Vhalla watched the man as he spoke, twisting her hands against the cuffs.
“We stick to the plan and head to the caverns.”
“Why?” Mutiny rumbled between the now leaderless Knights. “I say we kill her.”
A Knight grabbed for her and Vhalla plunged her heel into his groin. The man instantly let go, a string of foul language spilling from his lips. She spun face-to-face with the man wielding the axe.
“Kill the wind bitch!” Two strong hands grabbed her.
Vhalla struggled valiantly against the man’s hold on her. She watched as the axe-wielding Knight raised it. If only she had her magic.
Fire suddenly erupted over their shoulders at the door.
“What the?” The men turned.
“Get that under control!”
A man held out his hand, and the flames swayed as they roared against his command.
“I said put it out!”
“I’m trying!” the sorcerer struggled.
The fire was magic, Vhalla blinked at its warm heat. A Firebearer would be able to assume control of any normal flame without any trouble. But a flame created by another sorcerer became a battle of power, and clearly these flames were crafted by a Firebearer of fearsome skill.
The flames caught the dry grain, and the wooden inside of the windmill was quickly going up like kindling. The men scrambled like rats, trapped between stone and flame.
It was impossible. Vhalla blinked as more of the room caught. She’d been forgotten about as the men tried to charge for the door, for escape. They sweated, they screamed, they shied from the heat. Vhalla watched them as they burned, even the Firebearer overcome by the magical inferno.
And she felt little more than heat.
Vhalla walked toward the flames that blocked the door—there was no change. There was only one man’s flames that wouldn’t harm her, but it couldn’t be him. Aldrik couldn’t be here. She was so entranced by the predicament that she didn’t notice the structure beginning to collapse around her until a large beam cracked.
She snatched up the axe from where it sat in the fire, ignoring the charred remains of the Knights. Vhalla plunged herself into the flames. It licked around her, it burned her clothes, but it didn’t singe her skin even slightly. It allowed her to pass unharmed into the chill night beyond.
Immediately outside, Vhalla looked frantically for him. She cleared the structurally compromised windmill, starting for the horses before they could all spook and flee. The whole time Vhalla’s eyes searched the dark forest around her.
“Aldrik?” she dared to call into the darkness.
There was no reply.
Vhalla stashed the axe into a saddlebag, gripping a horse’s reigns with white knuckles. The rush of her escape was already fleeting, aches and pains were appearing in its wake. Vhalla mounted the horse, stalling long enough to give someone a chance to come forward, for an explanation to the miracle she had just witnessed.
A flash of red caught her eyes and Vhalla peered into the blackness. The hairs on the back of her neck rose as though there was unseen electricity crackling through the air. Barely discernable from the shadow was the outline of a woman, cowled and mostly hidden by the brush of the woods. Her eyes flashed red for one long moment before vanishing.
THREE DAYS HAD passed since she collapsed in the center of the small town known as Mosant. After riding through the woods with a burning windmill at her back, Vhalla’s energy gave out, and she was forced to rely on the care of the townsfolk. However, she’d forgotten that she’d once met a woman who hailed from the mountain town she now sought shelter in.
Vhalla sat on the opposite side of a table from a woman she’d never expected to see again. Her fingers curled and uncurled around the steaming mug, from which she happily leeched warmth. Wool covered her arms and legs, basic clothing that offered her a deep comfort.
“If you go back, the Senate will jail you.” Tim was a lovely young woman, pretty enough that Vhalla wondered how Tim had managed to masquerade as her. Though, they had all been wearing a thicker coating of grime during the march North.
Vhalla had grown to love her too-slender proportions and less than ideal hair and height. She’d encountered people who had found her beautiful in spite of those facts and had learned to foster her own love for herself by learning what they saw. But Vhalla knew she wasn’t going to win any broad-strokes beauty contests.
Where Vhalla had been cut and carved into harsh lines and a strong presence, Tim had been left to develop naturally to be soft and graceful. Neither of them were wrong, neither right. Simply different.
“They’ve already jailed me,” Vhalla reminded.
“You could flee to the coast. Or live here; no one will ever turn you in. Not after what you did for all the soldiers in the North and especially not after killing Knights of Jadar; they’ve always been a menace to our town. Or, go back to the East, maybe?” Tim suggested.
The offer was heartwarming, and Vhalla appreciated it deeply. But she’d made up her mind while recovering and lying low from her ordeal with the Knights. The days that had passed had given time for messengers to arrive and announce that the Lady Vhalla Yarl, the Windwalker, was wanted for murder of Western lords. Should she be found, she was to be turned in for Imperial justice. Vhalla burst out laughing at the thought and shook her head at the curious look from Tim. One would think they would’ve learned from the first time she’d been falsely accused of murder.
“I need to return to the capital.” Vhalla sipped on her tea. The lemongrass and honey reminded her of summer despite the world beginning its shift to winter.
“The Knights of Jadar are demanding your death.” Tim sighed. “But the messengers said the crown prince decreed that if the Windwalker were to come forward, he would see to it that she received a fair trial.”
Vhalla turned the idea over in her head. Aldrik was protecting her, in his own way. She heard his message loud and clear: Return to me and I will keep you safe.
Her chair scraped against the hard dirt floor as she stood. She walked over to the fire, still nursing the steaming tea. Vhalla watched the flames dance, her mind replaying the night with the burning windmill. She’d looked for the person who started the fire that saved her life. But Vhalla saw no one in her flight through the forest that night.
That wasn’t entirely true. Vhalla remembered the shadowy outline of the woman, the glowing red eyes. But the night was already a hazy memory becoming more dream-like with each passing day. She knew who had to have made the flames, but the logic didn’t add up. Only one person’s fire couldn’t burn her—Aldrik’s. But he was certainly in the South.
How would his fire look to her now? She wondered if his magic would still sparkle for her as it once had. She was certainly no longer the girl who had been lost in rose gardens, enthralled by tongues of flame slithering between his fingers.
“I suppose,” Vhalla whispered, “I’ve run long enough.”
The axe was hidden along with the cuffs within a saddlebag in the corner of the room, the only good idea Schnurr had ever had. Vhalla considered the unassuming bag for a long moment. The longer she had the axe in her possession, the more she realized that she needed to bring it to Victor. He had been the one who had trusted her to bring it South; he’d know what needed to be done to hide or destroy it for good.
“You’re going back?” Tim was surprised, but not that surprised.
“It’s time.” Vhalla would go, but not because she needed a prince to keep her safe. She hadn’t shown the Senate the product of their efforts yet, the weapon they’d forged out of a library apprentice. “I will need something before I ride.”