Iduna

  “I do what I want.” Vilir tossed the bone on his plate and took a deep drink, eyeing Senbo casually. Finally some survival instinct kicked in, and Senbo backed down.

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Senbo sat at the table and started picking at his food.

  The silence stretching between Vilir and Senbo tested Iduna’s will as she still considered killing them. She couldn’t take both of them. Vilir was a seasoned fighter. Yet it was more than that. He struck her as a man with the strength of two. At least. And she still didn’t understand why killing Elementalists and Spellcrafters would give him power. And what was the nature of this plague? Too much remained unknown to her.

  Iduna placed a steaming clay pot with honeyed oats covered with sweetened strawberries and rhubarb on the table. This was the dish she had hoped would get her invited back, that would give her another chance to gather information. It smelled like spring and sweetness. She spooned a large helping onto Vilir’s, then Senbo's, plates. Spreading whipped cream on top, she stepped back. Vilir dug in with guttural enthusiasm. When he tapped his spoon on the pot, Iduna served more.

  “You will cook tomorrow,” Vilir announced between heaping spoonfuls.

  Iduna’s sigh of relief hissed quietly from her lips. She would have another chance to see whether Vilir would follow Senbo’s advice. It didn’t seem like Vilir respected Senbo. If that were the case, then Lawan could be safe. She didn’t want it to come to Lawan fighting this horde full of people whom she had laughed and lived with. If she killed Vilir now, Skuld or Dagna might take his place and take revenge on Lawan if they figured out she was spying for Lawan.

  Vilir could be the one thing keeping the Ull from invading Lawan.

  Senbo cleared his throat and watched Vilir eat. Iduna felt her nerves stretch with tension. The look on Senbo’s face was calculating, and she felt that whatever was adding up in his head was going to be costly.

  “Leder Vilir,” Senbo said.

  “Yes,” Vilir grunted.

  “Leder Vilir, I hate to remind you, but you do remember what happened to your brother, don’t you?”

  Vilir looked up from his food, and Iduna swore she could see the veins in his neck and forehead pulse with his wrath.

  Right then a guard entered the tent. “Leder Vilir, we have a young warrior who claims he was robbed in that village to the south of camp. Would you like to hear the case now?” the guard asked.

  “What did he lose?” Vilir asked.

  “Just his clothes and weapons. He wasn’t going to report it, but when some of the more senior fighters learned of it, they thought it could be a sign of a rebellion,” the guard said.

  “Any type of attack by these conquered people would be most unusual,” Senbo said to Vilir. “We should probably look into it.”

  “No. I’ll take care of it tomorrow,” Vilir replied. He stood, and his dog came to his side. “I’m done here.” Vilir left the tent with his dog following behind him.

  Iduna watched Senbo smile as he licked the cream from the spoon. His reaction made no sense to her and she left the tent more puzzled and worried than ever before.

  Chapter 17

  “Why did you give away your cook? Don't you like good food?” Dagna sat at Skuld's table with a bowl of bland stew in front of her. She lifted her spoon and poured out its contents repeatedly while she talked.

  “It will be worth it,” Skuld promised. He grimly ate his portion.

  “Ah, so you are up to something.”

  Yes, he was. He felt like he'd been going in and out of darkness for months now. It was a kind of torment. He had periods of lucidity, seeing what was going on around him, then lapsing into dark oblivion. Sometimes he even had an out-of-body awareness, watching his actions, his emotions, and yet feeling like he had no control over them. He actually preferred the complete fade-out instead of the powerless awareness. Even now he could feel the fog of darkness growing in his periphery.

  He needed an ally and hoped that Dagna was less under the influence than the others. He suspected that less power had been used on them since they needed to have more mental presence in order to help lead and organize their forces. If she was fully under the influence, then her knowing his intentions would be the end of him. Dagna was fierce and brutal during the darkest periods. He remembered more than he wished.

  The silence stretched thinly.

  Wax dripped slowly down the side of the candle on the table in front of him and pooled at the base, turning back into its solid form quickly. The evenings were still brisk though the days had grown warm. Too warm for his liking. He wanted to return to the homeland. His tent smelled of loamy soil and mossy growth. He missed the pure crispness of being surrounded by snow as far as the eye could see.

  “What are you up to?” Dagna asked.

  Her face gave no hint to her thoughts.

  His heart raced with hope.

  She'd have jumped to the worst conclusion and struck him down if she'd been far gone. Perhaps she was but was waiting to see how much he could incriminate himself. He’d known her for years, and he still couldn’t read her.

  “Never hurts to have Vilir happy, does it?” he said, taking the easy way out. “He’s been a slave to his stomach since he hit puberty. A man doesn’t grow that big without caring about food, right?” He laughed.

  She finally swallowed a spoonful of the stew with a grimace. “At least it’s for a good cause.”

  If only she knew.

  Chapter 18

  After walking for hours, Vilir felt he was far enough from his tent and joined one of the sleeping piles that surrounded one of the many campfires. It was late. His dog flopped on his feet and gave a tired grunt.

  The dwindling fire had the heavy smell of smoke and ash, but embers still glowed with a warm light. A tall man sat on a tree stump with a woman leaning back against his legs. They both stared into the fire as she sang a song of their homeland. She sang of the long winters and life within their massive tents and ice fortresses. It was an old song, and Vilir knew the words. Laying here among his people and listening to the song brought a sweet pain to him.

  His brother.

  Roen had a gift for dealing with people and being tremendously wise even from a young age. The people had chosen him for higher and higher positions until eventually his little brother, Roen, was Leder Roen of the Snow Elves and responsible for guiding the Ull in accordance with their beliefs and values. With Vilir’s talents in hunting and in the arena, it was natural for him to become Roen’s choice to lead Ull’s warriors. The force wasn’t large, but it was enough to deal with the occasional border marauding and to survey the lands.

  The Ull lived spread across the tundra and in the glorious city of Himmlen. Roen had to spend most of his time in Himmlen, seeing to the laws and the managing of a society that always had to be ready for exceptionally hard winters. The Ull took care of their own.

  Himmlen was also where all the art of the Snow Elves came to be shared and celebrated. Artists poured into Himmlen with the spring melt and stayed to manifest amazing buildings crafted from layers of ice; both fluid and geometric designs could be found throughout the city. Plays and music prospered and fed the great soul of their society. These creations were celebrations of the wonder of nature and humanity. They fostered compassion and appreciation that were core values of the Ull.

  One day in the coldest depths of winter, Vilir discovered a village had been burned down. All the buildings and tents were charred skeletons, and bodies lay where they had fallen. There was one survivor—a young girl.

  Her eyes were wild, and she struck out at anyone who tried to calm her. With no options, Vilir bundled her up, and tied her hands and feet to keep her safe from herself and from attacking others. He would bring the girl to the court and would introduce her to Roen. Leder Roen would know what to do.

  He’d never forget that day.

  Roen was sitting on his ice throne that had long ago been lined with cushions, listening to a large group of mu
sicians while many of the Ull danced. Music echoed off the tall ceiling of the hall, and Vilir felt the scene of the decimated village wear less heavily in his heart.

  “Brother, welcome home. How are our lands?” Roen called to him as Vilir approached the throne.

  “Thank you, Leder Roen. They are mostly well, but I bring you sad news and a conundrum. The village of Aysen is burned to the ground,” Vilir said and paused for the gasps in the hall to subside. “All the other surrounding villages appear to be fine,” he assured them.

  “How are the people of Aysen?”

  “All are dead except for this girl,” Vilir said and signaled to have the girl brought in. “She appears to be out of her mind and hasn’t said a word. The girl is a danger to herself and anyone else right now. I don’t know what to do with her.”

  The girl stood awkwardly, her blue eyes blazing. Her hands and feet were still bound; blood dripped from the wounds she’d inflicted on herself as she’d tried to break free.

  “What is your name?” Roen asked, while looking admonishingly at his brother. When the girl didn’t answer, Roen said, “Vilir, remove her bindings. She’ll be more inclined to talk when she is free. No Ull likes to be tied up.”

  Vilir looked from the girl to Roen and back again. Her eyes shown like the blue fire around a hot flame. He could only imagine the intensity of her emotions and wondered for the thousandth time what had happened in the village. He had never bound her mouth, even though she bit anyone who got too close. They kept hoping she would finally talk.

  Even now the line of her lips was tight and firm, as if frozen together.

  “She’s quite unpredictable, my Leder,” Vilir said.

  “She’s just a girl,” Roen said. “Free her, and we will talk with her to find out what has happened and how we can help her.”

  Vilir had cut the ropes binding her feet together first. She’d stood mutely, and he’d felt encouraged that she hadn’t kicked him. He’d held her hands tenderly and cut through the rope. Her expression remained unchanged while she wiggled her fingers one by one, working out the kinks. He had watched her slowly flex her wrists, moving her hands up and down, then rotating them in small circles. She must be working the blood back into her hands, he had thought, and hoped that they hadn’t become too numb. Her fingernails were dirty and long. He’d wished they’d considered finding a way to allow her a hot soak to remove the dirt and grime from the fires and everything else that had happened in her village.

  One second he was watching her small hands, the next he was pivoting to try to catch her as she sprinted toward the throne. She leaped onto Roen as he rose from his chair and made him fall back in the seat. Taking advantage of Roen’s moment of lost balance and surprise, she gouged her fingers deep into his eyes.

  The image of Roen’s tears of blood as he died in Vilir’s arms wavered and blurred in Vilir’s memory.

  He came back to the present, and the woman’s voice singing the closing stanzas. The song was an illusion, but it was also his most fierce hope. Vilir knew they’d been living a false and fragile dream in Ull.

  Senbo had helped him see that.

  Senbo had been the one to show him the hidden magic that the Ull were vulnerable to. And what Vilir was capable of. They wouldn’t be safe until they dominated the land and all the power that went with it. His brother’s death had been proof. There was only one way to get back home and live as the Ull should. It wouldn’t be easy. He needed Senbo’s knowledge of these lands, but he needed to slow down for the sake of his people. He could only delay so much.

  He could feel the darkness envelope the camp while his own ambition burned with an ever-growing flame. His palms were practically itching with their desire to grab more power. He needed to rid the world of weakness. He would let his power grow until he was the only power, the only strength. Strength was what was required to keep his people safe and prosperous.

  Vilir’s eyelids twitched as he slept. He dreamed of death and a fortress made of ice that kept melting.

  Chapter 19

  The next afternoon, Iduna was plucking feathers from a scrawny goose when Vilir made his way to a tree stump near the camp's fire. He climbed up and stood in silence. He was barefoot, shirtless, and wearing simple leggings. She had never seen a man with such muscles and was glad she hadn’t tried to take him on last night. Poison would be the way, she thought idly, while noting that people were gathering around the tall charismatic man — like moths to a flame, they kept coming.

  Vilir took three deep breaths, each inhalation drawing in massive amounts of air, filling his lungs. His ribs showed the pressure. Each exhalation shallow as he gathered air for whatever was to come. On his third exhale he made a loud vibrating hum, creating a long-drawn-out monotone baseline. Stopping when his long breath ended, he paused, surveying the ever-growing crowd.

  They looked up to him. Iduna could feel their curiosity about what they were doing in Gaelen, wondering how long they would stay, how much some of them missed home.

  He sang, weaving the notes and harmony that made Iduna feel a dark stirring of melancholy. Suddenly she felt her heart convulse, like she'd just lost someone she loved and would never see them again. She toppled into despair. Then a light seemed to appear, and it was fed by anger. The anger seeped into her, filling the emptiness. When his song ended, the feeling faded but left a shadow of memory, like the feelings had carved out a new spot in her soul.

  …

  Shaking her head, Iduna realized she was sitting cross-legged in the mud. She wouldn’t have chosen to sit here. People rose to their feet in their own time and went about what they had been doing without a word. The contemplative silence seemed to be a universal agreement.

  The day passed in a haze. She cooked, served, ate, and went to bed.

  When she woke the next morning, the sun seemed too bright, the light too harsh, the ground hard. She heard grumpy grunts and saw sleeping people with frowns. She must have slept on her neck wrong; she couldn’t turn her head without soreness. She gathered dishes from Vilir's tent, and he was snoring contentedly, snuggling a woman. His modest signs of happiness offended her. It seemed like no one should be happy.

  She stomped to the stream, loaded with dishes and grinding her teeth with vague annoyance. She dropped them in a pile with a clatter — one pot hit her foot, and she screamed with rage. She kicked the pot so zealously that she lost her balance and toppled into the deep part of the stream. The pain from her toes hit her brain right before she was submersed. Cold water seized her lungs and overwhelmed her senses.

  Blinding cold gripped her. Air left her frozen lungs in a bubbly whoosh. She hovered underwater while her nervous system shut down. Her thoughts stopped. Her legs and arms were still. She floated with eyes wide open, but unseeing.

  She hovered without thought or movement.

  Gradually she noticed the world around her: the swaying river-weed and a few fish darting. With a burst of movement, like her body had exited a stunned state, her arms and legs scissored her to the surface. She emerged with a gasping breath, lungs sucking in air, arms churning and legs treading water. Shaking her head, she headed to shore. Crawling onto a large boulder, she lay on her back with her eyes closed, panting.

  She felt clean and alive.

  She wrung out her clothes, laughing at herself for falling in the stream. She took off everything except her underclothes and spread them on the rocks. The sun was shining brightly and should take care of drying them. She hummed to herself while she began cleaning the dishes.

  All done and with time to kill, she crawled up onto a boulder by the stream and sprawled in the sun. The feel of the heat on her skin and the warm rock under her was a welcome luxury. The dishes and clothes would dry while she took a nap. It was a beautiful day.

  …

  An hour later she woke, dressed, and gathered the dishes. She whistled a peppy tune while walking back to camp. As she got closer, her stride became shorter. Then her steps became slower. She fe
lt like she was moving in mud, and the air felt thicker around her the closer to camp she got.

  This was not right.

  What was going on?

  Her mind took steps back and reviewed the past few days, running from when she had parted ways with Freya to serving Vilir, to … “Oh, Yorin!” She gasped. Turning on her heel, she put her back to the camp and took an instinctive step away. This could not be happening. What dark magic was this?

  Challenging her thoughts, she spun about, set her shoulders, and took a running start in the direction of camp. After three running strides, a black explosion burst in her brain. Her gut wrenched. She fell to her knees and lost the contents of her stomach. Wiping her mouth, she looked toward the camp.

  She had to get back.

  She tried crawling, sinking lower and lower into the dirt.

  She held her hand to her wet mouth, oblivious, her mind reeling. Freya. Unger. The others. She wouldn't be able to get to them. They were in that dank, wretched darkness. She wouldn't even be able to get her horse. The Ull were such warm, affectionate people. What had happened? Her stomach roiled, and her head throbbed. The singing, the emotion, what was it all about? She searched her feelings and became aware of a hollow pit inside her that she’d never felt before.

  She needed to get back to Cha and talk to her mentor. She knew what Senbo wanted—the complete domination of Lawan. He seemed motivated by some petty need for dominance. That Vilir had worked his magic meant that he was going to follow Senbo’s advice.

  Lawan was in trouble. Her home was in danger. She couldn't let this dark sickness take over her home. She thought of the quiet gardens of Cha, the easy smiles of strangers, and the tranquil waters. The empty pit in her seemed larger when she thought of losing Surat, Tinh, and Sensei Angko to this darkness.