Текст книги "Fire Falling "

Автор книги: Elise Kova

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters and events in this book are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Silver Wing Press

Copyright © 2015 by Elise Kova

All rights reserved. Neither this book, nor any parts within it may be sold or reproduced in any form without permission.

Cover Artwork by Merilliza Chan

Editing by Monica Wanat

ISBN (paperback): 9781619849525

ISBN (hardcover): 9781619849532

eISBN: 9781619849518

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015914250

Printed in the U.S.A

For my biggest fans:

Mom, Dad, and Mer.

The people who I owe everything to—literally.

Map

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

THE WORLD WAS was an inferno.

Thick smoke. Ash. Blistering heat.

Vhalla dashed between shadowed figures. Faster and faster, she ran through the night, from one horrific scene to the next, as though she was running toward the end of the world itself. The dark, faceless people began to close in around her, hindering her, smothering her.

Tears already stained her cheeks when she reached out a hand to push away the first. The apparition gave a blood-curdling scream before being ripped apart, dissolving into wind-like smoke. Her fingertips rested upon the next—another scream. She didn’t want to go farther, but her heart drummed out a single word—faster, faster, faster.

So Vhalla ran. She ran, and each shadowed apparition she came into contact with dissolved into the darkness that slowly encroached upon her. Nothing could hinder the dying cries of the shadow people, cries echoing to her very soul—not the palms pressed over her ears, not even her own screams.

And suddenly, silence.

Vhalla lowered her hands slowly, peeling one eye open, and then the next. There was nothing behind her, nothing beside her; the path before her was illuminated by one last glittering flame, consuming a building that had collapsed in on itself. Pulled by an invisible force, her feet dragged one inch, then the next, toward the rubble. She was already too late. She was too late every time, every night.

Vhalla began pulling the rubble aside, one large block at a time. The flames licked around her hands, but they didn’t burn her. They didn’t even feel hot. He was at the bottom, waiting for her, and Vhalla took the battered and bloody body of her dead friend into her arms, weeping until her throat was raw.

“Sareem,” she sobbed into his gory shoulder. “I promise, next time, I’ll be faster. Please, don’t wait for me.”

His hands sprung to life, gripping her arms. With sudden force the man reversed their positions, slamming her down against the ground, his carcass pressing her to the cobblestone street. Half of his face was nothing more than a gory pulp that dripped blood onto her shoulder.

“Vhalla,” he hissed. Part of his jaw was gone and the remaining bone moved at an awkward slant. “Why didn’t you come?”

“I tried!” she cried, begging. “I’m sorry, Sareem, I’m sorry!”

“You weren’t there.” The corpse of her friend leaned forward, nearly touching her face. “You weren’t there, and I died because of you.”

“I’m sorry!” Vhalla screamed.

“You were with him.” His grip cut off the blood to her arms, and Vhalla’s fingers went numb. “You were with him!” He shook her. “Where is he now? Where is he now?” her childhood friend demanded, shaking her body like a ragdoll, her head slamming on the ground.

Vhalla struggled against the arms holding her as they shook her again.

“No, no! I tried to save you!” she sobbed.

“Vhalla, wake up!” A different voice commanded, and Vhalla’s eyes shot open.

Larel’s palms ran up and down Vhalla’s arms. Her dark Western eyes were rife with concern. Vhalla blinked up at her, removing the image of her dead friend. The memory of Sareem sent her stomach heaving, and Vhalla rolled to the side of the bed, vomiting into a carefully placed bedpan.

“This is the third night in a row,” said a voice from the door. The same voice she’d heard the past two nights.

Vhalla looked up, wiping spittle from her chin. A sorcerer stood there, and he didn’t exactly look pleased.

“Cut her some slack.” Larel was not amused.

“Cut me some slack.” The person yawned, but heeded the warning tones in Larel’s voice with one pointed glare back in Vhalla’s direction. A slamming of the door punctuated his departure.

Vhalla coughed a final time, her mental and physical stability returning the longer she was out of the dream. Pulling herself into a seated position, Vhalla rubbed her palms against her eyes and blinked away the last remnants of the vision.

“Vhalla,” Larel whispered softly, placing her palm on the crown of Vhalla’s head. The other woman sat on the bed and pulled Vhalla into her arms.

“I’m okay. I’m fine, I’m fine,” Vhalla murmured into the soft comfort of her friend.

“I’ll stay.”

“No, you can’t stay every night.” Vhalla shook her head, but didn’t shrug off the soothing palm stroking her tangled mess of brown hair.

“Who says?” The woman assumed her position between Vhalla and the wall. It was cramped with the two of them, but Vhalla was too exhausted to object.

They lay facing each other, hands held tightly. Vhalla squinted in the darkness, using the faint light of the moon to make out Larel’s face. The other woman stared back. As a Firebearer, Larel could summon a flame with a thought and give them light, but she didn’t.

“Larel,” Vhalla whimpered softly.

“You should get some sleep.” Larel knew of Vhalla’s imminent collapse just by the tone of her voice.

“Tomorrow’s the last day.” After the dream, her emotions were like an avalanche rushing toward the edge of a cliff. Vhalla was hopeless to do anything other than ride it out. She’d been hopeless at everything since her trial five days ago.

“It is, and Major Reale will only work you harder.” Larel’s voice was an extension of her resolve, as immovable as a mountain. She was the only grounding rock Vhalla had left.

“What’s the point?” Vhalla whispered through quivering lips. “I’m dead the moment we see real combat.” Originally, Vhalla had fantasized about what she would meet in the North—the war-torn land where she was commanded to march as a conscripted soldier of the Empire. But dreams and guilt had worn at her resolve until only a husk remained.

“You are not,” Larel insisted.

“I can barely do anything!” Her voice was pathetic, even to her own ears. But Vhalla was beyond caring. She’d summoned a false strength to make it through her trial, but it was gone now.

“Hush,” Larel ordered. The matter was no longer up for discussion. “You must sleep.”

Vhalla pressed her lips together. “Will you wake me?” she asked finally.

“I will,” Larel responded, as she did every night.

“I don’t know how I’ll sleep without you on the march,” Vhalla murmured softly.

“Don’t worry about that now, just rest.”

Larel kissed Vhalla’s knuckles softly, and Vhalla finally relented, closing her eyes.

Sleep was short, but it happened. Larel only woke Vhalla once more. It was an improvement from the previous four nights.

In the daylight Larel had the courtesy not to say anything about Vhalla’s night terrors. With the arrival of dawn, she departed Vhalla’s room quietly, leaving the Eastern woman to dress and prepare for the day.

Vhalla’s whole body felt stiff and sore, which made dressing take twice as long as normal. She rolled her shoulders and tilted her head from side to side as she shrugged on her black robe. Her reflection caught her attention: dark brown eyes flecked with gold were set upon a gaunt face and accentuated by dark circles. Even the usual yellowish, Eastern tan of her skin had turned ashen. Vhalla raised a hand to her short hair, remembering the afternoon following her verdict when she’d cut it all off.

“I hate it,” Vhalla declared, not sure if she was speaking to her hair or her reflection as a whole.

Her feet carried her against the stream of people heading toward the kitchens. She wasn’t hungry. Vhalla didn’t think she’d manage a bite today. She had one day left before she’d march away from everything she had ever known. Her normally small appetite had shriveled to a rock hard pit.

She entered the training rooms of the Tower, which encompassed the center of an entire level. The circular room was lined with a low outer wall that acted as a barrier for spectators and waiting trainees.

A woman already stood in the room behind a high desk.

“Major,” Vhalla called as she entered.

“Yarl.” Major Reale was a Southern woman who was built out of steel and was just as warm. A metal eyepatch had been melted directly onto her bone, covering her left eye. “You’re early.”

“I can’t stay away,” Vhalla retorted with a sarcastic tone, a tone that was beginning to permanently slip between her words. Vhalla didn’t know where it came from, and she was too tired to care.

“Well, you’re not working with me today.” The major glanced up only briefly before returning to marking up the papers on the desk.

“I’m not?” Vhalla didn’t know where else she’d go. She couldn’t leave the Tower per the Senate’s orders. She was still property of the crown until she saw the war in the North to its conclusion—or she died.

“The minister wants to see you.”

Vhalla knew a dismissal when she heard it, and Major Reale wasn’t exactly the friendliest of women to be around.

With breakfast underway, the Tower hallway was empty. Most of the residents packed into the kitchens a few levels up. As she passed the mess hall, the noise washed over her, but Vhalla was too numb to hear it.

Past her room and almost at the top of the Tower was the Minister of Sorcery’s office and quarters. All other doors held a name plaque on their fronts bearing the resident’s name. But the one before her had the symbol of the Tower of Sorcerers cast in silver, a dragon curling in on itself split in two: the Broken Moon.

Her eyes drifted upward.

There was one more door, just visible on the curve of the sloping hallway. It was completely unmarked. And, while no one could confirm with any certainty, Vhalla could only suspect who it belonged to. She hadn’t seen or heard from her phantom in days and had no way of reaching out to him, no matter how badly her poorer judgment begged her to. Vhalla swallowed and knocked on the door in front of her before the bad idea to proceed to the next door could overcome her.

“Just a moment,” a voice called from within. The door swung open and a Southern man with short-cut blonde hair and icy blue eyes greeted her, the goatee around his mouth curling into a smile. “Vhalla, come in, come in,” Minister Victor ushered.

She was welcomed into the lavish office; it was a level of wealth that she was still unaccustomed to. Plush cerulean carpet beneath her booted feet reminded her of the Imperial Library in a physically painful way. Vhalla quickly sat at one of the three chairs situated before the desk.

“I was just finishing my breakfast. Are you hungry?” He motioned to a plate filled with an assortment of pastries.

“No.” Vhalla shook her head, bringing her hands together and wringing her fingers.

“No?” The minister cocked his head. “You couldn’t have eaten.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Now, Vhalla,” he scolded in a familial tone. “You need to keep up your strength.”

She stared at the muffin in his extended hand. Her training won out, and Vhalla listened to the man above her station. She picked at it listlessly, but that seemed to be enough for the minister.

“So tomorrow is the day,” he stated obviously.

“It is.” Vhalla nodded.

“I’d like to go over one or two things with you, before you march.” Vhalla continued to pick at her food as he spoke. “Foremost, I want you to know that no one in the Tower harbors any ill will toward you.”

Vhalla had a few bruises from Major Reale’s training that could beg to differ, but she busied her mouth with the muffin.

“I have informed all of the Black Legion that you are to be kept under close watch and be defended at all times,” Victor continued. “As the first Windwalker in nearly a hundred and fifty years I’d like to see you live long enough to study in the Tower.”

“Have you informed the Senate of this decision? I’m fairly certain they want me dead,” Vhalla replied numbly.

“Resentment doesn’t suit you.” The minister leaned back in his chair, pressing his fingers together.

“Excuse me,” Vhalla mumbled a half-hearted apology and snuck the partly eaten muffin back onto the minister’s plate.

“You need to return alive, Vhalla.” Minister Victor regarded her thoughtfully. “I need you to believe that you will be able to do this.”

Vhalla didn’t know how she could be expected to keep herself alive when she could barely manage magic. Mother, she could barely manage to close her eyes for more than a few minutes without horrors haunting her. “Very well,” Vhalla feigned agreement.

The minister only sighed at her response. “Will it help you if I give purpose to your days?” Minister Victor leaned forward, his elbows on his desk as though he was to impart a great secret upon her. “There is something I need ... and only you, as a Windwalker, can retrieve it.”

Vhalla instinctually sat straighter. “What?” She finally asked as the words were left hovering in the air.

“There is something very powerful hidden in the North. The longer it sits unattended, the greater the likelihood of it falling into the wrong hands or being used against our forces, should the Northern clans understand what they possess.”

Vhalla wondered how this was supposed to help her. “What is it?” Curiosity won the war of her emotions.

“It’s an ancient weapon from a different time, a time when magic was wilder and more divine.” He paused, mulling over his next words. “It is an axe that is said to be able to sever anything, even a soul.”

“Why would such a thing exist?” Vhalla struggled to think of a reason.

“Well, the latest records of it read as much fact as fiction.” The minister rubbed his goatee in thought.

“How are you sure it’s real?”

“I have it on very good faith it is.” The minister returned to the point, “I need you to retrieve it and bring it back here.” He tapped his desk.

“But if it’s so dangerous ...” Vhalla mused aloud. She felt like she was missing an important piece of information, but the minister was uninterested in imparting it to her.

“As I said, we want to keep it from the wrong hands. Beyond that, it would make the wielder nearly invincible.” Minister Victor let that hang and Vhalla was smart enough to piece together what he was trying to tell her. If the wielder was nearly invincible, and she managed to find it, then perhaps she could make it out of the North alive. “Will you help me with this, Vhalla?”

She hesitated for one last, long moment. Vhalla stared into the minister’s icy blue eyes, the eyes of the man who had kidnapped her when they had first met. But they were also the eyes of a man who had harbored her, healed her, and protected her when the world was ready to tear her limb from limb. The Tower was a mysterious place, but she knew sincerity when she saw it.

“Of course, minister,” Vhalla said obediently.

The Tower took care of its own.

VHALLA DID NOT sleep that night. She stayed awake, fighting through the uneasy hours with a book that she quickly realized she’d never finish. Closing it with a soft sigh, Vhalla tucked it away in her wardrobe as the sky began to lighten.

Two large panes of glass acted as both windows and doors, opening to the railed strip of stone that served as her secondary gateway to the world—what would generously be called a balcony. The beginnings of a bad winter flowed into the city at the end of each breeze. Vhalla let the chill numb her cheeks as she watched the edge of the horizon slowly turn crimson with the Mother Sun’s waking.

A knock on her door pulled Vhalla’s attentions inside. Larel had told her that she’d be bringing Vhalla’s armor and helping her clip it on for the first time. Vhalla took a deep breath, trying to muster up the scraps of courage she had scavenged the night before.

The air vanished from her lungs with a soft choking noise at the person who awaited her.

His hair was as black as midnight. His eyes were crafted from piercing darkness and were perched upon high cheekbones carved from flawless alabaster skin. He wore meticulously crafted and finely pressed clothes—not a single stitch out of place. He was the opposite of the haggard woman whose clothes hung more limply with each day. But it was only expected as he was the crown prince.

Vhalla stood helplessly before him, and he seemed just as lost at the sight of her. Neither spoke.

Vhalla realized, very self-consciously, that this was the first time he’d seen her since she cut her hair. Short hair or no, could he even bear the sight of her any longer?

“I have your armor.” His low voice resonated smoothly across her restless mind.

Vhalla heard the demand in the statement, moving aside so he could maneuver a small wooden armor stand into her room.

The sound of the door shutting behind him sent a nervous shiver up her spine. The last time Vhalla had been alone with the prince was the day of her verdict. The last time she’d seen him she was being escorted out of a courtroom by two armed guards, her sentence having been read—a sentence that gave the prince the ability to kill her should she disobey.

But Aldrik wouldn’t kill her. The way he looked at her revealed that certainty. He couldn’t kill her, if the magical force—the Bond—between them was real.

“Where’s Larel?” Vhalla wanted to smash her face against the wall. That was what she decided to say?

“I thought I might help you.” It was awkward, everything between them felt awkward. It was as though five years, not five days, had passed.

Everything had changed.

“I can’t deny you, my prince.” Vhalla brought her hands together, fidgeting.

Instead of his usual scolding of her restless tic, the prince took her fingers in his.

“Why the formality?” he asked softly, slipping the gloves onto her hands.

“Because ...” The words stuck in her throat.

“Just Aldrik is fine,” the prince reminded her.

She nodded mutely, still working through the knot of syllables behind her lips. With both gloves on, Aldrik passed her a chainmail tunic. Its sleeves were full, extending to the top of her gloves. Vhalla was surprised to find it had a hood fashioned of tiny links. Her hair fell just above where it pooled at the back of her neck. The weight of his stare brought her eyes to his, and Vhalla’s hand fell from where it played with the ends of her hair.

“You had it cut.” His hands paused on the armor.

“I cut it,” she corrected, staring at a corner of the room. It felt as though she was on trial all over again.

“I like it,” Aldrik said after what seemed like an eternity.

“You do?” Her mouth fell open in dumb shock.

“Long or short ... suits you.” The prince gave a small shrug.

Vhalla didn’t point out the fact that he had just contradicted himself. Her insides were in turmoil, and she suddenly felt like crying. He liked it? What about her was left to like?

The armor she slipped into was crafted out of small scales of black steel. It hung to mid-thigh and had shoulder coverings that only minimally hindered her movement. Her heart raced with conflicted emotion as she watched the prince’s long fingers demonstrate the locations of latches up the front of the armor.

“It is just the greaves and gauntlets then.” Aldrik motioned to the remaining pieces on the stand. She nodded silently. The prince hovered for a long moment before making for the door. “I need to prepare myself.”

“Aldrik.” Vhalla’s barely trembling hand clasped his coat sleeve before she even realized it had moved.

“Vhalla?” He stopped all movement in an instant, and his eyes searched hers.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

Pain flashed across the prince’s face, riding on the wave of realization of what her words meant. “You can.” Aldrik turned slowly, as though she was a wild animal, easily spooked. One warm hand encompassed hers; it was a delicate touch that seemed to carry the weight of the world in it.

“I-I’m awful at everything, and I—”

“Do you remember what I told you?” he asked as though he could sense her emotions were about to overrun her. “On the last day of your trial?”

“I do.” She remembered her palm pressed firmly against his side, on a spot that had been a lethal wound not more than a year before when he’d come riding into her life during a summer’s thunderstorm. He would have died from that wound if she had not saved him with her sorcery, inadvertently forming the magical Bond that now lived between them.

“Vhalla, I—” A door slammed in the hallway and the sound of footsteps heavy with armor faded down the hall. Aldrik engaged in a staring contest with the door. “I must go.”

She nodded.

“I will see you soon, for the march.”

Which of them was he reassuring?

Vhalla nodded again.

“We have a long time before reaching the North. I will personally make sure you are ready,” the prince swore, accepting responsibility for her.

“Thank you.” The words didn’t seem enough, but they were all she had to give and Aldrik accepted them before silently escaping.

She stood for several long breaths, trying to calm the tempest that blew within her chest. As close to ready as she’d ever be, Vhalla grabbed the small bag she’d been told to pack her personal effects in. Tucked away in her wardrobe were Aldrik’s notes, Larel’s bracelet, and three letters addressed to her old master in the library, her friend Roan, and her father. She’d told Fritz, the Tower’s de facto librarian, and his friend Grahm about their existence. If the worst befell her, those letters would be sent.

Her eyes caught the mirror once more, and Vhalla spared another minute. She didn’t recognize the woman who stared back at her. Hollow eyes and wild hair were framed by black armor. It was the visage of a warrior and a sorcerer.

Taking a deep breath, Vhalla plunged into the hall and didn’t look back. She didn’t even bother to lock her door. The sloping spiral was full of people, but none seemed interested in speaking and only the chorus of armor filled the air. Their plate was of a similar make to hers, but it didn’t look half as fine. Vhalla made note of the small gold embellishment along the front of her steel. One or two other people seemed to notice the same, but said nothing.

The hall ended in a large foyer at the base of the Tower, the only public entrance. Vhalla leaned against the outer wall, speaking to no one. The Tower had been kind to her, overall. But she only had two true friends among them, and they were still asleep in their beds.

Vhalla felt a pang of loneliness. The room was full of the stereotypical black hair and olive skin of the West, the yellow tan and plain brown features of the East, and the pale skin and golden haired people of the South. They were all mixes of eyes and hair she knew, and yet none of them were familiar.

Some of the other soldiers chatted away nervously. Others were too calm for this to be their first tour. Even though Aldrik had said otherwise, she was alone. Vhalla stared at her toes—she brought death and destruction; it was better this way.

Over her self-pity Vhalla heard the makings of a familiar voice.

“See, I told you we wouldn’t be late,” a man was saying.

“We would have been if I hadn’t dragged you from bed,” a woman responded.

“You can stop with the dragging now.”

Vhalla’s head snapped up to see Larel leading Fritz into the room, a firm grip on his arm. Vhalla’s eyes widened. They were dressed much the same as everyone else, completely done up in armor.

“Fritz, Larel?” she called out to them timidly.

“Vhal!” The Southern man with the wild blonde hair waved in excitement as he passed Larel in a rush, leaving the other woman to leisurely follow behind.

“What are you doing here?” Vhalla asked, dumbfounded as they put their own packs on the floor.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he responded, smoothing down his unruly curls. “We’re coming with you.”

“But neither of you are in the military,” she objected.

“We’re brand new recruits.” He grinned.

Vhalla turned to Larel for some sense.

“You didn’t think I’d let my first apprentice run off to war without me, did you?” Larel scolded gently without any mention of the prince showing up in her stead earlier. “What kind of mentor do you think I am?” She crossed her arms on her chest. “You-you can’t.” Vhalla’s heart began to race. She put her hands on Fritz’s shoulders and saw a different set of Southern blue eyes staring back at her. The eyes of a man whom she’d grown up with, who had been a dear friend; they were eyes that now belonged to a dead man. “I can’t have any more people die on my account.” Vhalla focused all her effort on keeping her voice from breaking.

“Don’t treat us like we’re children.” Larel rolled her eyes.

Fritz grabbed Vhalla’s hands. “It’s not your job to protect us. We know what we’re doing.” He squeezed her fingers gently.

Vhalla felt a hopelessness rising in her. “You’re idiots,” Vhalla breathed.

Fritz laughed. “I’ve been called worse.” He grinned, “Larel?”

“Much worse,” the Westerner replied with a smirk.

“You look fantastic, by the way, Vhal!” Fritz held out her arms between them to inspect Vhalla’s armor. “It’s no wonder; you are our Windwalker.”

Vhalla allowed Fritz to fuss and Larel to hum and smile. These had been the only people over the past few days who had made her feel close to human, and while she was in numb shock at the sight of them wearing armor, there was a little selfish streak that secretly rejoiced. Vhalla looked at Larel from the corners of her eyes, halfheartedly responding to Fritz.

The overexcited Southerner was silenced as a hush fell over the room. Major Reale strode in, also clad in black with an obsidian cape streaming down her back. A silver Broken Moon was emblazoned upon it. Vhalla saluted with the rest of the room, bringing her fists to her chest, knuckles together. She turned one hand down, the other pointing up, still connected at the wrist to mimic the imagery.

The moon was the point in which the day and night met, light in the darkness where it did not belong. Within it, the Father was said to have entrapped a creature of pure chaos. The Broken Moon of the Tower represented strength, that those who bore the mark would possess magic strong enough to pierce the heavens and put an end to what the Gods had started eons ago.

Vhalla had been too tired since joining the Tower to give the imagery much thought beyond learning its meaning. But the longer she’d considered the symbol, the more it seemed to fit her. There was something severed and rough about her, something tainted and, yet, at the same time those jagged pieces were the makings of something fearsome. She’d wanted to become someone the Senate would fear. Why not shatter the sky?

“Well, isn’t this a sorry lot I have the esteemed honor of leading to war?” The major took in the room. “Who here marches for glory?”

The room rose in an instant cry of affirmation.

“Get out of my sight,” the woman growled, instantly silencing the previously joyous soldiers. She cut down their resolve with a scan of her good eye. “I have no room for heroes under my command. Most of you will march to a thankless death. Your comrades in silver will fear you, they’ll hate you, and they’ll ignore your accomplishments and claim your victories.”

Vhalla’s mind drifted to the Senate, hearing a very different “they” in the woman’s words.

“But, for those of you who aren’t completely daft,” Major Reale taunted with a wild grin crossing her lips. “For those of you who can meet our enemy with as much cruelty, as much cunning, and as much skill, maybe you’ll see the end of this war. So stand with me, stand with your brothers and sisters in black. We ride toward the horizon of victory, and whoever cannot see the path there should leave now.”

The major strode out of the Tower and didn’t look back to see if anyone was following her.

Everyone was.

As the sunlight hit Vhalla’s face, she looked behind her and up at the Tower, which cast a dark shadow until it became one with the mountainside castle.

Home. This magnificent palace had been her home since she was eleven. She’d came to it as a farmer’s daughter, and now she’d leave it as a soldier. Vhalla shrugged the pack on her shoulder, gripping the leather straps tightly. She tried to ball up the nerves, fears, and insecurity and suppress it into some dark hole deep within her.

They walked through an inner path down to the stables. No one said a word. The sounds of the palace waking, and the Black Legion’s armor clanking, soon joined the symphony of horses and men below.

The stables surpassed her wildest imagination. Hundreds of people filled every possible space. Each was plated in silver armor. Some were readying steeds, others were preparing carts.

Her awe was broken when the major barked a sharp order, sending Vhalla toward a side stall. She hadn’t expected to have her own mount. Vhalla’s steed was a mostly-black stallion with a white patch on its forehead. She patted its neck, and it shook a dark mane in dramatic protest. A bit of fire in the beast would suit her well, she decided. A young stable boy who gave her a wide berth worked quickly to saddle and bridle the mount. There was the echo of a voice in her that wanted to reassure the clearly fearful child, but Vhalla couldn’t find the strength to comfort anyone else. She was too dark inside to even smile, so it was no surprise that she nearly startled the boy to death when she spoke.

“What’s his name?”

“It-it’s a new one. I saw ‘im just this week. Don’t think he ‘as a name.” The boy finished tacking the horse and attaching one small saddlebag on either side. One was stocked with rations, and Vhalla’s meager possessions fit into the other—with some space left over.