Witch wars, p.1
Witch Wars, page 1
Past Praise for the Witches of Orkney series
Praise for The Blue Witch:
2019 American Fiction Awards:
Best Cover Design: Children’s Books—Finalist
2019 American Fiction Awards:
Juvenile Fiction—Winner
2019 Readers’ Favorite Awards
Gold Medal Winner in Children’s Mythology/Fairy Tale
2019 Moonbeam: Gold Medal Winner
in Pre-Teen Fiction/Fantasy
“An enchanting new book full of magical mischief and adventure, Alane Adams’s The Blue Witch is guaranteed to please.”
—Foreword Clarion Reviews
“Bright, brave characters star in this exhilarating tale of magic and mystical creatures.”
—Kirkus Reviews
Praise for The Rubicus Prophecy:
“Adams’ concise prose delivers a quick read that’s packed with colorful characters and subplots … Returning illustrator Stroh’s bold black-and-white artwork, as in the previous book, perfectly captures the author’s stunningly detailed world.”
—Kirkus Reviews
Copyright © 2020 Alane Adams
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Published by SparkPress, a BookSparks imprint,
A division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC
Phoenix, Arizona, USA, 85007
www.gosparkpress.com
Published 2020
ISBN: 978-1-68463-063-9 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-68463-064-6 (e-bk)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020907168
Illustrations by Jonathan Stroh
Interior design by Tabitha Lahr
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of certain individuals.
To My Sutton Rae
Prologue
Asgard
Ancient Days
Iduna gathered her apples, carefully plucking them from the sacred tree. As the goddess of youth and caretaker of the apples that gave the gods their immortality, she was tasked with harvesting the fruit daily and carrying a basketful to the hall of the gods to hand out.
As she made her way to the grand hall where the gods waited, a familiar youth fell into step beside her. For days now, everywhere Iduna went, the same charming young man had appeared out of nowhere, retrieving her handkerchief when she dropped it, gripping her elbow when she was jostled in the marketplace, and offering to carry her basket of apples. It might have bothered her if he wasn’t so charming.
“We meet again,” he said with his cheeky grin.
“Indeed,” she answered. “What brings you to the city of the gods?”
“I’m hoping to apprentice to the god of archery. Ull is training me to shoot an arrow through the eye of a gnat.”
Iduna smiled at the thought. The lad seemed too slight to wield a bow. She should shoo him away, but honestly, she rather enjoyed his company. It wasn’t often anyone spoke to her, and it got lonely tending to her tree all alone.
“Humans aren’t usually allowed in Asgard,” she replied. “How did you come to be invited?”
“My father is famous for making the best bows in all of Midgard,” he boasted. “He sent me to bring one to Ull as a gift in return for my training.”
Iduna’s foot hit a rock, and she tumbled, spilling her basket of precious apples across the paving stones.
“Here, let me help.” The young man hurried to gather them up in his shirttail, then returned to dump them in her basket.
“Thank you,” she said, nursing her stinging palms. “I don’t know how I tripped.” She looked around, but there was no sign of a stone out of place. “I guess I’m clumsy today. What did you say your name was?”
The young man sketched a short bow. “Vertulious, at your service.” He held one of her sacred apples in his hands, frowning as he polished it on his shirt. “I’m afraid this one is bruised, surely unfit for a god. You don’t mind if I keep it, do you?”
All good humor left her. “Those belong to the gods.” She held her hand out, suddenly wary of the sly look in his eyes.
He dropped the apple onto her palm. “Well, then you should keep a close eye on them. You wouldn’t want one to go missing.” He tapped his fingers to his forehead and spun around, cheerily whistling as he marched off.
Iduna watched him go, a slight shiver running up her spine. She carefully counted the apples in her basket, relieved when she accounted for them all.
Vertulious could barely contain his excitement. After so many years of searching, he had found the sacred garden and the goddess who oversaw it. His hand went to the round globe in his cloak pocket. She hadn’t seen him tuck it away as he’d gathered the spilled fruit, replacing the one he’d taken with an ordinary apple. One god would not gain the customary life-restoring powers the apples offered—instead he or she would experience mild discomfort, perhaps a headache or an ache in their bones, and then would partake of another magical apple tomorrow and forget all about it.
While he would harvest everything there was to know about this apple. Every element. Every ingredient. Until he unlocked its secrets.
Eager to get back to his laboratory, Vertulious was making his way to the Bifrost bridge, the passageway back to Midgard, when a sharp voice called out.
“Say, boy, what are you doing in the city of the gods?”
Vertulious held still, reminding himself he was but a hapless youth. “Nothing, your godness.” He turned, and his tongue grew thick as he took in the forbidding figure of Thor, god of thunder and Son of Odin. He was standing in his carriage pulled by his two brawny goats, their wicked horns as thick as a man’s arm and curving back to sharp points. His famed hammer, Mjolnir, was strapped to his side. Around his waist he wore his Belt of Strength, and his famed gauntlets—large golden gloves—encased his hands.
“I’ve seen you hanging around here for a few days,” the god said, “but no one seems to know who you are or why you are here.”
Vertulious bowed low. “It is an honor to be in your presence. I was sent by my father to bring a gift to Ull in hopes he would apprentice me, but he found my talents lacking, so I am going home.”
Thor’s frown relaxed a tad. “Ull is known to be difficult. I am sorry you wasted a journey.”
Vertulious kicked at a loose pebble. “It’s okay. I have been a disappointment to my father since I was born. This will not change anything.” He backed away, hoping Thor would leave it be, but the annoying god had a soft heart.
“Perhaps you could apprentice with me. My servant Thialfi has gone home to tend to his herd. I am in need of someone to polish my hammer until he returns.” He tapped the heavy weapon.
Vertulious eyed it greedily, wondering if it would be worth stealing, but he let the idea go. Possessing the power of Thor’s hammer would not get him what he desired, but Thor would expect him to agree.
“It would be an honor,” he said with a bow. “I can think of no one more powerful than the mighty god Thor. I will go home and tell my father and arrange to return.”
“Come. You may ride with me. I have business in the land of men. It is a long journey down the Bifrost bridge for a human.”
Vertulious bowed again and sat on the back of the chariot, dangling his legs as the god raced down the rainbow bridge back to Midgard, grateful Thor couldn’t see the grin that split his face.
After promising to meet again in three days’ time, Vertulious hurried away into the woods, letting himself age back to his normal self. With the transformation came the aches and pains that riddled his old body. By the time he reached his lab, night had fallen, and his bones were weary, but he lit an oil lamp, too excited to sleep.
Plucking the apple from his pocket, he placed it on the table. He waved a hand over it, and it lifted, spinning slowly. He inhaled deeply, savoring the magic that oozed from the red globe.
Finally, the formula to eternal life was in his grasp—the greatest spell an alchemist could perform. All he had to do was unlock the secrets of this simple fruit. First things first, he would have to isolate each element that made up the apple’s potent magic.
He dared cut the precious fruit open and took a bite. Energy zinged through him, fueling him with vigor as he worked through the night, taking careful notes. In the skin, he found traces of sulfire and radion. In the stem, hints of lizardine. He removed the seeds and ground them down to a paste, pleased to find vanadium and oullium. All plentiful elements—but one element eluded him. A faint green sparkle in the flesh of the apple itself.
Then he remembered a small green stone he had found one day in his travels. He rummaged through his shelves, tossing containers aside until he found the faintly glowing bottle. He blew away the layer of dust.
Turnium. So rare he had only ever found this small pebble.
Pleased, he placed the ingredients in a cauldron and began reciting the transformation spell, but no amount of magic would change them into the sacred fruit. He needed a source of power—one so great it came from the gods themselves. But what?
His thoughts were interrupted by a knocking on his door. He opened it to find dawn had broken. Rubicus stood there, one hand to his jaw.
“Where have you been hiding yourself, Verty?” the he-witch blustered, pushing his way in. “My tooth has
“You know how it is. An alchemist’s work is never finished.”
“What are you working on?” Rubicus eyed the scattered ingredients curiously.
“A cure for the pox,” Vertulious drawled, earning a roll of the eyes from the he-witch. “Really, I’m quite busy.”
“This can’t wait. You’ll never guess who is roaming the woods—the high and mighty Thor and two Valkyrie warriors. They’re looking for a boy who dared steal something from them.”
Vertulious’s blood went cold. “Are they now?”
“Yes. Please, Verty. My tooth is killing me.”
Vertulious thought desperately. He couldn’t lose his work, not when he was so close. It could take him years to find a source of power to complete the spell—maybe decades. He needed time—time he didn’t have. His mortal body was failing him even as his mind remained sharp.
If only there was a way to preserve his mind until he had the necessary tools … and then a thought came to him. Yes. That is what he would do. “I can fix your tooth. I have just the thing.”
Rubicus took a seat, and Vertulious rolled the small stone between his thumb and finger as he muttered a spell to soften it. Reaching back into Rubicus’s mouth, he shoved the turnium into the rotted tooth, sealing it in place.
“Better?”
Rubicus worked his jaw. “Amazing. You’re a genius, Verty.”
As soon as the he-witch was gone, Vertulious threw some things into a bag. There was still a chance he could flee before the god of thunder descended. At least for now, the turnium was safe.
He was just reaching for his spellbook when a pounding sounded on his door. Before he could answer, the door blew open, splintering off its hinges. Thor stood in the entry, his hammer clenched in his fist.
“You stole one of my father’s apples.”
Vertulious wanted to lie, but the remains of the apple were scattered over the table. Behind Thor, the fair Iduna eyed him accusingly, along with a pair of fierce-looking Valkyrie warriors in their golden regalia, gripping swords.
“It was one apple. Surely the gods can spare a bit of immortality in the name of science,” he quipped, shrugging his shoulders.
Thor spun the hammer in his hand, the metal head a blur. “You have underestimated my father. He does not like to share. Not one apple. Ever. Prepare to die.” He raised the hammer and threw it, sending it spinning straight for Vertulious.
Only the hammer went right through him. Vertulious vanished, changing into a wisp of energy that floated in the air above Thor’s head, and then zinged into the open spellbook on the table.
Chapter 1
Large flakes of snow drifted lazily from an iron sky, covering the Tarkana swamps in a winter blanket. Abigail ignored the cold, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her cloak as she marched along. This was all her fault, she reminded herself for the millionth time. All of it. The return of that horrible he-witch Vertulious. The demise of Endera’s mother. The threat of war hanging over everyone’s head. If only she had never picked up that stupid spellbook.
She doubled her pace, clutching her book bag over her shoulder. The worst part had been facing Endera. The witchling had been ordered to return to class after days locked away in her room, but the pain on her face was etched deep. She wouldn’t even look at Abigail—staring past her as if she were invisible.
It didn’t matter that Hugo insisted Abigail shouldn’t blame herself. Hugo was wrong.
Abigail paused, watching her breath fog in the wintry air. The swamps were eerily quiet. Gassy burps erupted out of the ground, shifting clumps of snow. Shreeks nested in the trees, eyeing her with red eyes but not daring to spread their wings lest they freeze.
Two months had passed since the night Vertulious returned, and so much had changed it made Abigail’s head spin.
War.
That was all anyone ever talked about, and Abigail was sick of it. Already, details of older witchlings had been sent off on secret missions. There had been no actual battles yet, just rumors that grew wilder and wilder, but it was only a matter of time.
She continued on until she broke through the trees and stood on the edge of a bluff overlooking the sea. Waves crashed against the rocks below. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out the leather-bound book that had caused so much trouble. The spellbook was empty now, the pages blank. Abigail hefted it in her hands, waiting to see if she felt anything, but it no longer had the power to call to her.
It didn’t make her hate it any less.
She raised it over her head and threw it over the edge, watching it spin through the air. It hit the water with a satisfying splash and then sank from sight. Relief washed over her. She stared out at the horizon, wishing she could see the sails of a familiar Orkadian warship.
Robert was long gone. Never to return to their island. Never to face the friends who had betrayed him.
“I miss him too.”
She didn’t turn, unsurprised Hugo had followed her. “Do you think he’s still angry at us?”
“He has every reason to be.”
They were talking about Robert Barconian, of course—the one-time friend they had abandoned when he’d called on them to stand for him. Abigail had wanted to take his side that horrible night Vertulious had returned, but Madame Vex had silenced her, reminding her of her duty to the coven.
“If Emenor hadn’t practically throttled me, I would have spoken up, you know,” Hugo said.
“Me too.” She sighed. “Do you suppose we’ll ever see him again?”
“On the other side of a battlefield perhaps.”
Her chest tightened at the thought. She turned to face Hugo. He wore the black uniform of the Balfin Boys’ Brigade, even though she knew he hated it. Fresh bruises marked his face. The other boys still picked on him for preferring science over brigade training, but he didn’t complain. “Why did you follow me?”
“I’ve been thinking. About the vision Calla’s mother had.”
Calla’s mother was a witch named Calista who preferred to take the form of a mermaid. “About how if we go to war, the gods will erase this place as if it never existed?”
“Yes. Do you think it’s true?”
“Odin brought these islands here. He can just as easily get rid of them.”
“But what about the people?” Hugo protested. “Doesn’t he care about them?”
She shrugged. “Probably. I don’t know.”
Hugo sighed. “I wish things could go back to the way they were.”
“That’s never going to happen as long as Vertulious is here,” she said bitterly. “He’s determined to rule Orkney. He has the entire coven hanging on his every word.”
“Like Safina used to hang on yours.”
Pain needled Abigail. Safina, once her sweet protégé, now refused to speak to her—becoming Endera’s pet instead.
She turned to stare back out at the cold sea. “Safina’s misled. Like the rest of the coven, she’s put her faith in the wrong person. Endera doesn’t care about her any more than Vertulious cares about us. He’ll destroy anything that stands in his way.”
“So what are we going to do about it?”
“We?” She looked sideways at him. “What can we do? Vertulious is too powerful by far.”
“So we stand by and let him start a war that will destroy this place and everyone in it?”
Abigail planted her hands on her hips. “What would you have us do, Hugo? I’m a witch. When it mattered most, I turned my back on a friend to be loyal to my coven.”
“Proving what?”
“That my heart is made of stone.”
He stared at her as though she’d grown an extra head. “I know this has been hard, Abigail. Losing your mother all over again. Seeing Melistra destroyed and having Endera blame you.”
“She’s right to blame me—if I’d never been born, none of this would have happened.” Her hand strayed to her pocket, searching for the soothing object she carried.
“Maybe … but the fact is you were born. Your father was a beautiful star. And your mother loved you so much she came back to save you.” Hugo drew her hand out and uncurled her fingers. A small white stone nestled in her palm: a single teardrop from her mother. “This stone represents her love for you,” he said quietly.
