Zaria Fierce and the Dragon Keeper's Golden Shoes

by Keira Gillett

  He closed his mouth and cocked his head, the crest on his head shrinking.

  “That’s right,” Hector said. “Now don’t go causing any trouble. Follow the lake that way and you’ll be able to swim to sea eventually. It’s quite a ways.”

  Vingar waved his front limbs again and flipped backwards, flicking his tail out and sending out a huge wave. Drenched, Zaria spluttered. She wiped the water out of her eyes and glared at his retreating figure.

  “I can shrink you again, you overgrown sea monkey,” she called out.

  The water-wyvern cackled in response as it slipped under the waves and vanished. Zaria shook her head in bemusement. She already kind of missed him.

  “Will we ever see him again?” asked Christoffer, looking to Hector.

  “You never know what’s ahead,” Hector said with a shrug, returning the apron to Madam Brown.

  She converted the sling back into an apron with her magic and retied it around her waist. “Where tis we heading next, Stag Lord?” she asked. “Young Hart will have to rest for a longer time soon. He needs sleep.”

  Hart responded to this statement by struggling to stand up from where he lay beneath a tree. His tired gaze flashed with steel, and he stamped the ground with a huff. He knew the stakes ahead of them and refused to give in to weakness.

  “I think Hart’s ready to leave,” Aleks said, smirking. “Good for you.”

  Zaria went over and scratched Hart between the ears. “If he’s ready, then we should get going. We’re headed to the elves, aren’t we Hector?”

  “Yes,” he said, splashing his face with water and scrubbing his blond beard. He stood and dried his hands on his britches. “But first, one small detour to the witch in the woods.”

  “The one who made my stargazer?” Aleks asked. “That’d be great! I have so many questions about it.”

  “Allegedly made, mate,” Filip corrected. “Not the same thing as actually made, but it would be cool to learn how it works. Maybe she can give me one.”

  “Sell,” Hector corrected. “Or trade. The witch in the woods never does anything for free.”

  “Where is this witch?” Geirr asked, forcing himself to a sitting position after being prone on his back. “Is it far? Will she feed us? I’m hungry again.”

  “I could eat, too,” Christoffer said. “Zaria you should conjure us something to eat.”

  “Can I do that?” Zaria asked Hector.

  He shrugged. “I don’t see why not, but I don’t know how you’d do it.”

  Geirr asked, “Do you think if you conjure food for us that it magically creates itself from thin air, or do you pull it from somewhere else? Like, say you wanted lamb and boiled potatoes. Would you end up stealing some poor sap’s lunch?”

  “Would you care?” Christoffer asked, clutching his stomach, as it growled. “In all seriousness though, that sounds amazing. Please try, Zaria. I’m famished! Make some smoked salmon, too.”

  “Oh, if you’re taking orders, make an apple cake with vanilla sauce, please,” Aleks said. “It’s one of my favorites.”

  “Anything else?” Zaria asked, raising an eyebrow at them. “No,” she said, just as Filip opened his mouth.

  He pouted. “Everybody else got to make a request.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Fine. What do you want?”

  “Meatballs?” he asked hopefully, putting on his most charming smile.

  Zaria pushed him aside with a laugh. “Okay. Now that I have the menu, give me a moment to try this.”

  “Why don’t we help out by setting the table,” Hector offered. “Madam Brown –”

  The brownie undid her apron and flicked it outward. As it came to rest on the ground, it enlarged and became a tablecloth. Everyone settled, and Zaria kneeled down and put her hands on her knees, closing her eyes.

  “Try to keep your eyes open,” Hector said. “If you always have to close them to cast your magic, you’ll be at a disadvantage.”

  She nodded and opened her eyes. “I’ll start with the easiest one – the apple cake. I know how that one tastes by heart.”

  “From getting a slice all the time at the bakery,” Aleks said, licking his lips and rubbing his tummy. “Isn’t it the best?”

  The memory of how it smelled wafted to her on a breeze – warm, rich, cinnamon. The taste came next with its gooey, slightly tart apple slices with a hint of powder sugar on top to dust the lips. A cake appeared in her hands.

  “You did it!” Aleks shouted, stealing the cake out of her hands. “I get the first piece.”

  “Now try the lamb and boiled potatoes,” Geirr said.

  “Don’t forget my salmon,” Christoffer said, snatching a corner of the apple cake and peeling off a bite.

  “Hey!” Aleks complained, swatting at his hand. “Hands off, thief.”

  Christoffer stole another piece and sighed happily as it hit his tongue. Aleks set the cake on the far end of the tablecloth. Christoffer made a face.

  Zaria ignored them and concentrated on the next dish. She caught herself trying to close her eyes again and forced them back open. She thought back to the taste of the perfectly cooked lamb she’d eaten once with Geirr’s family. How his mother and older sister had prepared it so that the succulent meat melted on her tongue. She remembered helping Geirr and his younger brother set the table and the smell of lamb wafting to them from the kitchen.

  The lamb appeared with ease, but when she tried to create the boiled potatoes they stubbornly refused to come. When she shifted and thought about her favorite, cheesy scalloped potatoes, a bowl appeared. She gave an apologetic shrug as she passed it over to them.

  The salmon went the way of the potatoes, because she hadn’t really been exposed to it before and couldn’t imagine eating it, having only tried it once. And if the meatballs were any good, she’d be surprised. They looked quite odd; the sauce on them much too dark.

  She conjured a breadbasket filled with rolls and a pitcher of water and juice as Madam Brown produced plates, cups, and silverware. As Zaria watched her friends dig into the meal, she felt a stirring sense of pride. She’d done it. Success was piled on her plate, and it tasted good. Well, except for the meatballs. She discreetly hid them under the napkin in her lap.

  Later, when they had cleared everything up and Madam Brown had removed the dishes, they continued on their journey. Hector led them over hill and valley into the twilight of the night. The shadows lengthened and birds began to cry out to one another.

  When it had still been daylight, Zaria had viewed a winter-wyvern and its rider flying overhead, circling round and round in the distance. She knew they were getting closer to Álfheim, but still had a ways to go, because winter-wyverns could travel long distances quickly. It was the advantage of flight.

  She longed to see Norwick again, to stick her face into the crook of his neck and inhale the warm scent of his spotted white fur. Her tired feet ached to be astride him, to have the wind in her hair again, to hear the sound of his wings beat, as he flew them to their destination.

  A dark smudge appeared on the horizon, so faint it was almost lost in the purple haze of the fading sun. Zaria watched as it came closer, and in minutes was upon them. It was Norwick! It was as if he’d been called by magic. Edevart, the elf, sat on his back, a quiver of arrows on his arm. He hailed them, his rich syrupy words were warmly welcomed.

  “Stag Lord, I did not believe it when an outrider said she’d seen you and our young friends. I see you have found Hart. That is wonderful and just in time, too.”

  “Have the giants contacted you?” Hector called, waving.

  Norwick landed, closing his huge leathery wings. He purred a greeting at Zaria, as she ran over and gave him a hug. Edevart slid off the winter-wyvern’s back and clasped forearms with Hector, greeting his friend.

  He appeared very different from the last time they had seen him. His pale blond hair was windswept and not at all neat, revealing large, pointy ears. Gone was his normal attire of regal robes, starc
hy cravats, and high shirt points. His clothes, plain and rustic, looked more like Hector’s. Even his usually trimmed mustache looked wild.

  “Yes, we’ve heard from the giants,” Edevart said. “Smart of you to send that Overwhelming fellow.”

  “Pekka,” Geirr said.

  Edevart nodded. “Right, him, that’s the one. He’s garnered us much needed relief. We’ve even seen a giant come from as far as Finland, and Lars the Victorious, the leader of the Swedish clan, arrived himself with some additional warriors. Can you believe it? There hasn’t been a conclave like this in years and years.”

  Christoffer joined Zaria, greeting the magnificent winter-wyvern. “This is Norwick, huh? He’s a beauty. Just like you described him – half-bear, half-saber-tooth.”

  “You’re badly needed, Hector,” Edevart said, his friendly manner darkening. “The rot has spread so far out it’s affecting the queens and daughters of Elleken now.”

  Hector swore. “There’s not a moment left is there? We need the shoes, Edevart. We simply can’t do anything from here.”

  “You could,” Edevart said. “Then Hart would be Stag Lord, and he could get the shoes.”

  “If the rot is as deep and as widespread as you say, then I am no use up here. I’ll have to enter the Under Realm,” Hector said, scowling through the trees. He started walking again, and the others joined him, trudging through the underbrush and foliage. “I must go to the source and cut it off. It’s the only way.”

  “It’s suicide,” Edevart retorted. “The rot could only be this bad, if the dragons were loose down there. You wouldn’t make it. Look, take Norwick, fly to Silje, have riders come for us, and then go fortify the Golden Kings.”

  “No,” Hector snapped. Hart made a protesting noise. “I know my duty,” he said, glaring at his son. “Far better than you do. No, we must get the golden shoes from the witch of the woods and then make our way to the elf queen’s encampment.”

  “The front lines at the bridge are rough,” Edevart said. “You can’t seriously be considering taking these human children there. You wouldn’t believe the creatures that are crawling out of the woodwork – hulders, goblins, banshees, hags, an ogre or two, and even mares. Mares, Hector. They’ve been giving everyone night terrors. I haven’t gotten a proper night’s sleep in a week!”

  Hector’s brow furrowed. “Hulders? Mares? Koll is certainly calling all his old allies again, isn’t he?”

  “Excuse me,” Geirr interrupted. “Mares? What are they?”

  Edevart held out his hands as claws. “Creatures with long black hair, black nails, and black eyes with skin so pale, it’s white as snow. They’re usually female – at least all of the ones I’ve seen are female. Mares terrorize their victims while they sleep. Tell me, have you ever known you were in a nightmare, but were unable to wake from it?”

  Geirr gulped. “Perhaps once, I don’t know.”

  “That’s a mare,” Edevart explained, resting a hand on Geirr’s shoulder. “I truly don’t know whether to tell you to be more afraid of encountering one while asleep, or while awake.”

  Filip scoffed, “So it gives people a few nightmares. No big deal. It’s not like a banshee whose wail can herald your death.”

  “Mares are not something to sneer at,” Hector warned. “They drain their victims through their fear. Where do you think the expression, ‘scared half to death’ came from?”

  “How do you keep them away?” Aleks asked.

  “You can’t,” squeaked Madam Brown. “They shapeshift. Each can turn into sand and creep through doors and windows.”

  “So how do you get rid of one?” asked Filip.

  “Nails,” Edevart said. “They must be hammered into a piece of wood you sleep on. A couple at the end of the bed, on the headboard, or under your pillow should do the trick. But if the mare comes in with another of Koll’s allies, it can remove the nails to let the mare feed.”

  “Has that been happening?” asked Hector.

  “Why do you think I had the night terrors?” said Edevart. “I think it’s the hulders, but we haven’t caught them.”

  “And what are they? The hulders?” asked Zaria.

  “Tis a beautiful human-like creature with a tail of a cow. Hulders like to drain their victims of blood,” replied Madam Brown, cowering next to Hart.

  “Like a vampire?” asked Christoffer.

  “Oh, Stag Lord, I tis not want to go,” sniffled Madam Brown. “Please, please release me. Let me go home.”

  Hector’s brows raised in surprise. “A brave little brownie like you is afraid of a few mares and a hulder or two? You, who haven’t been scared of wandering into Niffleheim or Jerndor, who braved Vingar and the depths of Malmdor?”

  “Tis not as if I would have gone down into the Under Realm with you,” she said quietly, flipping her apron over her face to hide her shame. “I tis not good or faithful. I tis not deserving my Madam.”

  “Here now,” said Hector, kneeling next to her. He gently pulled down the apron. “You are very loyal and have a kind heart. You’re not required to go with us; you never were. Seek your home.”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you, Stag Lord,” cried Madam Brown. “I will leave on the morrow. I will tend to Hart one more night.”

  “We can probably make it to the camp, if we keep going,” said Edevart. “Are you sure, Stag Lord, that you will not take Norwick and go on ahead? I can bring the children in the morning. Give your son a chance to rest.”

  “Hart can’t make the transformation tonight,” said Hector. “He hasn’t the strength. No, we’ll stay together.”

  “I have an idea,” said Zaria. “Why doesn’t Edevart take Norwick and someone else and go back to camp and bring a few more riders and wyverns to get the rest of us there tonight?”

  “I’ll go last,” said Aleks. “I’ll use the mirror to call Grams and fill her in on what we’re doing.”

  It was decided. Filip went with the elf first, disappearing into the darkness. As they wandered, Madam Brown ducked into the woods picking more herbs and flowers for Hart to eat. When Edevart returned, two others were with him and they took Geirr and Christoffer next. Zaria rode with Edevart, leaving the others behind.

  “Good-bye, Madam Brown,” she said, hugging the small brownie. “Thank you for everything.”

  Madam Brown’s blue skin blushed purple. She returned the hug and said in her ear, “Good-bye, Princess. Don’t forget, magic comes from believing.”

  Zaria watched over her shoulder as the figures of her friends grew smaller and smaller, until their features became indistinguishable in the gloom. She faced forward and clung to Norwick’s fur, breathing in deeply the night air, relishing the concentrated sense of greenness that came with it, signaling growth and life. Overhead the stars rose and fell above her, watching and twinkling, lending her courage for the next leg of her journey.

  The light from the camp glowed against the blackness of the forest. As they flew closer, more and more details could be seen. Tents were set up in rows along the river’s embankment. A covered bridge crossed the river, discernible only because its silhouette was a black hole on the water, sucking up light and reflecting none in return. Three bonfires and many smaller personal cooking fires lit the space, revealing many glowing eyes that slunk through the space. Wolves, bears, winter-wyverns, and reindeer prowled. Some were in battle armor, some were not. Fog drifted along the ground, no doubt caused by the many winter-wyverns.

  Four giants helped to build a perimeter of spikes to protect the camp. Elves, trolden, and ellefolken milled about doing such mundane tasks as cooking, eating, washing clothes, and mending them. Others sharpened weapons, participated in mock scrimmages, whittled stockpiles of arrows, and practiced archery.

  The busy scene calmed in one place. There, in the center of the camp, two regal figures sat on beautifully carved thrones observing the chaos of their tiny kingdom. One, Zaria recognized immediately as Kafirr, king of the mountain-trolls. The other, pale, beautiful
, with long curly locks the color of liquid sunshine on snow, had to be Silje, the elf queen. Behind them, Zaria could just make out the dark shadow of the unlit bridge.

  She slipped off Norwick’s back and gave him an appreciative pat. She scratched his ears. He purred, stretching into her touch.

  “Come on, you overgrown cat, we have another run,” Edevart said, slinging himself into the saddle.

  “See you later, kitty-bear,” Zaria teased, waving Edevart and the others good-bye as they launched back into the sky.

  She found Geirr and Christoffer. Together, they went looking for Filip. Along the way they were greeted by elves and ellefolken. The trolls were wary and curt, remembering, Zaria was sure, as she did, the Wild Hunt their king had launched to capture her and her friends last fall.

  They aimed for the bridge, which became clearer the closer they got to it. Twin stone towers marked the ends of the bridge, one on either side of the river. The towers were hollowed by an open archway for persons to walk through.

  Zaria felt them beckon her to come closer, to cross the threshold. The strange feeling of home came to her. The Under Realm wasn’t her home. It hadn’t been for years, and yet, something called to her. She thought, perhaps, it might be Helena.

  “Wow, that’s some bridge,” said Geirr, impressed.

  “It looks ancient,” Christoffer said, pointing to the weathered planks, rounded stones, and missing mortar.

  Filip found them, and he stood next to her, hands in his pockets. “This is it. The Gjallarbrú. Our way into the Under Realm. We’re so close now.”

  Zaria nodded. Firelight and shadows played across her features, and teased along a vaulted, tarnished metal roof. Fog drifted across the water below the bridge in soft creeping tendrils. It curled around pilings and flirted with the wooden railings. It didn’t mix with the breath of the winter-wyverns.

  “It’s beautiful,” Zaria said of the ethereal scene.

  Distant thunder rumbled from across the river, punctuated by an occasional flash of light.

  “Do you think that’s a rainstorm –” Geirr started.

  Zaria shook her head. “No, it has to be Helena fighting the dragons.”