The Legends of Orkney

by Alane Adams

  “So I guess this is it,” Galatin said, giving Keely a grim smile.

  “We’re not done yet,” she said, desperately thinking of a way to save their lives.

  “We’re pretty done,” he said as the Vanir shoved his head down on the block.

  Keely looked over at Mavery. The witch-girl was frozen in a state of shock. She nudged her. “Hey, snap out of it. Help me create a distraction.”

  Mavery finally moved her lips. “Th-th-is—this is what you saw, isn’t it?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Keely hissed, “because it’s not going to happen. Use some of that witch magic of yours.”

  “I c-c-can’t. I’m not that strong.”

  “Yes, you are. You’re a great witch. Besides, I’m right here with you. We can do this together.”

  Across the muddy field, Joran laughed at something the woman said. He drank from the goblet he held and picked at some grapes on a large platter a servant passed him. He paid no attention to the little drama being played out on the platform, where Galatin was about to lose his head, followed, Keely was sure, by her and then Mavery.

  The executioner tested the axe against Galatin’s neck. Weighing the distance.

  “Now, Mavery,” Keely said, scrambling to her feet.

  Mavery stood up, shouting at Joran. “Hey, you big galoof!”

  No one paid them any attention. The party went on. The head of the Vanir roared with laughter at something said to him.

  That made Mavery angry. She stomped her foot and drew her hands over her head, throwing them forward. A clump of mud swept up from the floor of the arena and spattered across the front of Joran. The woman next to him shrieked as clumps of gooey, sticky earth clogged her hair.

  The crowd gasped in horror.

  Joran jumped to his feet and roared a command to the executioner. The giant raised the axe over Galatin’s head, but Keely tackled his knees, knocking him off balance. He teetered, flailing his arms, then lost the battle for balance and fell flat on his back in the mud. Keely picked up the double-bladed weapon, struggling to hold it out in front of her as armed Vanir swarmed them. Mavery spat bursts of witchfire at them, but Keely put a hand on the witch, stopping her.

  “Stop and hear me,” Keely called out.

  Joran held up his hand. “Wait,” he said, standing from his seat.

  “You speak English,” she said, relieved. She turned to Mavery. “Help Galatin.” The girl went to their comrade and untied his binds.

  Joran wiped mud from his face with a cloth. “Of course I speak the language of our enemy.”

  “I am not your enemy.”

  “You are Eifalian.”

  “I am from earth, what you call Midgard.”

  “You lie.” He turned. A servant passed him a familiar satchel. He dumped Keely’s soul crystal and the phoralite into his large hands. “Are you saying these trinkets don’t belong to you?”

  Keely was exasperated. “Yes, they’re mine, but—”

  He cut in. “You were caught leaving the Cave of Shadows. Only those with Eifalian blood can enter. What more proof do I need?”

  Keely gave up trying to convince him. “Look, we have bigger problems than some ancient treaty. The witches are trying to take over Orkney.”

  Joran dismissed her with a wave. “We have no quarrel with the witches.”

  “You will.”

  “We are far to the north.”

  “They will come for you. They won’t stop until they control everything.”

  His face was like iron. “We will fight them.”

  “You will lose,” Keely said.

  “You speak treason!” he shouted. “For this alone, you shall die.”

  “I speak the truth!” she shouted back, finding her courage in her confidence that she was right. She dropped the axe, suddenly hating what it represented. Violence. War. “You will lose, because they will wait until you are done fighting the Eifalians. Then, when you are weakest, when you have lost so many, the witches will strike, and they will win.”

  He was silent a moment, swirling his drink. “What makes you so wise?”

  “I drank from Mimir’s well. I have seen the outcome. Unless I change things, that is how it will be. I spoke to Ymir,” she added. “When I was in the Cave of Shadows. He had a message for you.”

  The Vanirian king’s head rose sharply like a ferret who’d caught sight of a mouse. In an instant, he leapt over the side of the railing and strode across the arena. With a single bound, he was on the platform, standing next to Keely. She felt small next to him. She bit the inside of her cheek, refusing to show fear. He grabbed her arm, pulling her close.

  Joran’s eyes were a glacial blue, intently looking into hers, searching for deceit. “What did he say?”

  “He said to tell you, what is lost can be found.”

  The king turned a deathly shade of gray. “You lie,” he said hollowly, dropping her arm like it was a viper. “I should break your neck with my bare hands.”

  “He said to give you something.” Keely reached in her shirt and pulled out the flute. She handed it to him. In his large hands it looked small and fragile. He could snap it in half with a twitch of his fingers, but Joran held it gently as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

  He put his lips to it. He hesitated, closing his eyes. He drew in a shallow breath and then blew.

  A few broken notes came out, and then he settled into a soft melody that drifted across the platform and up to the stadium. The audience fell silent. The woman he had been seated with rose to her feet, clutching at her bosom. Joran played the notes, lifting a song up that was haunting and sad. It made Keely’s heart swell.

  When he was done, he kissed the flute once and then turned to Keely.

  “This belonged to my son. He wandered away one day and was lost in a storm. I have searched every end of Rakim for him. To bury him and find peace. You have given me a great gift. How can I repay you?”

  “Don’t go to war,” she pleaded.

  He hesitated. She was winning, she was sure of it. Joran was going to listen.

  But then a horn blast came from the harbor below. A whistling sound followed. Keely ducked as a dozen flaming arrows fired over their heads to embed in the wooden gallows.

  All eyes turned to see the source. Where the sea had been wind-whipped and empty, it now held a dozen ships, all carrying the green Eifalian banner. A row of archers lined each deck, bows nocked with arrows.

  “You might not be Eifalian, but they are,” Joran said fiercely. He waved his hand at his men, ordering them to gather their weapons. Buckets of water were thrown on the flames, dousing them quickly.

  Keely grabbed his arm. “Wait. Let me speak to them.”

  He pierced her with his gaze. “I cannot show weakness to my men. They would turn on me like a pack of wild sneevils.”

  “For your son,” she implored. “Let no one else lose someone they love.”

  His nostrils flared with impatience, but he steadied himself. “I will give you one hour, till the sun sets, to convince them to surrender. But your friends stay here.”

  “Okay. One hour.” Keely backed away, looking at Galatin and Mavery, for support.

  Galatin winked at her, his arm around Mavery. “Go on, then. You know what to do.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Keely jumped buoyantly off the platform and followed after the pair of escorts Joran sent with her. She had to trot to keep up with their long legs as they marched quickly down the rutted trail that led to the docks.

  She could do this. The Eifalians would listen. They were a peaceful people.

  Frost giants lined the rails of every ship, staring down at her silently as she walked down the long dock. One of the escorts beckoned her to get into a small rowboat. She jumped in and sat down as they quickly rowed toward the closest Eifalian warship.

  The waves tossed the boat around, but the frost giants cut through the water with hardly a grunt. Anxiousness made her nauseous
. There wasn’t much time. If she didn’t make something happen fast, Joran would attack, and once the war began, it would never end until both sides had been depleted. There would be no winners. Ymir had made that clear.

  They bumped into the side of the Eifalian ship. Ropes dangled down to secure their dinghy, and arms reached out, pulling her up onto the deck. The Vanirians refused to get on their enemy’s boat, waiting alongside. Keely’s legs felt like rubber. The Eifalian High Council representative, Gael, walked toward her in his flowing green robes. Next to him trailed a small white-headed boy.

  “Theo,” she cried, running and giving him a hug. “I was so worried about you.”

  He was awkward at first, holding her off. Then he relented and let her embrace him. “Someone had to come save you again,” he boasted. “I told you going north would cause trouble.”

  “Yes, you did, and I probably should have listened. But I had to get the Moon Pearl.”

  “And did you?” Gael asked.

  She nodded, patting her pocket. She was afraid to touch it out of fear of using up its magic. “It’s here. But I broke the treaty. They think I’m Eifalian.”

  “Theo told us about the troll hags. They would have reported an Eifalian girl to the Vanir. We guessed that whether or not you made it to the Cave of Shadows, the Vanir would attack us. They have been waiting for centuries for an excuse to strike at us.”

  “So you struck first,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “But you can’t go to war. You must come speak to Joran. He will listen.”

  “She is right,” came a voice. Gael’s father, King Einolach, emerged from the ship’s cabin. “I, too, have read the auras. You are not the only one who can see things, child.” His long hair blew in the wind. He held his mother-of-pearl staff. It glowed blue and pink in the fading sunlight of the day. “We don’t have much time,” he finished.

  “Then we should go,” Keely said.

  “Father,” Gael said, “you are not leaving the ship.”

  The king’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You are not king yet, Gael. I know what I am doing.”

  Gael put a hand on the king’s arm. “But you can’t.” Silent words passed between them that Keely couldn’t grasp.

  When King Einolach spoke, his voice was heavy. “There are things a king must do, and this is one of them. You will understand one day when you are king.”

  Einolach was going to face the Vanir alone. Even Theo guessed it.

  “No, Grandfather, please, don’t go.” The boy hugged him tightly around the waist.

  King Einolach held Theo a moment and then knelt down. “You must be brave, Theo. There is much to be done. This girl needs our help. I want you to stay strong. Be mindful of your lessons. Don’t let bitterness into your heart, or it will root there.”

  Theo nodded. “Yes, Grandfather.”

  The king stood and faced Keely. “Shall we?”

  “Father, I’m coming with you,” Gael said.

  But Einolach shook his head. “I forbid it. Only the girl and I return—as it must be.”

  Gael took his father’s hand and pressed a kiss to his ring.

  “Do not strike first,” the king said. “If they attack, you must defend. But only defend. No offensive.”

  “I will do as you ask,” Gael said.

  Einolach clasped his shoulders. “I am proud to have you as my son, Gael.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  They touched their foreheads together. A gleaming aura circled their heads tinged orange by the setting sun.

  Time was running out.

  “We have to go,” Keely said.

  King Einolach let himself be lowered into the boat. Keely joined him. The Vanirian escorts rowed them swiftly back to shore. Keely was nervous, but hopeful Joran would be reasonable.

  Less than an hour had passed, but when they entered the arena, everything was different. The Vanir had emptied the stadium and now stood in orderly lines, fully armored, ready to do battle, shields out. At the sight of the Eifalian king, the air grew silent. A pin drop could have been heard. Keely escorted the king through the mud, holding his arm and helping him up to the platform in the center. Joran awaited them, standing patiently, as if he hadn’t moved since Keely had left an hour ago.

  Joran sized up the much older king and then nodded ever so slightly.

  King Einolach did the same, keeping his shoulders high as his chin ducked.

  Joran spoke first. “The Eifalians have broken the blood treaty.”

  King Einolach agreed. “We have. Although the reasons were good, the fault is ours.”

  “What reasons are these?” Joran said.

  “The child saw a vision of a future, one where Vanir and Eifalians are no more.”

  Thunder crossed Joran’s brow. “This is not possible. The Vanir have been here since the beginning of time. Ymir himself was a frost giant.”

  King Einolach nodded patiently. “And the Eifalians have also existed since the dawn of time, even before we were brought to the Ninth Realm to preserve our magic. It is unfortunate that it brought our people into conflict.”

  “Rakim is our land. You invaded it.”

  “I cannot disagree, but we had no place else to go. We needed a wintry home, and this place suited us.”

  Joran looked surprised. “So you don’t deny it.”

  “I cannot deny the truth of my ancestors’ decisions any more than I can deny what the child has seen, for I have seen it myself.”

  Joran’s brow darkened again. “What does this mean?”

  “There is much danger ahead. I sense a new evil coming, something that none of us will be able to stop unless we work together.”

  Keely flashed on those malicious eyes she had seen in Leo’s quest. With her new instincts, she knew this was the evil the king referred to.

  “You have no proof of this,” Joran scoffed.

  “None. But heed my words, Joran. War is coming, but not with the Eifalians.”

  “So you will pay the price to keep the peace?”

  King Einolach hesitated, and then he nodded.

  Joran’s jaw worked as he took it in. “Then it shall be so.” He clapped his hands twice sharply, gathering the attention of the assembled crowd.

  “The king of the Eifalians has offered himself as a sacrifice to restore the blood treaty between our people.”

  A wave of horror washed over Keely. Her mouth fell open. She should protest, cry out, but the power of speech had deserted her.

  The bloodthirsty ranks of Vanirian soldiers grumbled.

  Joran held up his hands. “I cannot break the laws of the treaty that binds us. If he offers himself, the treaty is restored.”

  Mavery buried her face in Keely’s waist.

  “What’s he saying?” she wailed. “I don’t understand. I thought you were going to fix it.”

  Galatin lifted the girl up, prying her hands gently off Keely, and carried her off the platform.

  King Einolach turned to Keely. He pulled the giant opal ring off his finger and pressed it into her hand. “Give this to Gael. Tell him to go home.”

  She started to protest, her brain trying and failing to come up with another answer. “But you can’t—”

  “I must,” he said quietly, putting his hand on her shoulder. “You saw as clearly as I what the war would do. Would you rather all those innocent lives were lost?”

  She shook her head. Tears ran down her cheeks. “But you’re innocent. This is my fault. I shouldn’t have asked you to come.”

  “No. There is no fault. It just is. Go on, now. You must get that Moon Pearl back to Skara Brae.”

  Galatin waited for her at the bottom of the stairs, holding Mavery in his arms. The girl was sobbing into his shoulder. Galatin put one arm around Keely and escorted her away from the arena. She craned her neck around and watched as King Einolach folded his robes neatly and knelt down, laying his head on the chopping block.

  Keely turned away. She couldn�
�t watch. She buried her head into Galatin’s side, wrapping her arms around his waist and letting him lead her down the hill toward the ships.

  As the sun sank below the horizon, Keely tried to remember everything good in her life: the smell of her father’s cologne, the crisp feel of a new book, Sam laughing at something she said. But eventually, the sobs took over, and all she could do was shake.

  She had come here to help Orkney, and instead, she had nearly started a war and caused the death of a king.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Leo floated.

  He tried to remember where he was, how he had gotten into this strange pool, but he was too tired. He wasn’t troubled, though. The water was neither hot nor cold. Figures brushed up against him, bumping him as they swam past. His arms were curiously weak, as if he had no control over them. He could stay here forever, in this nothingness. The only sound he heard was a peculiar thump, like the slow beat of a drum. Leo had played the drums in the tribal ceremonies back home. His father had taught him.

  Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

  His mind drifted back until he was there, alongside the Blue River, standing in the cool shade of the tall sugar pines, waiting for the celebration to begin. The annual salmon ceremony welcoming the great fish back from their journey south.

  Thump, thump.

  He saw himself beating the drum, as his father and the other members of the tribe performed the ancient ritual honoring the food that would feed their tribe another year.

  The drumbeat was getting slower, and his father and the others turned to frown at Leo.

  Thump . . . thump.

  Leo tried to lift his arms, but they were limp, boneless. It was like time had slowed down to a near stop.

  Thump . . .

  Leo opened his eyes. There were no drums. The sound was his heartbeat. And it was fading. A spurt of adrenaline shot through him. He swam, pulling with his arms, moving past other figures that pulled at him. He brushed them off, kicking hard. He had no idea of a destination; he just had to move.

  He caught a glimmer of light ahead, a change in the water color. Leo headed for it, straining upward, and then broke through the surface, flinging his wet hair out of his face. He was in another chamber. Leo paddled to the side and pulled himself up over the ledge, then looked back into the water.