They dropped in on ropes from branches overhead. They toppled the slowly waking giants. They tangled the elves and ellfolken in nets. They clashed swords and spears with the trolls.
“What are you doing, lad?” Hector shouted over his shoulder. “Run! Get her to the bridge. Don’t slow down for anyone.”
Hart gathered his wits and lunged after his father. In the space of a dozen short strides he outpaced the Stag Lord. At their speed, Zaria’s braids blew straight out, trying to tug her backwards. They fairly flew down the hill. One weightless jump and they were over the fence.
Floki jolted at their sudden appearance, barely managing to block one of Kafirr’s large fists with his blade. The troll didn’t even flinch at the bite of steel. The dwarf prince grunted, pressing his weight onto the blade.
He shouted, “Get the stag! Bring me the girl!”
Zaria tugged on Hart’s fur. “Left! Go left! We have to get the boys.”
Hart bugled and plunged right, away from Kafirr and Floki, away from her friends. Blocking an axe with his antlers, Hart trumpeted and kicked an advancing line of dwarves, tumbling them backwards. He barreled through another mass of advancing soldiers, knocking them over like bowling pins.
As dwarves chased them, Zaria saw from the corner of her eye that Christoffer and Geirr were caught. She whipped her head around and saw her friends struggling and kicking against their attackers. Geirr’s short sword was in the dwarf’s hand. Christoffer bit the pudgy hand that gripped him by the shoulder. He shouted in triumph, when the dwarf let him go.
“We have to help!” Zaria pleaded, trying in vain to turn Hart around.
He ignored her and darted forward, weaving his way around tents, cook fires, and dwarves. In his haste, he kicked over a pot of stew somebody prepared, spilling its contents. Zaria watched it stain the ground, and shrieked as a figure crashed down on top of her from above.
Hart bugled in alarm, kicking his back legs, trying to unseat their attacker. A pair of thin, strong arms wrapped around Zaria and yanked her hard. She yelled and fell backwards, off Hart and onto the attacker. She threw her elbows back, trying to break a nose.
“Give me your shoes, Princess,” Olaf snarled, yanking on her braids.
Zaria gasped and threw a wild punch, just missing the troll. She scrambled to her feet, batting away his scaly hands. “Get your claws off me.”
“I be taking your shoes. They be mine now,” Olaf said, grabbing her arm on another wild punch.
“You’re delusional,” Zaria said, planting her feet and pulling. “If you think you’re getting these shoes, then you’re sorely mistaken. I will never, ever, give them to you.”
“What be you doing to stop me, Princess?” he snapped, backhanding her across the face. “Now quit fussing and be a good little – WITCH!”
Zaria smirked at him as Olaf dropped her arm and grabbed his foot, hopping up and down. She’d slammed her foot with its solid gold heel straight down on his toes. She sprinted away only to have him grapple her from behind. Zaria kicked at his nose and felt, to her horror, Olaf snatching at her shoe. It was slipping.
“Noooo,” she wailed, flipping over and kicking out again.
Olaf pried the shoe off her foot. He leapt backwards laughing. His maniacal laughter was cut off mid-stream as a pair of antlers landed in the center of his back, sending him – and the golden shoe – flying. He landed face down in the dirt, the shoe falling between them.
He was closer to the shoe than Zaria, and she knew Olaf would get it before she did. There was only one thing to do. Magic. She pictured the shoe flying into her hand and felt magic sparking in her fingertips.
With all her desire and hope, she gasped, “Come here!”
To her relief the golden shoe launched itself into the air and whizzed toward her. She put it on and climbed onto Hart’s back. He surged forward, and in an acrobatic feat, jumped over two mace-wielding dwarves and through the arched tower entrance onto the bridge. Neither were tossed. Helena had blessed Hart’s shoes. Zaria laughed and wheeled around to face the river-troll.
“You wretched thieving, girl,” Olaf said, picking himself up and coming toward them.
She grinned and shouted. “You’ll never get into the Under Realm, now.”
He shook a fist at her. “You horrible, witchy, little brat. You think your magic and the Hart be stopping what be coming next? Olaf be seeing you down there. You mark my words, Princess. I be getting someone’s golden shoes.”
With one last sneer, Olaf melted back into the chaos of the camp. Zaria laughed weakly, slid off Hart, and hid her face in his fur, calming her racing heart. She shrieked as a hand touched her back. Whirling around, she saw it was only Aleks and Filip. She mock punched them.
“You scared the daylights out of me,” she hissed, before hugging them tight. “We did it! We’re on the bridge!”
“Not all of us,” Aleks said, holding his bow beside him. “Where are the others?”
Zaria glanced around the bridge for them, but it was only the four of them. “They didn’t make it?”
“Not yet,” said Filip. “We saw them once, but couldn’t leave the bridge to go help. Aleks fired off all his arrows. Got one of the dwarves.”
Aleks grimaced. “I should have saved them. It was stupid to use them all.”
“No way, mate. You had to. It was the only help we could give them. Hey – Zar-Zar, did you see these paintings along the roof? They all have Helena in them. At least, I think it’s her.”
She looked up and saw a series of triangular paintings. Each one showed a battle against a dragon. Some of the dragons were in assumed forms, and some were the original dragons. In all of them, Queen Helena wielded the Drakeland Sword, using the fearless blade and her magic to capture the dragons.
“What’s taking them so long?” Aleks muttered under his breath, agitated. “Hector, at least should be here by now.”
As if he’d known their impatience, Hector ran around some burning tents. Dark smoke billowed in the air, obscuring him. When it cleared, Zaria could see him propelling Christoffer and dragging a limping Geirr.
When Christoffer saw them, he perked up and ran faster, sprinting the last dozen feet. He skidded across the bridge’s entrance and collapsed, bracing his hands on his knees, taking in deep, cleansing breaths, clearing his lungs of smoke. Zaria saw the shoes glow briefly. They were blessed now, too.
Hector crossed next, nearly running into them, clustered as they were by the tower’s entrance. “Move onto the bridge,” he barked.
“Some assistance, please,” Geirr wheezed, dragging himself forward.
Aleks reached out a hand, his whole body straining against the weight of the golden shoes, and just as Geirr came within stepping distance, Olaf reappeared, tripping their friend. He slammed down onto his elbows so hard Zaria heard his teeth clack together.
“Watch out!” she cried, but it was too late. Before he could regain his equilibrium, Olaf dragged him backwards.
The struggle was intense. In the space of seconds, Geirr pinned Olaf with a wrestling move. The troll bucked him off and reversed their positions. Zaria cringed as Olaf sucker-punched him, and then stripped off a shoe.
The river-troll did not make the same mistake twice. He wasted no time and shoved it onto his scaly foot. It flashed and re-formed into a sandal. Zaria bit back a horrified giggle. Beach sandals were the fashionable choice for river-trolls everywhere, it seemed.
Geirr looked at them, lost. “What do I do now?”
She sobered as Hector tried to leave the bridge to help him. The Stag Lord hit an invisible barrier, and like Aleks and Filip had experienced, was immediately rebuffed. The barrier flashed pale gold and disappeared from sight. Christoffer raced for the archway and bounced off it with a hollow clang.
They could not return to the world they’d left behind. The golden shoes had been blessed by Helena, dragon keeper and sorceress of the Under Realm. There was no turning back. Geirr had to make it to the brid
ge on his own. But he wasn’t alone, Zaria thought, shaking off her stupor. Others were there to help!
“Hector – what about your people?” Zaria asked, hope tight in her heart. “They have to help him!”
The Stag Lord shook his head. “The dwarves have captured most of the ellefolken. We’re not fighters, we’re defenders. The elves are faring better, but are trying to free their queen. There will be no help from the others.”
“No,” Zaria moaned, distraught. “Geirr, Geirr, you can do it!”
“What am I supposed to do?” Geirr shouted back, hopping in place, twice hobbled by his hurt leg and missing shoe.
“What be Olaf telling the little princess? Olaf be telling Princess he be stealing a pair of golden shoes.”
Kafirr appeared behind the gloating river-troll. He looked terrible – wounds covered half his body, one of his eyes was swollen shut, and his crown was missing.
“Olaf,” he growled, low and deep, like the shifting of the earth. “Drop the shoe.”
“Not on your life,” sneered Olaf.
“I won’t let you step foot on the bridge,” Kafirr warned. “Cut your losses. Surrender.”
“Let you be setting the terms? Ha!” Olaf barked. “I be fine right where I be. You not be a threat out here away from your precious mountain. You have no magic.”
“And you’re not a threat away from your precious river,” Kafirr said, moving closer. “Fight me. Let’s settle this with our fists.”
“I be not available to fight at this time,” Olaf said. “I be busy. Come back later.”
“I’m afraid not,” Kafirr said, cracking his knuckles. “There is no later; there is only now.”
The king bounded forward, a great moving mountain, and tackled the river-troll to the ground. Olaf clawed at his face, giving Kafirr a deep scratch that would one day be heralded by the mountain-trolls as a great and splendid scar, as they retold how their king got it.
It was an odd sort of fight, what with the king the size of a giant boulder and Olaf, by comparison, like a small river-stone. Kafirr lumbered about, using his size to power his blows. Olaf moved about with litheness, getting in quick jabs and rotating around his opponent. Kafirr used his tail like a whip, lashing out with great force. Olaf snarled under the blows, but recovered his footing.
The two trolls, despite their differences in size, were evenly matched, because they used their differences to their advantage. So consumed were they, that Geirr’s slow progression to the bridge went unnoticed. He hopped and limped his way around the fight and by degrees moved toward his friends, who were, for their part, quiet about his approach, watching the scene intently.
By the time Olaf noticed, it was too late. Geirr was too close to the bridge to be stopped. Hector and Aleks grabbed his outstretched hand and pulled him through the barrier onto the bridge. The shoe flashed. He made it. He was safe.
“Nooo,” Olaf cried out, ignoring a fresh bone-jarring blow by Kafirr’s tail.
He shoved the mountain-troll away and sprinted to the bridge, his face contorted in rage. Aleks tugged Geirr, both running awkwardly. Zaria backed up, keeping a hand on the rail for balance; Hart beside her. Filip and Christoffer didn’t move, dumbstruck at the sight of two trolls running at them, as Hector went to block the angry river-troll.
It didn’t matter. They could not stop him. Olaf had one-half of the blessed pair of golden shoes. He shoved Hector into the stone entry wall and landed golden shoe first onto the bridge. The planks wobbled beneath their feet, unbalancing them.
Kafirr snarled and spat just outside of the tower entrance. “If you were a mountain-troll, you would not have made it.”
“That be the advantage of not be having a tail,” Olaf said, grinning nastily. “Without a tail there be nothing to pull me back by. You mountain-trolls all think it be such an advantage, but river-trolls be knowing better.”
“I will not let you cross the bridge,” Hector said, regaining his feet with the help of Christoffer. “Take the others and go,” he told him.
Christoffer looked between Hector and Olaf and took off, grabbing Filip by the arm, as he went by. They hurried and caught up with Zaria and the others.
“H-Hector said to get to the other side,” he panted.
Aleks nodded and took off, and even though there was only one way to cross, they all followed him. It was just the way of things. They were all used to it.
The thunderous call of magic and dragon fire rumbled threateningly as they ran. Zaria noticed, too, that the fog she’d seen creeping sinuously at the entrance to the bridge now rolled thicker and thicker, until she could barely see the shadow of Hart beside her. She reached out to touch his flank to reassure herself he was still there.
“It’s just up ahead,” Aleks said over his shoulder. “Just a little farther now.”
The dim outline of the exit tower appeared in the fog, its archway backlit by splashes of dangerous magic. Aleks crossed first, followed by Christoffer and Hart. Filip went next and then Zaria. The fog was just as dense on the other side. Smoke and burning matter reached her nose, causing her eyes to tear up. She turned around, expecting Geirr to be right behind her.
Chapter Twelve: Stopping the Rot
“I’m stuck,” Geirr said, when she met his gaze. His blue eyes looked terrified. “I can’t seem to move.”
She looked down and saw that his foot with the golden shoe was in the Under Realm, but his unshod foot was planted on the wooden planks of the bridge. She grabbed him by the leg with the shoe and tugged. He slid forward, wincing.
“Zaria, Zaria,” Geirr cried out. “Stop, I can’t do splits.”
Letting go, she called out, “Christoffer, I need your help.”
He appeared and looked at them. “What’s the matter? Stop standing there and clear the space for Hector.”
“Geirr’s stuck,” Zaria said, waving her hand at him as he stood there awkwardly.
“I can’t move,” Geirr confirmed. “My unshod foot doesn’t move forward.”
He tried to get it through the archway, but the golden barrier flashed, stopping him. He settled back into his lunge, bending his front knee for balance.
Zaria added, “I’ve tried pulling him by this leg, but that didn’t work. He just slid forward.”
Christoffer’s eyes widened. “You’re stuck?”
“It appears that way,” Geirr said, a frown worrying his brow. “This is bad, isn’t it?”
Christoffer moved closer and tried to grab Geirr’s shoeless foot. His forehead smacked into the barrier. It shimmered and faded. Somehow their friend had gotten stuck between the Under Realm and the Gjallarbrú.
“How do we get him out?” he asked, facing Zaria.
“I’m standing here, you know,” Geirr complained.
“I think… I think he needs another shoe,” said Zaria.
“Oh, that’s easy then,” Christoffer said. “I’ll just give him one of mine.”
“You can’t,” Zaria said. “We don’t know how to take them off.”
“There must be a trick to it, though, right?” Christoffer tugged at his hiking boot. He pulled so hard, he threw himself off balance and toppled onto his backside.
Geirr laughed. “Serves you right,” he said.
“What’s going on?” Hector asked, appearing out of the fog like a mythical beast with his antlers and white fur cloak.
“Geirr’s stuck,” Zaria and Christoffer said together.
Hector frowned and tried pulling Geirr back onto the bridge. He had about as much luck as they did getting him off the bridge. He tried again.
“You are stuck, lad. If you can’t even come back on the bridge, we’ll have to leave you here.”
“But what about Olaf?”
“I knocked him out,” Hector said. “If he comes to his senses and comes this way, he’ll see your predicament and turn back.”
“I do not like that plan,” Geirr said, looking a little panicked.
Hector nodded. “I don�
��t either, but we would have to find Queen Helena and get her help. She’s the only one who can remove the golden shoes once they’re on; it’s why the dragons generally try not to kill her. They hope to persuade her to let them go.”
“Not very bright then, are they?” asked Christoffer. “If I were a dragon, I’d kill her to see if the magic stopped working in the shoes.”
“It doesn’t,” said Hector.
“But how do you know? How do they know?” Christoffer pouted. “I like my theory.”
“Well, I don’t,” said Zaria, crossing her arms and glaring at him. “Your theory means she dies.”
“I didn’t mean –”
A crack of magic boomed, startling them. Zaria clutched the sword and looked up at the angry sky, feeling her pulse race. Hector eased around Geirr.
“I’m very sorry, lad,” he said, guiding Christoffer and Zaria away. “We have to leave you now.”
“Just – just come back for me, okay?”
“We will,” Zaria promised, as more magic lit up the night.
Hector guided them up a hill, out of the fog. When they crested it, the whole group stilled in shock. The landscape was decimated. Everywhere husks of ellefolken lay burnt and ruined, their trunks tarnished and blackened. Some were stubs, some still smoked from dragon fire, and some were writhing in silent screams. At least they were silent for Zaria and her friends. She noticed Hart and Hector wince in pain at the sight of them.
It was horrible. The sight of so much destruction made her stomach twist in knots. She felt clammy with fear. How was she going to stop this? Was it even possible to stop something so vastly destructive? How could the dragons do all this and still be trapped in the Under Realm? Surely they should have been able to escape. Look at the power they wielded.
“Oh man,” Christoffer said, joining her at the crest. “We’ve got our work cut out for us don’t we?”
“Are we – are we too late?” Aleks asked.
“These are not the Golden Kings,” Hector said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “These are their queens, daughters, mothers, and sisters. The Kings are at the center of the Under Realm.”
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