by Alane Adams
“You really think so?”
“I know Sam. And don’t forget, that Leo dude was there with his Umatilla warriors. They aren’t going to just leave us here.”
For the first time since Endera had showed up on her porch, Keely felt a flicker of hope. In her pocket, she found the rune stone Sam had given her in the library. She pulled it out, rubbing the jagged . Howie’s right, she thought. Sam will come for us, and he’ll find a way to fix everything.
Chapter Fourteen
Freshly dressed in a clean white shirt and breeches that tucked into soft leather boots, Sam opened the wooden shutters to his room, letting in the weak evening light. The sun hung low, clinging like a red blister to the horizon.
Questions swirled in his head. It was starting to sink in that nothing about him was normal. His parents had kept their incomprehensible, not-to-be-believed, straight-out-of-a-movie heritage such a big secret, Sam was completely in the dark about who he really was. One thing was certain: ever since Endera had shot that electrifying green fire at his chest, a strange language had been whispering constantly in the back of his head.
A young boy showed up at his door to take him to dinner. The boy held a candle to light the way down corridors lined with stone. The place was like a mausoleum. Sam stopped to look at a spear mounted on the wall. It was bronze, very old looking, sort of dull and dusty. A plaque underneath it read Gungnir.
Sam reached out and felt a rush of cold air as his fingers touched the shaft.
“You like it?” a voice said.
A man dressed in a black cowl, the hood loose around his neck, appeared next to Sam. His face was smooth under a sheaf of white hair, but his eyes were watery and yellowed with age.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to touch it.” Sam snatched his hand back. He looked for the boy with the candle, but he had disappeared around the corner.
“It’s okay. Take it. It’s yours.” The hooded man’s voice was as dry as paper.
“Me? No, I’ve never even seen it before.”
“Some things belong to us whether we like it or not,” he wheezed with a deep sadness, as if his words weighed on him.
“Did Vor send you?” Sam asked, thinking that the old man reminded him of the pale Goddess of Wisdom, because of the stillness and the suddenness with which he had appeared.
“So, you have received Vor’s counsel? You are most fortunate,” the man answered. “I am Forset, the God of Justice. I provide fairness when none can be found.” He coughed once, a deep, phlegmy sound, and wiped his mouth with a white handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. “It is rare for me to leave my home. But I have been sent to give you a gift.” He lifted the spear down and handed it to Sam. “This belonged to Odin.”
“Odin? Really? That’s so cool.” Sam eyed it with renewed respect. It felt heavy in his hands but really like nothing special. Still, a spear of the gods!
Forset nodded. “It is said to always find its target. When you most need it, raise your hand and call its name, Gungnir. It will appear.” He stepped back, and a wave of panic washed over Sam. This stranger was leaving him holding a priceless artifact.
“No, they’ll think I stole it.” Sam tried to put it back, but the bracket was gone and so was the name plaque. When he turned around, Forset had disappeared. Sam looked down at the spear. It began to glow in his hand, turning red-hot, singeing his palm. He dropped it, and the spear vanished into thin air, leaving only a puff of smoke.
Shaking his head, Sam hurried to find his way to the banquet. After several wrong turns, he ended up in the kitchen. A blushing maid took pity on him and led him to the dining hall, curtsying quickly before fleeing.
He stood in the entrance, taking it all in. The crowded hall was blanketed by a haze of smoke emanating from a large stone fireplace where crackling flames leaped six feet into the air. Rough-hewn beams lined the ceiling. Hundreds of flickering candles dripped wax down from swaying chandeliers. Long tables lined both sides of a carpeted walkway leading to a head table at the other end of the room. The table was draped in Orkadian red, with the symbol of the white heron displayed prominently in the center.
Captain Teren hurried over to join Sam at the entrance and bowed. “I was beginning to think we’d scared you off. May I escort you to your seat?”
Relieved to see a friendly face, Sam nodded rapidly. “Who are all these people?”
Teren slapped him on the back and turned him around to face the crowds. “These are the people of Orkney. Don’t worry, you’ll get their names straight soon enough. But there’re a few things you should know if you’re going to live long enough to save us all.”
Save them all? Sam wanted to ask what Teren meant by that, but the soldier was already moving him forward down the center aisle. Conversation died as they walked toward the head table.
Teren whispered in his ear as they slowly made their way. “The Chief High Council is that large man in the center, Lord Drabic—looking a bit into his cups, I might add. He took over after your father perished.”
Drabic was fat and balding and had long jowls that wobbled as he drank from his goblet. This was his father’s replacement?
“Drabic might seem a fool, but beware—he has strong alliances,” Teren added at Sam’s skeptical look. “He should have been on the steps to greet you earlier. A calculated move on his part to put you in your place.”
As Teren led Sam past a table of dwarves, Rego eyed Sam closely over a tankard of ale, then rose abruptly from his seat to move into the aisle, blocking their way. He bowed low. Teren elbowed Sam, and Sam bowed back awkwardly.
Rego took the moment to grab him by the arm. “Don’t trust anyone, boy,” he whispered in Sam’s ear. “You hear me?”
His words were sharp and intense. Sam nodded, seeing fear in the dwarf’s eyes. Rego resumed his seat as Teren pulled him along.
Sam focused on the head table. The man in the red robes who had accosted him earlier sat watching his approach with narrowed eyes. “Who’s that to the left of Drabic?”
“That’s Lord Orrin. He’s High Regent. Advises the council on matters of importance, which is to say he spies on everyone. He has Drabic’s ear. You should avoid him. He and Emenor are too close for my comfort.”
Emenor’s shoulders were hunched under a heavy black robe, but his beady eyes were pinned firmly on Sam.
“Why does Emenor hate me so much?” Sam whispered.
Teren gave a slight shrug. “It’s not a question of hate; it’s one of trust. The Balfins have the same concern we all do about you.”
“Which is?”
They stopped a few feet from the head table. Teren looked at Sam. His eyes were kind but troubled as he leaned forward and whispered in Sam’s ear, “Which path will you choose, Samuel? Which path will you lead us all down?”
A gong sounded, and the large hall grew quiet. Lord Drabic stood up, a little tottery, and raised his glass. Sam could feel Orrin’s eyes impaling him. Gael looked worried, a small frown pinching the Eifalian’s forehead. And Beo—well, the Falcory looked at Sam over his beak nose as if he would like to flay him alive.
“We welcome the return of a Barconian to the Ninth Realm.” Drabic waved his glass in Sam’s direction. “May Odin smile upon you with his good fortune.”
Glasses clanked together as applause broke out, and then conversation resumed. Teren bowed and left to join a table of Orkadian soldiers. Sam made his way up to the dais.
Drabic grabbed his arm, speaking so only Sam could hear. “Don’t get any ideas about who’s in charge. Your father is gone, and I run this city. Now take your seat and smile nicely, like a good boy.” He pinched Sam’s cheek roughly and gave him a little shove. Sam burned with anger and embarrassment, but he gritted his teeth and moved along toward the only empty seat. It was sandwiched between the scowling Emenor and the less-than-friendly High Regent, Lord Orrin.
Servers marched in with platters of steaming food, dropping them down in the center of each table, and the room
was soon abuzz with the sounds of eating and drinking. Ravenous hunger had Sam reaching for a fat drumstick. It was good—much better than the black cabbage stew and hard biscuits he had been eating since he got to Orkney.
Lord Orrin waited until Sam was on his second drumstick before he spoke. His breath smelled like cloves. His face was smooth and oily and gave off a sheen in the candlelight. A thin scar ran along one cheek.
“I can help you rescue your friends,” Orrin murmured in a low voice, keeping his eyes on the crowd, as if his attention were elsewhere, “but you have to do exactly as I say.”
Sam choked on his food. An offer of help was the last thing Sam had expected from the High Regent. Across the room, Rego set down his mug, his eyes on the two of them.
“How do you know about my friends?”
“Word spreads fast in our world. The High Council is going to send you on a suicide mission,” Orrin went on. “You must be gone before morning, or your friends will die at the hands of the witches.”
The turkey turned to sawdust in Sam’s throat. Here he was, feasting, while Howie and Keely were being held hostage in some drafty dungeon.
“Why do you care?” Sam asked, pushing his plate away.
“Let’s just say our interests are aligned.” His next words surprised Sam even more. “The Balfins have agreed to assist.”
Sam looked to his right at Emenor. So far, the Balfin had showed him only contempt. Why would a witch-loving Balfin lift a finger to help him?
Orrin rushed the words out. “Your friends are being held on Balfour Island. Emenor will provide a map to the Tarkana fortress. Without it, you will perish in the never-ending bogs and swamps that surround it.”
Before Sam could ask how he was supposed to get to this Balfour Island, Lord Drabic pushed back his chair. The council members all rose and began filing out as the rest of the diners continued their meal.
“Be ready tonight,” Orrin whispered to him, before hurrying to catch up with Drabic.
Rego and Captain Teren began heading intently toward Sam. No doubt Rego wanted to know every word the High Regent had been whispering, but before they could arrive, Gael took his elbow.
“Walk with me,” the Eifalian said.
They left the dining hall and walked down a long hallway lit by softly glowing sconces. The walls were lined with portraits. The faces were a blur, old men with inscribed names whom Sam had never heard of—until he came to one he recognized. Sam stopped, his breath catching in his chest.
It was his father. Lord Robert Barconian, the nameplate read. In the picture, he looked young, noble, alive.
“Your father was of the old bloodlines, a true Son of Odin,” Gael said. His long robe shifted colors from emerald to shimmering aquamarine when he moved. “A direct descendent of Baldur, Odin’s most favored son. He embodied many of Baldur’s qualities: a brave warrior, strong and courageous.”
So his father really had been a hero. If his father had had these traits, then maybe there was hope for Sam to follow in his footsteps. He looked at Gael, expecting warmth, but instead something flinty gleamed in the Eifalian’s pale eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Sam asked.
Gael shrugged. “I have read your aura. You are clouded. Too much of your mother’s blood, I suppose.” He moved away, gliding down the hall in his flowing robe.
Sam was speechless as he glared at Gael’s back. If his aura was cloudy, maybe it was because he had been lied to his whole life. He looked back at the portrait of his father, and this time a wave of bitterness washed over him. They treated his dad like he was a full-on hero, but Robert Barconian had left Sam behind. Abandoned him. Lied to him. And never come back.
A real hero would have had the guts to say goodbye before he took off through a stonefire to another realm.
“Sam, the High Council is waiting for you.” Captain Teren stood outside a set of double doors.
Sam gave his dad’s portrait one last, bitter glance and then moved on.
Chapter Fifteen
Teren ushered Sam into a room with high ceilings and no windows. The room was stuffy and warm. Orrin’s eyes burned into Sam from where he stood behind Lord Drabic. The Council members were seated around a long, oval table ringed with high-backed chairs. Teren motioned Sam into an empty seat and sat down beside him.
Drabic poured himself a generous portion of wine and then planted his hands on the table. “So, how soon can he leave for Asgard?”
Asgard? Wasn’t that the land of the gods? Sam was about to remind them that he had just arrived in Orkney, when Rego jumped up. “You’re not sending him off on a wild goose hunt after Odin. He’s just a boy.”
“Things have changed, dwarf,” Drabic said. “Have you not seen how the red sun has spread its veins? Its poison destroys the crops. Soon there will be food shortages. The boy is a Son of Odin. Who will save us, if not him?”
The Council all began shouting at once. Everyone seemed to have a different opinion about what Sam was supposed to do now that he was here in Orkney.
Rego put his fingers in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle. The room quieted down, and all eyes turned to Sam. “Tell him,” Rego urged from his seat. “He deserves to know what you’re asking.”
Gael waved his hand, and a cloud of fog rolled across the table. When it cleared, in the center Sam could see a hazy image of a circle of large stones. He sat forward, suddenly interested. “Is that the Ring of Brogar?” It fit Rego’s description of the place where his father had been killed.
“You’ve heard the story of how Catriona and her sisters were entombed?” Gael asked.
Sam repeated what he remembered. “A long time ago, some guy named Hermodan defeated them with Odin’s Stone and sent Orkney away from my world, into the Ninth Realm.”
“Exactly.” Gael waved his hand again, and the cloud shifted to show a young man standing in the middle of the Ring of Brogar, holding a large stone in the shape of a shield in front of him. “Hermodan used Odin’s Stone to defend against the witches.” A burst of green lightning flowed over Hermodan, but he was safe behind the stone. “Odin’s Stone was powerful enough to trap Catriona and her cronies inside the stones of the Ring of Brogar.”
Sam watched as the crackling energy bounced off the shield and returned to a group of women dressed in black gowns, their long, nasty fingers shooting green fire. Hermodan thrust the shield into the sky, his lips moving wordlessly. Blue fire exploded out of Odin’s Stone, and the giant ring of stones began to glow.
Sam leaned in, watching breathlessly as the witches were pulled toward the rocks; their backs stuck against the sides like magnets. And then they vanished, sucked inside the stones.
“Cool,” he whispered.
“The witches have waited a thousand years to take their revenge,” Gael continued. “A few months ago, the sun began to shimmer, and then the first red vein appeared. It is spreading like a poison across the realm, killing the land and tainting the spirit of the people. Endera and her cronies wish to drive Orkney to its knees. They have sent a letter demanding our immediate surrender to their rule, or they will allow the curse of the red sun to spread until all of Orkney perishes.”
He let his words hang in the air. The eyes of the Council continued to stare at Sam, as if they were waiting for him to come up with a plan.
Sam looked into the wisps of fog. “Rego said Odin cut off Rubicus’s head and solved the problem. Can’t you just do the same? Take an army and go after the witches?” Sam wouldn’t mind seeing Endera’s head on a stake.
Beo spoke then, spinning a knife in his hand as he vented his frustration. “Even if we killed every witch, we’d need Odin’s magic to end the curse. Hermodan went to Asgard, to the island of the gods, to beseech Odin for his help, but one cannot find Asgard, let alone enter, unless one shares the blood of Odin.”
There was silence after Beo spoke. It took a moment, and then the importance of his words hit Sam. “I’m a Son of Odin,” he said, looking around the tabl
e.
“The last known offspring,” Gael added softly.
Every adult stared at him expectantly, waiting for him to jump onboard with their plan.
Without thinking it all through, Sam blurted out, “Look, I’m happy to help, but first I have to pay a visit to Endera to get my friends back.”
There were angry grumbles from the group. Beo slammed the tip of his blade into the table. “See how he runs to the witches’ side,” he said angrily. “His blood is tainted.”
“Beo is correct,” Gael added. “We don’t know where the child’s loyalty lies.”
Rego jumped to his feet, his face red as a tomato. “His father was Robert Barconian. You know spleeking well where his loyalty lies: with the realm.”
“He is also one of theirs.” Beo practically spat out his words. “We can’t be sure.”
Confusion laced with a ripe dose of anger hummed through Sam. One of theirs? Tainted blood? His cheeks began to tingle with that familiar sense of rage at the injustice of how they were treating him. He rose out of his chair. “Hey, I said I would go on your stupid quest as soon as I get Howie and Keely back.”
But the council kept speaking as if he weren’t even there.
“The boy is the first he-witch in generations,” Gael said. “There is no telling what powers he will achieve when he matures. Odin ended his kind for a reason.”
Sam was about to tell them where they could stuff their quest, when an arm went around his neck and a sharp knife pressed against his throat. It was Geb, Beo’s brother with the scarred scalp.
“I say we kill him now and be done with it,” he muttered, his breath hot on Sam’s neck. “Then we don’t have to wonder what he’ll turn out to be.”
Rego jumped up, drawing his sword and placing its tip against Geb’s ribs. “Do it, and the last thing you’ll feel is my blade running through your heart.”