The Legends of Orkney

by Alane Adams

  Sigmund swallowed hard. His mouth felt dry as dirt. “Out behind the . . . in the swamps behind the fortress.”

  “Take me there,” Vena said, grasping him firmly by the arm.

  To Sigmund, this woman was more intoxicating than a deadly nightshade. He would have swooned if her hand weren’t clamped so tightly on him. She had impressive strength, and a sliver of worry needled his addled brain. Witches came into the tavern on occasion, but none as powerful as this. “I would, milady, but . . . but I leave on the morrow. Joining the battle, you see.”

  “Then we must go immediately.” With that, Vena stood and walked out of the tavern, ignoring the catcalls and whistles from the rowdy group that pelted Sigmund with rude comments as he stumbled after her.

  Clear your head, Sigmund, he thought as he drew in a breath of cold night air.

  As much as he hated to disappoint this beautiful creature, the trip through the swamps was impossible at night. One wayward step and they could sink into a bog of quicksand. Notwithstanding the terrible creatures that hunted at night.

  “Mistress Vena, regrettably we cannot make the journey tonight—” he began, but the words stuck in his throat as she grabbed him by his shirt and hauled him close. For a second, he expected a dazzling kiss. But instead, the witch opened her mouth and blew a small puff of green gas that enveloped his face and made Sigmund dizzy, then weightless.

  He tried in vain to call out for help before losing consciousness. When Sigmund opened his eyes he was flat on his back, the ground soft and squishy beneath him. Unfamiliar night sounds filled the air. As he sat up and looked around, he saw a ghostly green glow across a small clearing. Trees and branches grew in knotted twisted tangles.

  I’m in the swamps, Sigmund realized. But how did I get here?

  Two horses stood by. Had he ridden here? His mouth tasted as sour as the milk he had been drinking, but he was otherwise okay. The beautiful Vena was kneeling beside some plants, her hand casting a green glow over them.

  Sigmund recognized the clearing. He had been here earlier today. He stumbled across toward her. “What are you doing? How did you find this place?” he asked, hoping she wasn’t destroying the precious flowers by picking them.

  “I followed your rather pungent scent. Now, hush.” Her hands kept moving as she muttered strange words under her breath, intensifying the glow around the flowers. She reached inside her bodice and pulled out a small glass vial and opened it, sprinkling some of the purplish liquid on top of the flower.

  Sigmund drew closer to see what she was doing. Ophrys insectfera, the fly orchid, was moving under the green glow of her hand, undulating and swelling rapidly in size. The potent liquid sizzled everywhere it touched the plant, emitting a putrid white gas that veiled Vena’s dark magic ritual. From the swollen bulb of the plant, a buzzing sound could be heard growing in intensity until, with a loud pop, an explosion of furious black flies erupted through the haze. They were unnaturally large, with glowing green eyes. They bobbed in the air above Sigmund. He swatted at the insects, terrified. The horses snorted in fear, tearing lose from their tethers and fleeing in the night. But the witch didn’t flinch.

  “I owe you a debt of gratitude,” Vena said, rising to stand by him. “I’ve been traipsing about these swamps for days searching for a plant such as this. Now my transmutation potion will spread like wildfire across the Balfin army.”

  “P-p-potion?” Sigmund stammered, swatting at the cloud of flies around his face.

  Her lips curved into a smile, but her eyes had that predatory look to them, like he was a mouse and she the hungry hawk. He should run, his brain said, but Sigmund felt curiously weak, as if his limbs were frozen in place.

  “Yes. You’re the perfect candidate. Come, let’s see if it works . . .”

  She snapped her fingers, and the cloud of flies came to a halt, hovering over Sigmund’s head, and then settled on him. He swatted at them more vigorously now, but they swarmed him, invading every part of his body—crawling under his clothes, into his ears, his nose, biting him with tiny nips.

  What is happening to me? Sigmund silently screamed.

  A cracking jolt of pain shot through him as the potion reached critical mass in his bloodstream. His body began to tremble and shake with overwhelming energy. His fingers extended and swelled, growing coarse hairs on the backs of his knuckles. Muscles bulged under his shirt, tearing at the fabric seams. He screamed in agony as his body underwent a radical transformation from human to something monstrous.

  Sigmund dropped to his knees, hands in the mud, clutching at the ground to hold onto reality. All around him the thick mass of flies grew larger and louder as more insects erupted from the blooming orchids, each one a carrier of Vena’s potion.

  “Please make it staaaaawwww . . . !” Sigmund cried, but his plea was cut short.

  His jaw ratcheted forward from his skull, distorting his normally placid features into something primal and grotesque. His brow jutted, eye sockets expanded, and new, tusk-like fangs sprouted from his lower gums, evicting the old human teeth. His nose flattened out as his nostrils expanded, allowing him to breathe in greater quantities of air. The hair on his head thickened and lengthened, falling in coarse waves to his shoulders. Heaving sobs filled Sigmund’s chest as his precious journal fell from his now-tattered shirt into the mud and sank from sight.

  And then, as soon as it began, the buzzing stopped. The biting flies settled on the branches of the trees, painting them black, and Sigmund’s transformation halted. The unimaginable pain receded, and an inhuman strength surged through him.

  “Rise,” Vena commanded the abomination at her feet. “Rise and swear allegiance to me.”

  Sigmund raised his oversized head to see the witch’s eyes feverish with excitement. He found he shared her emotion, enthralled with his newfound power. He slowly raised one of his brawny arms, staring at the thick black hair that now covered it, clenching and unclenching a gnarled fist that had grown two sizes. He clambered to his feet, feeling his joints creak with the added muscle. His enlarged heart pumped blood through his veins like a giant steam piston. He pounded one fist against his chest, testing his newfound strength, and opened his mouth to shout, “Yes!” But the noise he produced was an animal-like grunt.

  Sigmund was surprised, but he liked his new language. It was raw. Ferocious. He craned his head back and ratcheted his mouth wide, unleashing a roar that rattled the leaves in the trees.

  Vena smiled, looking pleased with her handiwork.

  “Now, Sigmund, let’s go share my potion with your daddy and his spineless Balfin soldiers. Together we’ll build a Volgrim army to be proud of.”

  General Degroot sat atop his horse, irritably looking down on his battalion. He was dressed in his impeccable uniform made of black leather, adorned with silver epaulettes. On top of his head he wore the high-tip silver helmet as befitted a general. His men were neatly outfitted and in perfect formation. But where was that worthless son of his? If Sigmund was out wandering the swamps in search of his precious plants, Degroot would have him publicly flogged. He had warned the lad not to embarrass him, not in front of the men he commanded. Especially today, of all days.

  A surprise inspection had been called by the queen of witches, Catriona. The general didn’t care for her. Hestera had always been more accommodating and had a spot of affection for him. From what he had seen, Catriona hadn’t a shred of humanity in her cold heart. Still, Degroot wanted to impress, hoping to gain favor with this new lot. His men looked sharp enough, five thousand strong, standing steady in neat rows that filled the vast plaza outside the Tarkana fortress. They were dressed in full battle armor; even the horses had metal chest shields and ornamental helmets to protect them in battle.

  Degroot’s horse reared nervously as a black cloud swirled out of thin air right before him, and a witch emerged from the roiling darkness.

  She was stunning to behold, with long locks of hair and a pretty face. Degroot recognized her as Vena, on
e of Catriona’s fellow Volgrim witches. The general straightened in his saddle.

  “Mistress Vena.” He bowed his head. “I understand you wish to inspect the men.” Behind her, on top of the fortress rampart, a row of witches came into view. In the center, Degroot saw the imposing figure of Catriona. He felt a thrum of excitement, saluting her with two fingers to his brow.

  Vena ambled forward and ran one hand over the nose of his horse.

  “General, I’ve already looked over your men, and I must say, I find them utterly . . . pathetic.”

  The general bristled at her insult. “Madam, many of them are newly joined. Give them some time to season.”

  “We have no time to give,” Vena said sharply. “Every day the Orkadian army destroys one of our sister witches. We are few next to their numbers.”

  “The Balfin army will easily destroy their defenses with the added charms provided us,” General Degroot said smoothly, fingering the shiny disc that hung around his neck. A large fly landed on his cheek. He swatted it away.

  The beautiful witch laughed. “Those charms will not guarantee defeat of the Orkadian army, not when they drag in the Eifalians and the Falcory. But fear not. I have a plan—rather, a potion—to ensure that your men are worthy of defending our coven.”

  “Potion?” Degroot seethed with irritation. “War is not won with potions. It’s won with strategy and superior strength.” Another strange fly landed on the back of his hand. Before he could swat it, the dratted thing bit him. He yelped at the sharp sting, slapping at it. Just then, a loud buzzing noise caught his attention. The sky grew dark, the sun eclipsed by a swelling black cloud that flew over the heads of his men. The men moved uneasily, eyeing the pulsating cloud. Even the horses stomped their feet, some rearing up and snorting.

  “Let me show you how this war will be won,” Vena said, turning and clapping her hands.

  The gates of the Tarkana fortress opened. A hulking figure appeared, lumbering steadily toward them. Black plated armor was strapped across the beast’s chest, leaving thick, hairy arms bare.

  Degroot had faced vicious sneevils and had even survived a giant akkar attack, but he had never seen anything as grotesque as this. “By the gods, what is that?” he whispered.

  The figure grunted loudly, slamming one fist to its chest. The bushy hair on its head extended along its cheeks, nearly covering the skin on the face. A pair of sneevil-like tusks jutted up outside the lips from the bottom jaw. But there was something curiously familiar about the monster. So much so that General Degroot ignored the stinging bites of the pernicious flies on his face and arms, leaning forward on his horse as he peered into the eyes of the creature. He had seen them before. But not like this. Fierce, like a wild animal was trapped inside.

  It can’t be, Degroot told himself. But his instincts told him it was.

  “Sigmund?” The General’s voice cracked. “Is that you?”

  The monster let out another roar, raising one fist in the air.

  With a twirl of her hands, Vena took charge of the roiling swarm of flies and shouted, “Feast on them, my little parasites. Feast away!” She spun in a circle, dancing wildly until she disappeared into a cloud of smoke.

  By now the General’s men were under heavy attack from the flies and running helter-skelter in every direction. Still stunned by the ghastly sight of his mutated son, Degroot barely acknowledged the bugs covering him from head to toe, crawling into every orifice and delivering their toxic serum to his blood, which had begun to hum with a strange and powerful cadence. As the first ripple of change tore through him, he was bucked off his horse, which shook and screamed in a shrill whinny.

  General Degroot lay in the dirt, writhing and shrieking, trying in vain to throw off the blanket of flies on him. “Help me, Sigmund,” he screamed, but Sigmund’s hulking figure stood silently over him, watching as his father twisted, trying to crawl toward his horse. The beast lay on its side, quivering as flies settled on it in a black canopy. Before Degroot could reach it, the horse stood up. Its armor had somehow melted into its body, molding with the horse and becoming part of its hide. Reddened eyes were mad with power as the horse reared up, pawing at the air.

  Instead of being terrified, anticipation rippled through the general. Here was real power, not those petty trinkets the witches gave them. The tall silver helmet was melded to his head. His veins pulsated with pure energy. A twisted smile creased his face even as the agony of his swelling bones and stretching flesh tore an anguished cry from the depths of his guts.

  When the transformation was complete, a new vision of the world awaited Degroot. Pushing himself to his feet, the General stood and surveyed his new army. The once-thin hair on top of his head was now thick and fell down his back. As the last of his men and their horses went through the change, they began to rise up like him, looking around at the formidable new breed of Black Guard soldiers.

  General Degroot put one hand on his son’s shoulder. Finally, he had a son to be proud of. Sigmund nodded at his father and then let out a triumphant howl. His voice was joined by the throngs of soldiers awaiting his command.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  From the parapets of the Tarkana fortress, Catriona beamed with triumph as Vena appeared at her side. “Well done,” she murmured, clapping her hands slowly in appreciation. “You’ve done more than even I imagined. Now we finish turning the boy to our side and win this war.” With a whisk of her skirts, she headed down to the dungeon.

  The subterranean hallway was lit by torches placed every ten feet along the wall. A shadowy figure huddled outside Sam’s cell door. Dear cousin Bronte. The crone clutched the vial filled with purplish fog in her fingers.

  “You’re sure it will work?” Catriona asked.

  Bronte nodded. “It will do its part. The boy must supply the rage.”

  “Then we have nothing to fear—this Samuel Barconian has rage enough for ten men,” Catriona said drily. She waved one hand in front of the door, and the lock fell open. “Wait here until I give the signal.” Snatching a torch from the wall, Catriona pushed the door open. The torch cast a beam of light across the rumpled figure curled up in a ball on the ground. Several Deathstalkers hovered, fleeing the light and leaving their scattered tidbits.

  If Catriona’s heart had retained any feeling, she might have felt pity for the boy. He looked bereft and feeble. But there was no room for pity, not when the final descent onto his dark path awaited him. She entered his cell, slamming the door shut behind her.

  At the sound of the door, Sam lifted his head blearily from the stone. He squinted in the sudden bright light, then made out Catriona’s wrinkled prune face. Crazily enough, he was actually happy to see her. One more day of solitary confinement and his mind would turn to pea soup.

  But what does she want this time? More torture?

  “At last, the maid is here with my breakfast,” Sam said insolently, pushing himself up to his feet. He swayed slightly. “I ordered a double stack of blueberry pancakes, like, two weeks ago.”

  Catriona said nothing. Something told Sam this wasn’t a social call.

  He kept his banter up. “So did you come to escort me to my new room? One with a flat-screen TV and a king-sized bed? Oh, and I’d like a view of the swamps, please.”

  Catriona didn’t seem fazed. “For a boy who has endured such betrayal, it is hard to imagine you can stand.”

  Wariness made Sam’s guts tighten up. “What betrayal?”

  She gave a tiny shrug of her shoulders as she sauntered closer. “Tsk, don’t pretend you didn’t see them together. Laughing, having a lark without you.”

  The muscle in Sam’s jaw was the only thing that moved. He didn’t look at Catriona. Flashes kept splitting his head open. Images of Keely. Leo. Sharing a kiss while Sam lived in this dank hole with only vermin for companions. He hated Leo at that moment.

  “Yes, Leo, isn’t it? And you thought he was your friend?” Catriona chortled as Sam’s eyes flared with rage. “Leo’s in
terest lies in the girl, not you. Who can blame him, really? You’re nothing but a lost cause, are you not?” She leaned in. “Just say the words, Samuel, and I will curse him with putrid boils the size of melons that will leach the treacherous life from him.”

  Sam bit down on his tongue, refusing to be baited.

  But Catriona didn’t stop her torment, circling him and poking at him. “Or perhaps we should snip out that worm, Howie? The one who professes to be your best friend. But is he?”

  She let the question linger. The only other sound in the prison hole was the sound of water dripping from the ceiling.

  Drip. Drip.

  It was like acid, eating away at his confidence. But then Sam remembered his trump card.

  “You’re brainwashing won’t work on me. My friends would do anything for me, same as I would for them. But it doesn’t matter, witch, because they’re not in this realm, so you can’t touch them.” Sam gloated as he finished.

  “Oh, but they are.”

  Sam stared at her warily. What was her game? Keely, Leo, and Howie were all safely back in Pilot Rock. He had sent them there himself.

  A sly grin came over Catriona’s face. “Didn’t you hear? Your friends have returned. Odin brought them back. They call themselves the Chosen Ones.” She held out a scrap of red fabric.

  Sam took it, hardly believing his eyes. It was Howie’s red bow tie. The one he wore on his uniform at Chuggies. It even had the logo printed in the fabric. Keely, Howie, and Leo were here? They hadn’t forgotten him at all!

  He couldn’t stop the grin of joy as he faced his adversary. “Then give it up, Catriona. Beat me, feed me to your scorpions, do whatever you will, but I will never serve you. My friends are gonna bust me out of here, and then I’m gonna put you back inside a stone prison worse than the last one.”

  Sam waited for Catriona to erupt, but she looked at him with pity in her eyes, clucking softly.

  “Poor Samuel, so misled. You think your friends are here to save you.”