by Ann Gimpel
“Rowan!” Bjorn gripped my upper arm and shook me. “We’re done. Stop squandering power.”
I reeled in my magic and scanned the smoldering ruins beneath us. Bjorn’s suggestion had worked. The hole was not only closed; mounds of dirt were piled over it along with boulders so large, I was impressed we’d managed to move them. A quick check told me Bjorn had laced power over the hummocks. It should hold the fissure shut for a few days. We could return and do a better job later.
Or not. As fast as crap was popping up, this might not be a priority.
One last snake was making a run for it. Zelli’s fire caught him broadside, but he kept on trucking. She blasted him once more, and we flew on. “Well done,” she bugled.
“You as well,” I called to her.
“Och, a mere inconvenience.” She scribed circles, and I saw the illusion protecting Inverlochy Castle beneath us.
“Looks as if it hasn’t been disturbed,” Bjorn said, followed by, “I had no idea how much simpler warfare would be from the air.”
“Funny, but you stole my exact thoughts,” I retorted. Still scanning the area between where the castle stood and the river, I saw a black dragon lift its head from where it had been drinking from the river’s sluggish flow.
“A surprise awaits us.” Zelli punctuated her words with steam that wafted around us. I was so wet, the warm mist sizzled when it touched my clothing.
“Is that the dragon Bjorn rode?” I yelled.
“Aye,” he answered me. “It is.” Excitement threaded into his reply, and I was happy for him.
“If we are going to be beset—and it appears we will be,” Zelli said, “we shall wield twice the clout if Bjorn has his own dragon to ride.”
“I appreciate the thought,” Bjorn said, “but I have no right to claim a dragon steed.”
“No one claims us,” Zelli corrected him. “We chose whom we offer a spot on our backs. ’Tis an honor, and one ye canna refuse.”
“Who said I was planning to refuse,” Bjorn said. “I can’t wait to fall on my knees and thank him.”
“No need to overplay things,” Zelli cautioned, having switched to telepathy. “Dragons respect power. Come from a position of strength, and ye canna go wrong.”
“Thank you. I shall,” Bjorn said solemnly
I gripped his arm with my free hand, riding the coattails of his eagerness. Maybe he’d been right earlier. Perhaps we’d find the key to slamming the gates to the Nine Worlds. Darkness may have gained a toehold, but we hadn’t lost the war. Not yet.
And not ever, if I had my way.
“See you inside,” I told them. We were almost on the ground. I fashioned magic into a cushion of air and teleported into Inverlochy Castle. I couldn’t wait any longer to make certain the witches were unharmed.
Chapter Six, Bjorn
I felt torn, which is unusual for me. Normally, I don’t have any trouble at all selecting a path. If it doesn’t pan out, I switch things up. I wanted to go after Rowan, but I also needed to renew my acquaintance with the black dragon. He’d probably be offended if I ran off without so much as a greeting, and I did not want to get off on the wrong foot. I still couldn’t quite believe he’d shown up, but the exhilaration sweeping through me was too compelling to push aside.
I reminded myself Ro had gotten along fine without me for 99 percent of her life, but it didn’t satisfy the part of me that yearned to protect her, keep her safe. I winced mentally. If she suddenly turned into a shrinking violet who required me at every turn, my attraction for her would fritter to nothing. I respected her courage; it was both potent and overwhelming. And her in-your-face rashness was one of the primary elements that had drawn me to her in the first place.
Zelli touched down. Craning her neck around, she said, “I will go inside.” A layer of steam blanketed my soaking wet body and garments. It wasn’t that it didn’t rain in Vanaheim, but rarely with this level of enthusiasm.
“I admit to curiosity about these witches,” the dragon went on. “They must be special indeed if they lured Rowan away from the gods.”
Batting steam aside, I said, “They are special to her. As I understand it, Rowan walked away from the Celts. It was only later the witches took her in. Accepted her. Offered her everything the Celts failed to.”
“Och, I see.” The dragon bobbed her head knowingly. “They loved her, recognized her merits. Since no one knew about her dragon blood, the Celts would have considered her inferior.”
I hadn’t viewed it in quite that light before, but it was true. Much like the Norse gods, the Celts were a terrible bunch of snobs. If you didn’t carry royal blood, you weren’t worth a crap. To them, Rowan had probably been Ceridwen’s half-blood brat. Half breed being the operative term. No one had bothered to look for her after she left. It spoke eloquently to how unimportant she was in their minds.
Another less pleasant insight jabbed me. “Damn Ceridwen,” I muttered. “She must have known the others would have treated Rowan far better had they known the truth of her parentage, yet she remained silent.”
“One more debit from her badly overdrawn account,” Zelli agreed almost cheerfully.
I hoped the dragons were torturing Ceridwen, making her suffer the torments of the damned.
“Well met, Master Sorcerer.” The black dragon had joined us from Zelli’s other side. Because I’d been lost in vengeful fantasies of Ceridwen roasting over a fire, her flesh renewing itself so she was in constant pain, I hadn’t noticed.
The dragon—my dragon?—was half a head taller than Zelli and more powerfully built. Close up like this, his wet scales gleamed with a myriad of iridescent colors overlaid atop the black. Lightning forked down a meter away, but I paid it no heed. The sum total of my attention was on the dragon.
I bowed. “Thank you. I am very glad to see you once more.” When I straightened, I said, “Likely you know already, but my name is Bjorn Nighthorse.” I waited. Courtesy dictated he should offer his name in return. I hadn’t ferreted it out when I rode him.
“Ye would know my name as well.” His voice was surprisingly soft for such a large beast. More in the alto than bass ranges. “Fair enough. I am Quade, Lord of Fire.”
It was an impressive name, far too impressive for him to be bothering with the likes of me. But Zelli had told me to come in strong, so I said, “Thank you for trusting me with your name. You have my word, I shall not betray your faith in my discretion.”
“Nor I, yours,” he said solemnly.
“I shall see you within,” Zelli said. The air around her shimmered, and she was gone.
Dragon magic scoured me, beginning with my feet and ending with the top of my head. The net effect of all that power swirling around me was unsettling. My skin prickled, and the soaking hair across the back of my head lifted slightly. Apparently, Quade was taking my measure. I pushed my tired shoulders back and stood as straight as I could.
Aye, he might be a dragon, but if we were going to be partners, I’d carry my weight. When we’d flown together before, our power had acted independently. Unlike when Rowan and I fought with conjoined magic, Quade had mostly provided an aerial perch and sent the occasional blast of fire at targets other dragons had placed on the ground.
His magic faded. It had shielded me from the worst of the rain, and I missed it. I waited, but he didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to push him, but I felt some urgency to follow Zelli inside the castle. If anything was amiss, Ro would have alerted me.
Maybe.
Unless she’d walked into a trap. Her association with the witches was common knowledge, and a perfect way for someone to force her hand. I could see her trading herself for their freedom any day.
More time passed. I shifted from foot to foot and finally cast caution aside. “I’m not trying to rush you or anything,” I told Quade, “but I’m worried about Rowan, and I’d like to go inside Inverlochy. In case she needs me.”
Laughter rumbled from Quade, along with steam. “She has Zelli. B
esides, ’tis only one of the things bothering you. Ye wish to know why I am here.”
“I have many questions,” I agreed. “Like how all this will work. It surprised me when Zelli went to Jotunheim with us, and surprised me further she hasn’t left yet. Is she planning to remain with us forever?” I paused before adding, “Are you? Or did you only show up in case more atrocities appear?”
I made a face. That hadn’t come out quite right. Before I could stammer around and correct my clumsy wording, Quade said, “Forever is a long time, Master Sorcerer. For now, all I shall say is dragons are well aware the Nine Worlds are under siege. We are warriors. We have answered Odin and Nidhogg’s call to arms.”
Should I ask what was in my mind? No harm in trying. “You certainly don’t have to answer me,” I began, “but surely you knew of the Breaking. What alerted you the Nine Worlds were in deeper trouble than even I guessed? My supposition was the primary problems were here. In Midgard. While I feared they might spread, I wasn’t concerned it was imminent until today.”
“What happened today?” More steam billowed from Quade. He was doing his dragon-best to encourage me.
“Evil from Jotunheim invaded my world and nabbed me, but I also connected another puzzle piece. A while back, many months, I was called to Jotunheim to deal with tree blight. Now I fear the trees sickened because they drank from the same fountain as Yggdrasil.”
Quade leaned nearer, lowering his head. “Ye speak in riddles, Sorcerer.”
“Aye, I neglected a critical element. Earlier today—or mayhap it was yesterday at this point—I spent time with Yggdrasil. Its branches, not its roots, but it attempted to absorb me and fought my efforts to leave.” I rolled my shoulders back. “In an earlier time, the One Tree would scarcely have registered my presence. I fear the root in contact with Midgard is spreading its poison to the remainder of the tree.”
“Ye raise an interesting theory, and ye’re not as inconsequential as ye believe,” Quade said. Before I could probe what he meant by that, he continued. “’Tis an excellent time for us to move within.”
He didn’t wait for me to agree. Neither had he answered my query about what had shifted the dragons from watchful and waiting to battle mode. The baked-clay scent of dragon magic surrounded me and whisked us through the illusion keeping Inverlochy Castle hidden from mortal eyes. Not that the original reason for the illusion remained, but perhaps it made the castle less visible to wickedness.
I wasn’t sure about that, but the dragons might know.
The rich smell of loam and growing things greeted me as Quade’s spell cleared. The witches had been busy. Rows upon rows of greenery stretched in every direction. Inverlochy Castle was huge, and its grounds spanned several square kilometers.
I deployed magic, letting it spill from me as I hunted for Rowan. She’d be with the witches. Sure enough, they were above us. Probably where we’d met with them last time we were here. They’d carved out a cozy living space for themselves. Even though I hadn’t spent much time here when the Celts were in residence, I felt certain the witches’ homey rooms were an improvement.
Even more than the Norse gods, the Celts went for splashy, gaudy displays of their power. Their council chamber was a prime example. With all its crystal and marble, it was a study in chilly grandeur.
I started for the stairs. I wasn’t certain how Quade would manage, but I didn’t want to anger him by asking if he needed help. He didn’t. Not from me, anyway. Zelli wasn’t milling about in the courtyard, which argued dragons had their own ways of figuring things out that didn’t include climbing stairs with their ungainly hind feet.
Now that I was inside, my earlier urgency returned. Why hadn’t I heard anything from Rowan? Not so much as a quick telepathic message all was well. She would have let me know. My pace quickened, and I loped up the stairs to the next floor. Skidding around a corner, I hustled straight for the witches’ quarters and through an open arched doorway.
Rowan sat on the floor cradling a woman’s head in her lap and chanting low. The woman was short and emaciated. Steel-gray hair had been cropped short. The bottom half of her body was covered by a blanket. Blood had spattered her chest and glistened wetly on her flowered top. Dried blood around her mouth and down her chin suggested she’d been coughing it up from damaged lungs.
A much smaller version of Zelli stood off to one side. Red-tinged power flowed from her into Rowan and formed a translucent nimbus around the injured witch. I looked again at the dragon. I’d had no idea they could make themselves smaller if need be. Or was this a projection and the actual dragon was elsewhere?
It didn’t matter.
Careful not to displace the shroud around Rowan and the witch, I crouched across from where she sat and carefully threaded my magic in with hers. The shrouding brightened immediately. Tears had formed furrows in the grime streaking Rowan’s face. Whoever lay on the floor was dear to her.
I command healing magic, but I usually depend on potions and powders and herbs to augment my ministrations. Such accoutrements weren’t available to me here. Closing my earth eyes, I employed my psychic vision to determine what we were dealing with. The woman appeared depleted enough, she might be dying from old age.
Seemed unlikely, given the circle of grim-faced witches ringed around us. I wanted to ask what had happened, but I was afraid breaking into Rowan’s concentration would court disaster. She was keeping the witch alive. I felt the woman’s spirit hovering. It wanted to be on its way, but something had a firm grip on it.
I dug deeper and found a spreading pool of darkness. Soul sickness was leaching life from the witch, but it had also tethered her spirit to her body. I’d only seen a few cases. They resulted from contamination by the darkest strain of Black Magic. Where in the unholy fuck had the witch stumbled across such a thing? We’d cleared it from the Nine Worlds centuries ago. Or was this somehow related to the Breaking?
Almost had to be.
“Ro. We can fix this,” I told her as gently as I could.
“How?” Even in telepathy, her voice was thin, desolate.
I considered how to proceed, discarding options as fast as they occurred to me. When words came, they were Old Norse, my first language. “Ye hold her life in your hands. There is no way to transfer that binding or her soul will collapse. Draw on my magic. Feed fire into your spell. All fire to scour the taint from her. Be delicate, though. ’Tis a fine line between eradicating the soul sickness and harming her.”
“I’m not a healer,” she protested, “but I will try.”
“Today, ye are. I will guide your efforts.” I infused confidence into my words. If Rowan hesitated now, the witch was as good as dead. As things stood, she was 90 percent gone. Our odds were crap, and this was our only chance.
I tightened my linkage with Rowan, helped her funnel fire into her casting a bit at a time, discarding earth and air as we went. Everything else faded to background noise. The other witches. Zelli. Quade—if he’d even shown up in this chamber.
The witch’s spirit pushed harder against its bonds as fire seared the darkness within her fading body.
“We’re making her worse.” Rowan jettisoned telepathy. All her magic was focused on the prostrate witch.
“Aye, but ’tis necessary. She canna recover otherwise.” I didn’t add she’d had no chance at all without this intervention, and that we were a long way from success. I also didn’t go into the fine points of soul sickness. We had to keep going. Even if the witch died, we were freeing her soul to seek the next world. It wouldn’t be able to if we couldn’t unshackle her from the illness. Those who succumbed to soul sickness were doomed to wander forever, fettered to the spot they’d died. Unable to move beyond it, they grew hard and bitter. Perfect vessels for Black Magic to co-opt for evil.
Sweat sheened the witch’s forehead. I took it as a good sign. She’d been burning up with fever, but it was breaking. Her white face developed blotched places, and deep coughs wracked her thin frame accompanied
by bloody froth. The momentary return of activity, something beyond her just lying in an unconscious heap, encouraged me to take a chance.
“I’ll take over,” I told Rowan. “Remain linked, and mirror exactly what I do.”
A quick nod told me she was ready. Gently, gradually, I transitioned the way we were wielding power until I had control of the spell. I couldn’t be as cautious as Ro had been. We were running out of time. Despite her brief rally, the witch’s body was nearly done.
“Stay with me.” I wasn’t sure if my words were for Rowan or the witch, but I was back to English.
In a quick, hard burst, I funneled a torrent of fire right into the heart of the blackness. The witch shrieked as pain scorched her, but Rowan’s magic didn’t falter. She trusted me. Her faith meant everything.
The nucleus of the black place turned clear. I hung onto my spell until all that remained was the thinnest of gray margins. Satisfied I’d done all I could, I cut my casting. I could deal with the remnants in a less destructive way. Sweat flowed down my body, but I was already so wet it scarcely mattered.
The witch’s cries had thinned to whimpers. Rowan lay next to her and gathered her in her arms. “Hilda. Oh Hilda. Come on. Reach for me. You can do this.”
I coiled what was left of my casting, neutralizing it. Hilda wasn’t strong enough for me to ferret out the remnants of the soul sickness. That could wait. Absent the heart of the thing, it wouldn’t keep growing.
A man, Patrick, knelt next to me. “Will she be all right?” he asked in a hoarse voice.
“I hope so. At least she has a chance.”
“What was it?”
“Soul sickness.” As I said the words, Hilda’s spirit left off circling and melted back into her body. Relief rattled from me in a great, shuddering breath. It was the first positive sign she might recover.