The tight coil of fear loosened slightly inside her. “It’s not your fault. I didn’t realize the Ull had taken the castle. The Gaelen armies are notoriously strong. How did this happen?”

  “I honestly don’t know. The massive loss at Castle Gaelen has been brutally hard to accept. People are in a foul mood. I just hope they will learn to move on. We have to rebuild.”

  “Are the Ull coming here? Why aren’t the survivors going over the pass into Lawan?”

  “Rumor has it that the Ull used magic. Everyone knows Lawanians use magic. The Gaelen people are afraid of going from the frying pan into the fire. Lawan scares them now, too.”

  A man shouted outside. Others echoed his call.

  “Your horse is saddled and ready to go,” said Mr. O’Bryan.

  “Thank you, friend.”

  They clasped hands briefly before she grabbed the reins of her horse and led him out the back of the stable.

  She slipped onto her horse with a smooth motion and moved away from the stable at a quiet walk just as men with torches entered the front. Sounds of raised voices and shouts followed. Kicking the horse to a gallop, soon all she could hear was the staccato pounding of horse hooves carrying her far away. The sounds of pursuit had faded, but she still felt chased.

  The fear of who the Ull had become drove her to ride through the night.

  Chapter 8

  Morning came, and the road to Castle Gaelen was still empty, a rare occurrence in Iduna’s brief experiences. It appeared that the refugees at the inn were the only refugees there’d be.

  She skirted the edge of the few towns she passed, not wanting another episode like two nights ago at the inn. From afar, the towns looked almost uninhabited. No smoke came from chimneys, and the streets were practically empty. Some souls walked about, but they moved curiously slow. Perhaps they were in mourning.

  Exiting the edge of the shadowed woods into the late morning sunlight, she stopped her horse cold in his tracks.

  Sprawling out in the valley below her, stretching as far as she could see, was the Ull camp. She backed up slowly into the sheltering shade of the trees and slipped off her horse. Grabbing her scoping spyglass from her pack and tying her horse to a tree, she then sank to sit on her heels and watch the camp.

  She observed for hours, transfixed. It took a while to get past the enormity of the camp to focus on patterns. Small groups or individuals were constantly coming and going as warriors returned from hunting or stealing from the surrounding lands. They wore furs of gray and white, armor of leather or metal, and their blond hair naturally without adornment. She thought of her own shaggy locks.

  “I’ll be able to fit in,” she whispered to herself.

  The camp was incredibly large; it spanned multiple valleys. They couldn't possibly all know each other, which would be to her advantage. Tents were mostly small and came in a variety of shapes, one sign of their pillaging. She could see a large tent in the valley before her. It must be a leader’s tent. Fire pits were scattered throughout the camp and seemed to serve as hubs of activity for the group of people in the surrounding tents. Looking closer, she saw that some of their garments were also borrowed. She noticed a couple fire pits had groups of young teens while others seemed to only have adults. There were no elderly or children.

  Every person at this camp was of an age to fight.

  The repercussions were chilling. This enormous camp was all made of fighters. The council would not like that piece of news.

  She needed to find out where this horde was heading. She would find a campfire, discover their secrets, and then she would return to Cha. At least her hours studying spells should help her here; the mastery of pitch and tone for casting would enable her to adopt their speech patterns, and she did have the memories of her parents to build upon. All she needed now were a few pieces of gear to blend in.

  Moving into the dense woods, she worked her way back to the last village she'd passed. She’d avoided it earlier but now walked her horse down the main street. Houses and stores lined the road. The stone homes were quaint with vegetable gardens and roses that climbed their exteriors, but the places seemed empty and unkempt. The few people in the village looked cowed, walking like cattle from task to task, eyes blank and listless. Rage and sadness swelled briefly within her, but, like second nature, she focused on relaxing the spot behind her forehead and began breathing deeply.

  A single teenage Ullman walked down the middle of the road, making his way from one house or store to the next. He carried a bag of loot and had a tight-lipped and narrowed gaze. He was built like a tree, solid and strong, with long stringy blond hair. She slipped into the house next in his path and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. A woman with light red hair had jumped to stand, but Iduna put a finger to her lips and signaled for her to sit back down. The two women stared at each other and waited.

  The door swung inward with a thump, and the Ullman took a bold, long step inside. The woman sitting at the table stood up numbly and shuffled down a hallway, and the elven youth followed her.

  Gathering her calm, Iduna magically drew moisture from the soup boiling in the fireplace. Mist filled the room and surrounded the teen. He turned toward her, raising his sword. She used heat from the fire to flare the mist into a scalding heat around him, quick and searing. He collapsed in an awkward pile, his face covered in burns. She would count on his embarrassment over his facial burns to keep him silent enough and out of trouble. Even if he’d seen her, his vision wouldn’t recover for weeks, and, by then, she’d be gone.

  Iduna stripped him of everything he had. She pulled on his boots and wrapped the fur around her lower legs, securing them with leather strips. His tunic came down to just above the boots. She layered on shoulder, chest, and arm guards, then gloves. The weapons he'd never had the chance to use on her came next. She dragged him out back and into the woods.

  As she grabbed the pommel of her saddle to mount her horse, the gelding took a step forward. She moved to stand near his head to see what was going on. He sniffed her and stepped away as if she were a pile of fish or a swarm of bees, a mixture of distaste and fear. “It’s still me, boy,” she soothed him, stroking his nose and thinking. Getting the gear so easily, wearing these boots, she already felt different. It was a big change for her, and her horse seemed to think so too, but would it be enough to fool the camp of killers who had enraged the Gaelen at the inn by doing who-knew-what? She hopped onto the horse’s back with a firm grip on the reins.

  She could only hope it was enough.

  …

  She dismounted when she reached the periphery o
f the camp, and removed the reins and saddle from her mount. She unleashed her horse into one of the many horse corrals, telling him that she’d come check on him later.

  There were a number of campfires to choose from. Though she could fit in with the teens, if she wanted to get close to the leaders, she had better get into a group of older fighters.

  It was hard to choose, and her decision would mean everything. If they discovered she didn’t belong, they would kill her.

  She took her time, and listened to the tone and pitch of those around her. Carrying the saddle and her gear, she made her way to the largest tent in the area, since powerful people would likely have the best tents when on campaign.

  A man and a woman were arguing by the fire closest to a large tent. They were bickering about something while a quail and small pig were cooking on a spit. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, but something about it drew her. She dropped her belongings and sat down in their circle.

  “You're going to burn that quail,” Iduna said, as she started to skin one of the three rabbits she'd snagged on her meandering way through the camp.

  “See, Unger. You'd better listen to us. Chief Skuld doesn't like his food charred. He finds burned food distasteful. He'll burn you to match,” said the woman with large cheekbones, roses in her cheeks, and a teasing smile.

  Unger eyed the bird, then Iduna. “What do you know about cooking?” He was a big man, with square shoulders and face, his white-blond hair cut jaggedly around his head.

  “I know that a bird is smaller than a pig and takes less cooking.” Iduna didn't look up from her task.

  Unger muttered and pulled the quail from the fire, tugging it off the turning stick and cursing his singed fingers.

  “My husband will thank you later. I'm Freya. Who are you?” Freya asked, while passing a jug to the newcomer.