Amber Magic (The Viking Maiden series Book 2)

by Kelly N. Jane

  Ingrid’s mind faltered to understand the implication of his words. Her nerves were too rattled to pick up on the subtlety of what he clearly wanted her to realize. Jorg shifted closer to her. She heard his breath hitch, and the muscles of his arm tensed where it brushed against hers.

  What was she missing? What was she ignoring?

  Then it hit her. Her eyes traveled to the sky where a bright, round full moon shone low on the horizon. Two moons, that’s the timeframe she’d been given, and she’d counted out the weeks, but she’d lost track. Starting like a small crack that quickly splintered into a cavern so deep it threatened to cleave her in two.

  Yesterday. Jarrick had come for her yesterday.

  No. No! He can’t mean it.

  Tremors erupted through her body as she shook her head. The air left her lungs and wouldn’t return. She clutched her middle and fell to her knees. The village was destroyed—everyone dead. She’d failed.

  Sound failed her even though she opened her mouth to scream. The world shifted out from under her. Nothing would ever be the same. Her home, her family—there was nothing to go back to. She fell to the ground, her fingers clawing at the cold, damp earth.

  Finally, a scream—louder in her ears than even the dragon’s had been—erupted from her core. The world went dark, and her powers turned to ice. Nothing had prepared her for the emptiness of such a devastating, crushing loss. How could it?

  Someone touched her, and she lashed out, screaming and swinging her fists. Rising to her feet, ready to strike again, she found Jorg standing in front of her. His hands were at his side, his shoulders slumped, but what held Ingrid like a vice were the glistening streaks that slid down his cheeks.

  Her family was gone, and they had been his family, too. Hagen, Jorg had told her, had been his first true friend, and now he was gone. Did he get to fight? Would they meet him in Valhalla one day?

  Never again would she work side-by-side with her mother at the loom or nestle against her father. Tattooed runes of Odin’s bravery were etched on his neck—had they helped?

  Ingrid’s chin quivered as she stared, but she did not break down. The runes in the pouch at her waist felt as heavy as boulders. Home and Protection; no longer her destiny but her agony. Crumpling into Jorg, she curled her arms around his waist and let his crushing embrace remove the world around her.

  As the heat from Jorg’s body melted into her own, a new sensation pricked at her middle. The gentle warmth of her powers grew red hot. She pushed herself away from him and ignored Selby’s muffled sobs from somewhere behind her as she faced Jarrick.

  Every fear she’d held, every concern about being strong enough when the time came, dissolved. She’d never known hate before—until that moment.

  The strength she’d developed in Asgard was but a drop of what she summoned within herself. It rumbled through her body and into her limbs, but she did not waver. Steady, with a hardened resolve, she stepped toward the dark elf, ripping her arm away as Jorg tried to stop her.

  A glint in Jarrick’s eye seemed to welcome, even enjoy, the challenge as she moved closer. When she raised her hands and gathered the energy into her palms, invisible and ready, he grinned.

  With determined force, she thrust her arms upwards. The release of her power purred under her skin as it slammed into Jarrick. Shock flickered in his eyes as he registered the violence of it and stumbled backward several steps. He caught himself, closing his eyes and smiling as if drinking in the experience.

  Ingrid let another wave fly, this time sustaining it so that it kept pushing against him. Sweat beaded on her brow, but nothing except anger filtered into her consciousness.

  This time, his legs buckled and he went down on one knee. From somewhere off to the side, a roar caught Ingrid’s attention a split second before Plintze rammed into Jarrick.

  With a shriek, Ingrid closed her fists and raced to where the duo had tumbled. Neither was moving, and her rage turned into utter panic for Plintze. Before she could reach the crumpled dwarf, a cold hand wrapped around her wrist.

  Jarrick was on his feet and yanked her to his side in the blink of an eye. Shouts and one desperate scream—Selby’s—rang through her ears. But as the flash of a portal opened around her, the last noise she heard was the screech of a dragon as the heat of blistering flames warmed her skin.

  Heaving for breath and muddled in confusion, she blinked against the bright light and sweet air that filled her lungs seconds later.

  “Welcome to Alfheim, Ingrid,” Jarrick cooed.

  29

  Jorg

  The flash of the portal was so quick. Jorg stood motionless, the shock of what happened pushing in on him so that all else faded into the background. An earth rattling screech cleared his head instantly, and he raced toward Plintze. He managed to drag the dwarf’s body behind some barrels as the dragon spewed it’s fire.

  We need to get out of here, further from the courtyard.

  He checked Plintze for signs of life and let out a relieved sigh that his friend still lived. Thank the gods.

  Whatever it was that Ingrid had done was powerful enough to knock Jarrick to his knees. But he’d have to think on that later, the first concern was to get away.

  Hauling Plintze to his shoulders like a deer carcass, he bolted toward the nearest building. He leaned against the back wall of the smithy and waited for the beast to fly higher into the air as it circled for another pass.

  With a hitch of his shoulders, he headed toward the kitchen garden. He thought if he could get to the northern most side of all the buildings, keeping to the farthest section of the palisade, he might escape.

  Sorry for the rough carriage, but you are heavy my friend. A pulse of fear nagged at his thoughts for Selby . . . and Bremen, but he had to bury that deep to concentrate on his current effort. The dragon had to leave at some point, and he’d look for the others then.

  Along the farthest section of the outer wall, beyond an odd arrangement of mounds, Jorg found a tall oak. Its branches spread out, creating shade, and also seemed to be out of the dragon’s path. He set Plintze down in the tall grass at the base of the tree and crouched beside him. If he stayed still, perhaps the dragon wouldn’t notice them.

  The giant, slithering beast made two more passes over the courtyard. Billows of black smoke rose into the sky. Much of the building, where the bedrooms were, was reduced to rubble and char.

  Jorg waited until he heard birds chirping in the tree over head to signal that the danger had subsided. He checked Plintze once more and decided to leave the unconscious dwarf where he lay, giving him a pat to the shoulder.

  I’ll come back for you. Sleep tight.

  Stretching to his full height and scanning the area before he moved, it seemed eerily quiet. Sulfur, smoke, and burning flesh filled the air, but there weren’t any human noises.

  With heavy steps, he trudged toward the ruins. The cloister was exposed, and two walls of what had once been Bremen’s council room remained. The room where he’d wanted Galwain to hide so she’d stay safe. He wanted to scream and punch something but instead picked his way over the timber and stone and made his way toward the nave.

  Finally, he heard the rumblings of speech, and even though they might have been the surviving druht, it gave him hope that the others had made it inside as well. As he entered from the back, he startled several men clustered in small groups. He recognized a few of the faces but not many. No one stopped him as he continued toward the front. Most who glanced his way seemed too stunned to care.

  Once in the narthex, however, there was a different scene. The two factions were separated and arguing forcefully, but no one was using weapons—yet. As Jorg stayed in the doorway assessing the room, he noticed that many of the men no longer had their weapons. Most likely they’d dropped them as they’d run for their lives.

  Finally, near the main doors he spotted Selby. She stood near Bremen who was on one knee. He spoke to a man on the floor who leaned against the wall, pale-face
d from the amount of blood on the bandage wrapped around what was left of his arm.

  With a deep breath and a resolve to avoid a confrontation before he reached the two, if he could help it, he strode for the doors. He didn’t concern himself with the makeshift battle lines and pushed through both groups until he’d drawn Selby’s notice.

  “Jorg!” Like an arrow, she hurtled herself toward him and slammed against his chest. Her arms squeezed around him, taking him by surprise. He wasn’t sure how he stayed on his feet.

  Relief flooded through him as he wrapped his arms around her, too. I couldn’t have dealt with having to tell Ingrid that Selby had been lost. “Thank the gods you are all right.” Jorg pulled back to see her face. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

  Selby said nothing but shook her head, even though tears streaked her cheeks. “Ingrid’s gone.”

  His throat suddenly dry, and he waited to answer until his resolve was solid. “Yes. Jarrick pulled her through a portal. Who is Bremen speaking to?” A couple of the men near where they stood tried to taunt Jorg, but he ignored them as he kept hold of Selby. It comforted him in a way he didn’t expect. But the tensions were too high, and fighting would break out any minute if he didn’t help Bremen keep things under control.

  “That’s Wilbert. Galwain’s father and his grandfather,” Selby said, releasing her hold on Jorg and turning toward the two men. “Oh!” She stared into Jorg’s face. “He’s your grandfather, too.”

  The concept was difficult to fathom. He’d spent his entire life with so few family ties—until he’d met Ingrid’s, of course. He shook his head as Selby led him closer to Bremen.

  That man started all of this to rid the world of those like me. I doubt he’s anxious to meet me.

  Wilbert’s eyes widened when Jorg came near, drawing Bremen’s attention. It was worse than Jorg had already guessed from across the room. Wilbert was missing half his arm and was not long for this world.

  “This is your other grandson, Jorg,” Bremen offered.

  “He’s not my kin. No product of the monster who stole my daughter is related to me,” Wilbert said. His voice was barely over a whisper, and the effort sent him into a coughing spasm.

  Jorg scoffed and shook his head. “I’m not surprised to hear that. Look around at how hard you worked to spread your hate. You’re no better than he is.”

  “Grandfather, whether you accept him or not, he is your relation, and so you know, the agreement you and I have made about your properties—I will share with my brother,” Bremen said in a cool even tone.

  Wilbert coughed again and leaned his head against the wall, his chest heaving as he tried to gather the energy to speak.

  Brother. That’s going to take some time to get used to.

  Jorg crouched down so that he was eye to eye with Wilbert. “I don’t care what deals you’ve made, but while I won’t mourn you, I will remember you. For the rest of my days, I’ll know what a sad and depraved man looks like. When I speak to my mother, I will help her understand that sorrow for your death is unwarranted as well.”

  “Leave me . . . to die in peace . . . I don’t care . . . what your trollop mother . . . feels.” He hesitated as he wheezed with the effort of speech. “Nor . . . you.” He leveled his stare at Bremen until it became glassy and his chest no longer moved.

  For a few minutes, the room sank into silence. The men had quieted when they realized the moment taking place between the two leaders. Bremen rose to his feet and slowly turned toward the men, though he said nothing. Jorg rose as well, and together with Selby, they stood on either side of the prince.

  “Those of you who were hired to fight here today are released from your contract. Your leader is dead, and your cause is over.” Bremen’s voice rang strong and reverberated against the stone walls.

  Unease filtered through the crowd once more. It was one thing to acknowledge that their campaign had ended, but Jorg suspected it was another to walk away. Many of them undoubtedly had expected to be paid. Some may even have learned to believe in the hatred Wilbert spewed. The realization hit Jorg that without Plintze, or Lazuli, he was the only nonhuman representative.

  “What if we don’t think it is?” a man near the middle of the room called out. “There’s some sense to destroying those like that creature next to you, before they do the same to us. It was one like him that called the dragons.”

  Thankful that he’d slipped his axe into his belt before hefting Plintze, Jorg put his hand on it and let his eyes grow cold. He wouldn’t say no to a fight right then. The weight of losing Ingrid was pressing in on him as he stood in silence. It would be a welcome relief.

  “You’ll drop your weapons and leave. If I’m not mistaken, there are more of my men in this room than yours. Your sacrifices will be in vain,” Bremen said, as he moved his hand to the hilt of his sword.

  Out of his side vision, Jorg saw Selby ready her short sword not attempting to be subtle. He’d never said as much, but he admired her warrior attitude.

  Without another word, the remaining druht made their decision. Whether with weapons or fists, they charged forward. The clash of bodies, the clamor of shouts, the taste of vengeance flooded the space. Jorg let it absorb into him. Like a berserker on the battlefield, he only had eyes for the enemy and the single thought to destroy.

  The vibration of his axe as it landed against bone or shield urged him forward. Every pain within begged to be released until there was nothing left—as if there could be an end. Sounds escaped and faces blurred as he let his rage unleash.

  When the last man fell at his feet, he stared in silence. Chest heaving, he let his arms fall to his sides. As exhaustion swept through him and rational thought returned, he dropped his chin—defeated in victory. As much as he’d wanted to purge himself of his pain, it seeped back in, relentless and suffocating.

  Jorg rubbed his hand over his face but snapped around when a light touch landed on his shoulder. Fire crackled in his veins, and it took every ounce of control not to strike out at the man, his brother, in front of him.

  Bremen leaned in and spoke so only Jorg could hear. “It’s done.”

  As they stood face-to-face, Jorg studied his eyes. They were strong, determined, and honest, but not challenging. There was a hidden plea in them that the broken pieces of his spirit responded to, and his anger leaked away. He gave a tight nod.

  The courtyard was charred, and bits of it still smoked. When Jorg made his way outside with Bremen and Selby, sulfur and burning flesh stung his eyes and made his stomach roll.

  Buildings, carts, and piles of crates still smoldered from the dragon attack. The palisade wall was broken in several areas, and one of the gate towers had fallen, destroying the gate and bridge in the process.

  Jorg thought of Ingrid as the destruction around him billowed his resolve to find her and destroy the one who took her—the cause of all his pain.

  It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. I was supposed to save you, to prevent all of this. Ingrid, I will find a way into Alfheim. No matter what, I’ll get you away and make Jarrick pay for what he’s done.

  “How do you plan to find her?” Selby asked, startling him as she walked up.

  He knew she couldn’t hear his thoughts, but she must have read the expression on his face. There was only one solution he’d been able to think of. “Since the spell was not bound, it means Midgard is still open to other realms. If there is a pathway to Alfheim, I intend to find it.”

  “Whatever you decide to do, I am coming.” Selby clamped her lips in a set line. The stone-like glint of her stare challenged him to deny her.

  Before Jorg or Bremen could answer her, the sound of a gravelly voice made them all spin around.

  “I can help get us to Alfheim.” Plintze stepped closer as he spoke. Covered in dirt, his coarse hair was matted in some places and singed in others. The sleeves of his shirt hung in tatters where the fabric remained at all, and he looked ready to collapse.

  Both Bremen and Jor
g rushed forward and held him from each side. They guided him to an overturned broken barrel with enough remaining support for him to rest against.

  “Did he take her?” Plintze’s shoulders slumped further when Jorg nodded.

  Jorg let a few seconds of silence hang in the air before he spoke. “But I’m going after her.”

  “We—we are going after her.” There would be no arguing with Selby on that point.

  “I know a way, but it will not be an easy task,” Plintze said. “It will require going through my home realm first.”

  Bremen placed his hand against Selby’s face and rubbed her cheek with his thumb. “Jarrick also has my mother. Wherever we need to go to find them both and stop him, I’m coming, too.”

  Jorg’s middle clenched at the loving gesture and shared moment between Bremen and Selby. It added tinder to the ember of anger smoldering within himself. He needed Ingrid. The silence where her voice should’ve been, clawed at his mind.

  Old pains from his childhood, which were buried deep and thought forgotten, were surfacing unexpectedly. Jarrick had forced his mother to abandon him as a baby. Now he’d stolen his chance to get to know her. He needed to run, to fight, to scream—to hunt. He would make Jarrick pay for the pain he’d caused.

  Stay strong, Hjarta. I am coming for you.

  Acknowledgments

  There is an African proverb that says it takes a village to raise child. Proverbs 27:17 of the Bible reads, “As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another.” It also takes an army to publish a book!

  At least it has for me—especially this one. I got lost in the weeds with this story for a while. Quite literally as those early beta readers can attest. But, with a few thousand tears and a lot of hand holding, I believe I’ve found the story it was meant to be. It took longer than I expected, but I will be forever grateful to everyone who helped make it the success it is.