The Legends of Orkney Page 8

  “Aye. It spreads a poison over the land, tainting everything it touches. The crops were the first to be affected.”

  “What happens next?”

  Teren pulled up his horse and turned to face Sam. “From what is written in history, animals will start to perish. Livestock. Fish. Every living creature will become sickened.”

  “And the people?”

  “They will go mad,” Teren said quietly, then gave his horse a kick and moved on, as if he couldn’t bear to think about it.

  They drew near a farmhouse. A couple stood out front, watching them. There was a cheerlessness about them, as if they knew that ruin and destruction were coming. Sam stopped his horse, curious. The man gave him a long look, then ushered his wife inside their home, shutting the door and, with a loud clank, barring it.

  Sam kicked his horse in the ribs to catch up to Teren and the two dwarves.

  The horses seemed eager to reach Skara Brae, trotting so fast that every bone in Sam’s body felt shaken out of place. As they crested a hill, the land fell away before them. He saw the stone walls of a fortress ahead, red flags flapping in the breeze. Beyond it, the ocean crashed against the stark cliffs guarding the seaward side.

  Teren reined in his horse. “Welcome home, Sam. The people of Skara Brae await you. I sent ahead word of our arrival. Your father was much loved here. You will find it a warm welcome.”

  A curious mix of excitement and dread churned through Sam at the thought of returning home to a place he had no memory of.

  Chapter Twelve

  The riders entered the city through tall wooden gates and found themselves in a wide courtyard. The horses’ shoes clattered on the paving stones, uprooting a flock of pigeons. A crowd of well-wishers jammed the square. They waved small flags and let out a cheer when they saw the group. The flags of red silk bore a white heron, wings outspread, clutching an olive branch in its beak.

  The people were chanting something. It took Sam a moment to realize it was his name. Not Baron. The other one, the one he had apparently been born with.

  Bar-con-ian! Bar-con-ian!

  People reached out to touch him as he rode by. Women patted his legs, tears in their eyes. Brawny men shouted out that they had known his father. A silly grin was plastered on Sam’s face. This was the coolest thing that had ever happened to him. They treated him like a hero.

  The horses stopped in front of the wide stone steps of a palatial building where a group of official-looking people had gathered. A boy ran up and took his reins, helping Sam down before leading his horse away. Sam’s legs were wobbly, but he was too awestruck by the sight in front of him to care.

  “Wow.”

  The assembly of officials appeared in all sizes and colors, including some angry-looking warriors that reminded him of the Umatilla. They seemed to be waiting for Sam to do something. He felt tongue-tied and out of place, suddenly ashamed of how they had cheered for him. The truth was, he wasn’t a hero. That had been his dad.

  Then the crowd began to clap, and one by one, the groups waiting on the steps joined in, until the walls of the city echoed with their cheers. Sam couldn’t help it. He smiled. They clapped harder, and Teren slapped him on the back, then grabbed his hand, thrusting it up in the air victoriously.

  Captain Teren gave him a short bow. “Ready to face them?”

  “Don’t leave my side,” Sam said in a panic.

  “Never, milord. I am sworn to protect you.” He winked, but there was an earnestness to his words that the soldier couldn’t hide. Teren turned to face the assembly of officials and rubbed his hands together. “Right. Introductions are in order. First up are the Falcory.”

  Sam followed him, eyeing the pair of men standing motionless and silent at the end of the line. They looked like the Umatilla, with their long black hair and leather leggings embroidered with colorful beads. When they got closer, Sam gasped. Their noses were shaped like the curved beaks of falcons.

  Teren stopped in front of them. “Samuel, this is Beo, the Falcory representative to the High Council.”

  Nervous, but eager to get it over with, Sam stuck out his hand with a smile. “Nice to meet you.”

  Beo ignored his hand, staring at Sam with flinty eyes that overflowed with suspicion, which was strange, since they had just met. Then, suddenly, Beo grasped Sam’s hand, mashing Sam’s fingers under his.

  Up close, Sam could see Beo’s hardened beak. It curved down slightly, ending in a sharp point. Small silver hooks dangled feathers from his earlobes. Sam’s smile faded as the pressure on his hand increased until he nearly cried out in pain.

  “Welcome home,” Beo finally said, releasing Sam’s hand. A muscle ticked in the warrior’s cheek, as if the words were being dragged from him.

  Sam let out a sigh of relief as blood flowed back into his fingers. Teren pushed Sam along and introduced him to Beo’s brother, Geb. Geb looked scarier than Beo. His hair was cut close to his scalp, revealing a web of crisscrossing scars, as if he had tangled with a wildcat. Geb wasn’t the friendly sort. He grunted once at Sam and folded his arms.

  As they approached the next group, Teren whispered in Sam’s ear, “These are the Balfins.”

  A cluster of somber-looking men in heavy black robes awaited them. All had shaved heads and the same round, scowling faces.

  “Emenor is their representative to the council,” Teren continued. “He’s a nasty piece of work. I don’t think the Balfins should be allowed a seat, what with their alliance with the witches, but your father wanted peace with them.”

  “They take the witches’ side?” Sam’s feet slowed.

  “Aye, the Balfins shelter them on Balfour Island and marry them. In exchange, the Balfins receive trinkets of power.”

  Sam disliked them on sight, but Teren was already introducing him to the Balfin representative.

  “You should not have brought him to Skara Brae,” Emenor said in a low voice, his eyes shifting from Sam to Teren.

  “Emenor, mind your manners,” Teren said lightly, his hand casually moving to the hilt of his sword.

  “It was a mistake, and you know it. He is not safe.” Emenor’s eyes slid over Sam like those of a snake sizing up its prey. “The witches will come for him. That blood will be on your hands.”

  Thankfully, Teren moved him along. “Beware of Emenor,” he warned. “He’s not happy unless he’s plotting something.”

  “Does anyone in this place actually like me?” Sam grumbled.

  Teren stopped, pitching his voice low. “They don’t know what to think, Sam. Your mother is a witch, after all.”

  Teren had a point. Around here, witches were about as popular as the plague. “Okay, who’s next?” Sam said.

  “Next are the Eifalians. They’re the elven folk to the north. They live on the island of Torf-Einnar. I’m pretty sure they don’t hate you.” Teren winked.

  Sam stared at the tall, translucent-skinned men and women. Their oversize eyes were fixed on him as they whispered to one another. The Eifalians were reed-thin and wore long robes of shimmering greens and aquamarine that changed color in the light. Their pale skin glowed faintly as they eyed Sam up and down. But their hair was the most striking, an alabaster white, like the color of the moon on a clear night.

  “Greetings, young master,” the tallest one murmured in a low-pitched, singsong voice. “The Eifalian Kingdom welcomes you back to the Ninth Realm. I am Gael, son of King Einolach, who sends his greetings. This is my wife, Rayan.” A beautiful woman with haunting eyes of luminescent blue smiled kindly at Sam.

  “Welcome home, Samuel. Your father was a good friend to the Eifalians.” She squeezed his hand gently, and Sam smiled, feeling marginally better from the warm greeting.

  Gael closed his eyes and placed his hand on Sam’s head. His scalp tingled under the Eifalian’s touch.

  Rayan elbowed her husband. “Stop reading the boy’s aura, Gael. It isn’t polite.”

  Gael lifted his hand. “You are right, as always, my wif
e.” But his words were terse, and suddenly he didn’t look happy at all.

  At that moment, Sam’s stomach rumbled loudly enough for Rayan to notice.

  “Husband, the boy is famished. He needs refreshments.”

  Gael bowed. “A thousand pardons. Please, enter the Great Hall. Someone will show you to your room.” He swept his hand forward, his long fingers giving off a faint turquoise light.

  Sam looked around for a friendly face, but Beo held Teren’s arm, speaking urgently in his ear. Sam made his way slowly up the stairs, feeling alone and unprotected. At the top, a man stood off to the side, staring intently at Sam with narrowed eyes. He was dressed in long red robes. Anger radiated from him, as if from a furnace. Whoever he was, he was not one of Sam’s fans.

  In his mind, Sam heard the echo of Vor’s prophetic voice: There is a battle raging inside you. Which bloodline will win?

  Sam felt paralyzed with doubt, suddenly feeling the weight of this world upon him. But before he could turn around and head back to Teren, the man in the red robes reached out and grabbed his arm.

  “We need to talk.” He dragged Sam forward, away from the crowd. His hand gripped Sam’s bicep like an iron manacle.

  Thankfully, Rego came to his rescue, butting his head between them and pushing them apart.

  “Apologies, Lord Orrin,” the dwarf said loudly. “Didn’t see you standing there. The boy needs some rest, so, if you’ll pardon us, you can speak to him later.”

  Orrin gave the dwarf a blistering glare but said nothing, tilting his head slightly to signify his permission.

  Rego pushed Sam along through the main doors into the entry of the Great Hall. Ceilings arched high overhead. Twin sets of stone staircases went up both sides, lit by candelabra set into the walls. The floor was a mosaic of black and white tiles. Freshly cut flowers stood on a table. A maid curtsied before hurrying past with platters of what looked like ham. Sam’s stomach rumbled again as he looked longingly after her.

  “Keep walking,” Rego said, shoving him down a long corridor. It was dark; the ceilings were low, lit only by the widely spaced candles. They passed several open rooms, but Rego didn’t stop until they came to a heavy wooden door that he pressed open with one hand, shoving Sam inside with the other.

  “Seriously, you can lay off the pushing,” Sam said, secretly relieved to be out of the spotlight. They were in a large chamber. An ornately carved canopy bed took up one corner. A large wardrobe stood open, a row of crisp white shirts hanging inside. A table had been set with a platter of fresh fruit.

  Rego checked under the bed and behind the curtains, as if he suspected someone might be hiding there, before turning to warn Sam. “You stay away from Orrin. He’s a serpent in disguise.”

  “You mean he’s worse than that Falcory guy who looked like he wanted to punch me? Or that Balfin who said I shouldn’t have come here?” Sam muttered, eyeing the fruit hungrily. There were clusters of plump grapes, and he grabbed a fistful, stuffing them in his mouth.

  Rego grunted. “Your father loved jookberries, too. Seems you have something in common with him.”

  Sam looked at the purplish grapes and put them down, suddenly finding their sweet taste cloying. He settled on a plum and bit into it. It was sweet and juicy, like an Oregon plum from home. Sam sat down, feeling the wear and tear of the past couple days sink in. He propped his boots up on the table, trying to ease the ache in his bones.

  “We’re not in a barn, boy.” Rego used the point of his sword to knock Sam’s feet off the table. “So don’t act uncivilized.”

  Sam couldn’t do anything right for this dwarf. “What do you want from me?” he griped, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “You brought me to this medieval place and have told me nothing about what I’m supposed to do. People treat me like I’m some kind of hero or hate me on sight, and all you do is yell at me!”

  Rego waited till Sam was done, then sheathed his sword, letting out a sigh. “I suppose you’ve a right to be upset; it’s your parents who created this mess. It’s not fair you’re in the middle of it, but there’s nothing to be done about that now.”

  “When am I going home?” Sam asked, feeling a spell of homesickness.

  “This is your home now, lad.”

  Sam shook his head, slamming his hand down on the table. “Orkney is not my home. I don’t belong here. And my friends don’t, either. We should be going after them. Those witches killed my father—doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  Rego glared at him from across the table. “Your father cared more about the safety of this realm than about his own life. As for your friends, I told you, Endera took them for a reason. Try to rescue them, and you’ll play right into her hands.”

  Sam stood up abruptly, knocking over his chair. He was done being bossed around by this dwarf. “Well, I’m going after them!” he shouted, feeling his temper soar. “And you can’t stop me. I’ll get Teren to help me.”

  Rego drew a dagger from his waist and slammed it into the wooden table, spearing Sam’s half-eaten plum.

  “You go right ahead.” He leaned in, his whiskered face inches from Sam’s. “Captain Teren will willingly follow you to his death, the same way his father and twenty other men followed your dad to their deaths. They think you’re a hero come to save them. So you take Teren, and you lead him to his death, and see how it feels then.”

  Sam’s anger deflated like a popped balloon.

  “I can’t just abandon them,” he said, righting his chair and slumping down in it. “Howie’s my best friend, and Keely . . .” The words dried up, but he pressed on. “They didn’t ask for this.”

  Rego sighed sympathetically. “No, they didn’t. But they’re in it now. You have to make a choice, just like your father. What do you care about more—your friends or the safety of your realm?”

  “It’s not my realm,” Sam protested.

  A knock at the door interrupted whatever the dwarf was going to say next. A maid curtsied, apologizing for the intrusion. She carried a jug of hot water and a change of clothes.

  Rego took the opportunity to hightail it for the door. “We’ll talk more about this later,” he said, pausing on the threshold. “I promised Captain Teren a word before supper.” And then he ducked out, leaving Sam feeling more frustrated and confused than ever.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Keely pressed her face against the bars of her cell, trying to see into Howie’s. He was imprisoned across the corridor, behind a wooden door, but she could just make out his body through the barred window. He was sprawled on a thin layer of hay. He hadn’t spoken since a pair of brutes dressed in black armor had tossed them in here.

  “Howie, answer me. Are you okay?” she repeated for the tenth time.

  Howie didn’t move. His eyes were open, looking at the ceiling. Every so often, he blinked, his only signal that he was still alive.

  “Come on, Howie, snap out of it. We have to make a plan to escape. Sam’s going to need our help.”

  He blinked once but didn’t move.

  “Or maybe you don’t care about Sam. You know, your best friend? The one who always has your back? The one who protects you from bullies like Ronnie Polk?”

  That got Howie moving. He sat up. Clumps of hay stuck to his stray curls. His glasses were tilted sideways on his nose. He pushed them into place, breathing in deeply before he spoke. “I can’t protect Sam.”

  Keely breathed a sigh of relief. It was good to have company. “Sure you can. We both can. We can do it together.”

  He laughed. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a coward. That’s why Ronnie picks on me. He knows I won’t fight back.”

  “So prove him wrong. Prove them all wrong. Help get us out of here.”

  But Howie sat frozen, staring at the wall.

  Keely gripped the bars on the door. “Howie, say something.”

  “Quiet,” he said.

  “I’m not going to stay quiet. Sam needs us.”

  “Rats,” he said,
scrabbling back on all fours. “Giant rats.”

  That’s when Keely heard it: a scratching noise coming from the stone walls of her cell. She turned slowly. Howie was right. Giant rats had crawled out of some dark corner. They advanced on her, their small paws brushing their whiskers, as if they were assessing her. They weren’t ordinary rats. Their teeth were long and sharp, their bodies the size of a small cat’s.

  “Howie, what are these things?” she shouted.

  “Why’re you asking me?” Howie shouted back.

  Keely searched for a weapon. The only thing in her cell was a wooden bucket. She grabbed it by the handle and swung it at the closest rat as it tried to run at her. She sent it flying against the wall. It hit with a satisfying thump, but another rat moved in, scurrying across the stone floor to bite down on the soft flesh of her ankle.

  She yelped in pain and heard Howie do the same.

  More rats appeared, flowing across the floor. Keely crouched down, backing up against the wall. She kicked at one and threw the bucket at a bunch. She put her arms up, fearing they were about to run her over, when they stopped and sniffed the air, turning to fade away into their hidden nests.

  Keely lowered her arms. Outside her door, Endera’s eyes glittered at her.

  “How do you like my rathos?” she asked.

  Keely grabbed the bucket and threw it at the bars, enjoying the look of surprise on Endera’s face. “Where’s Sam?” Keely demanded.

  “Sam is tied up at the moment, but he’ll be here soon,” Endera quipped.

  “When he gets here, he’s going to kick your butt.” That came from Howie. Keely smiled at him over Endera’s shoulder.

  He winked at Keely. “My buddy Sam is the most righteous dude I know. He’s not scared of you. Even if you are wicked-ugly.”

  Endera just laughed. “I shall count the minutes till he arrives to save you. Until then, enjoy my hospitality.” With a swirl of her skirts, she stalked off.

  Keely looked across the hall at Howie. His whole demeanor had changed. His face was still pale, but his jaw clenched as he spoke. “Don’t you worry, Keely-pie. Sam’s going to come for us, and when he does, you just watch. These witches are going to wish they’d never been born.”