Winters last reign, p.1
Winter's Last Reign, page 1
Winter’s Last Reign
By Laura Bickle
Winter’s Last Reign
Laura Bickle
Published by Syrenka Publishing LLC
Copyright © 2020, Laura Bickle
Cover art by Danielle Fine
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Aside from brief quotations for media coverage and reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the author’s permission. Thank you for supporting authors and a diverse, creative culture by purchasing this book and complying with copyright laws.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
I. | The Rune Othalan: Inheritance
II. | The Rune Mannaz: Man
III. | The Rune Gebo: The Gift
IV. | The Rune Thurisaz: The Giant
V. | The Rune Raidho: Journey on Horseback
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
NOVELS BY LAURA BICKLE
I.
The Rune Othalan: Inheritance
Her father was dead, and nothing would ever be the same again.
Astrid knelt before his glass coffin, lying in state at Solveig Castle. The stone floor radiated cold through her velvet dress as she pressed her hands to the glass. Her father, the king, lay inside, his long grey beard braided with gems and ribbons. His expression was serene, as serene as he’d been in life. He’d been tranquil even when the queen had died a decade before, as if he and loss were old friends. His hands were folded over the hilt of the sword placed on his chest. Those scarred and weathered hands had known both war and long stretches of peace. They had held children and axes as they guided Solveig to a prosperous era. And they were still now, never to move again.
Deep piles of bouquets of azaleas, orchids, and tassel flowers surrounded the coffin. For days, mourners had trailed through the Great Hall of the castle. Servants swept the flowers to the back of the hall each day, where they formed a fragrant, wilting mountain. Astrid thought that the people of Solveig loved him almost as much as she had. They didn’t really know him, though, his habits of sketching and drinking his soup a little messily, staining his beard. But they loved him, all the same. The whole country ached with Astrid, and she found some comfort in that.
But she felt alone. She pressed her forehead against the glass and sobbed. She would never again hear her father humming over his breakfast or shoot arrows at targets with him in the summertime fields. She had loved him, and he was gone.
Footsteps echoed behind her, and Astrid did not turn. She knew those footsteps. They approached her, and she finally looked up to see her younger brother, Hakon, standing before the coffin. He wasn’t looking at their father, though. He stared at the crown placed on top of the coffin. The crown of Solveig had been wrought centuries ago by dragons, serpentine gold coils wound around a circlet, with teeth reaching toward the sky. Dragon eyes rendered in opals gazed out into the empty hall, shimmering in the dim light. No human artisan could create anything so sinuous and beautiful.
Astrid straightened, but she allowed her pale silver hair to curtain her face. “Have you come to mourn?”
“We all mourn,” Hakon said. But he had not shed a single tear from those cold blue eyes. “But you and I have the future of the kingdom to discuss.”
“The future can wait,” Astrid said. “Our father would grant us the grace to mourn.”
“The world moves on, despite grief. Our enemies see this void in power and plot against us. Solveig needs a leader.”
Astrid frowned. Their father had made peace along their borders. There were no marauders pulling boats up on their beaches. Hakon, as usual, saw enemies behind every shadow. Enemies and opportunities to climb to power.
She climbed to her feet to look him in the eye. “I will assume the throne, as Father wanted.” And that was the law: the oldest sibling ascended to the throne.
Hakon’s eyes narrowed. “Dear sister. You are not qualified. You have not married.”
Astrid’s back stiffened, and her tone was harsh. “This is not a time for courtship.”
“The law says that the heir to the throne must take a royal consort. It is very clear in that respect.” Hakon smirked at her.
“Ah. I should have a marriage like yours?” she snapped. Hakon had taken a young wife from a neighboring country a year ago and cheated on her every opportunity he got. Everyone knew of his infidelities and whispered sympathetically about his wife.
“You have two choices,” Hakon said with a shrug. “Get married and take the crown or abdicate to me.”
Astrid would never consent to a marriage of convenience, and he knew it. She’d rejected every offer of courtship from every eligible nobleman on the continent. She’d even turned down the women who approached her. But Hakon didn’t know why she remained aloof from romantic entanglements. And she would never tell him.
Astrid gritted her teeth. She would not let him have the throne. He was cruel and selfish, and would not carry on their father’s legacy. He would empty the kingdom’s coffers for his own selfish pleasures and drive the kingdom into the ground.
“There is a third choice,” she said, her voice low as a growl. “An heir may gain the favor of the dragon and claim the throne.”
Hakon burst into laughter, echoing with such inappropriate volume in the hall. She stared him down, and his laughter eventually subsided.
“You can’t be serious,” he said. “The last dragon of Solveig, even if it still exists, would devour you in an instant.”
Astrid lifted her a chin and said quietly, “I have never failed in battle, nor in negotiations. I will be victorious.”
Hakon shook his head, smiling. “You’ll be dead, and I’ll be king.”
BRANDR MOUNTAIN WAS forbidden, and for good reason.
Astrid had gazed upon the mountain through the castle windows every day of her life. It was the tallest mountain in the range that encompassed the horizon, always shrouded in snow and clouds. The snow never melted, not even in summer, and no one dared approach it. Those who tried were simply never heard from again. Though the terrain was treacherous and the temperatures extreme, it was always assumed that the last dragon of Solveig did not appreciate intruders in its stronghold.
Not that anyone knew much about the last dragon. Deep in Solveig’s history, dragons had been so numerous that they darkened the skies like a murmuration of starlings in spring. Their numbers had dwindled over the centuries, and it had been decades since one had last been spotted. Then, a huntsman would bring tales of one flying over the forest, or a large shadow would fall on the clouds of the mountain. But there had been no sightings for years now.
But Astrid knew that the last dragon was real. When she’d been a teenager, she’d been riding in the valley below the mountain range when she saw a white shadow skimming over the river. At first, she thought it was a swan. But the white shape loomed larger as it drew close, sweeping down over her like a thundercloud. A brilliant blue eye grazed her, and white scales churned in reflected sunlight. Her horse panicked and thundered away, with Astrid clinging to the reins. But she looked back over her shoulder, marveling at the winged lizard that banked and rode an updraft into the clouds.
She had to believe, so many years later, that the dragon was still there. And that she could win its favor.
Astrid stood at the foot of the mountain, staring up at the forbidding rocky terrain. The peak had vanished into low-lying clouds, the landscape fading into shades of white.
She tugged her hood tighter around her face. She was dressed in her warrior’s clothes: furs, thick boots, and gloves. Silver gauntlets and a breastplate were tucked beneath the furs. Her sword rested on her hip, and her bow and quiver on her shoulder. A pack on her back held her other necessities. Astrid was no stranger to the wilderness, but this challenge dwarfed all the others she’d faced.
She began climbing at the foot of the mountain, pacing herself. The sun burned through the clouds by afternoon, a pale-yellow coin in the sky. She kept moving, pausing only to drink melted snow and nibble on bits of moss clinging to stones. She shot a rabbit just before dusk and found a flat spot to make camp. It was a scenic spot, a flat rocky outcropping that showed the valley below in sunset. She built a fire and ate as she gazed out at it, at the kingdom that should rightfully be hers. Green valleys and rivers snaked through rolling hills and black forests. Birds speckled the sky, moving home to roost. In the far distance, she could see the castle, painted red in the sunset.
Her father’s kingdom was peaceful and prosperous. She was meant to carry on his legacy. She felt a pang of guilt. The easiest thing to do would be to take a husband among the well-meaning men who sought her favor. If she genuinely wanted the best for her kingdom, why wouldn’t she do that...and not risk her life on this quest?
She pulled a leather pouch from her pocket. Her mother had given her this when she was a girl, a set of runes carved in smooth river stones. Thinking about her journey, she shook them and grabbed out a handful, casting them out onto the snow. Perhaps they would tell her what she would face with the dragon.
Five runes sat in the snow before her. She picked them up one by one and turned them over in her hand. Othalan, signifying inheritance, was firs
She frowned when she saw the next rune, Thurisaz. Thurisaz was the rune of giants, suggesting chaos and strife. Raidho was last, predicting a journey on horseback. She had brought no horse with her to climb the mountain. How much farther would she have to go to find this dragon?
Chewing her lower lip, she decided that this journey would be longer than she anticipated. And more treacherous. But she was determined to ask the dragon for his favor, and not enter a marriage of convenience.
She wrapped a blanket around herself and lay down in a bed of moss. She thought that her mother would have understood her reluctance. Her mother had told her to always hold out for love. And that was how it had happened for her parents; her father had remained stubbornly single until he met her mother on a hunting expedition. Her mother had brought down a stag and was dragging it back to her camp when her father saw her. Her father had been tracking that stag for days, and their meeting had been something of kismet.
Surely there was a man, noble or common, in all this vast world who would be a good match for her?
As the stars prickled out in the canopy of the night, Astrid fell into dreams...dreams of the man she had vowed she’d marry, a man she’d never met.
ASTRID GAZED OUT ACROSS the grey sea. She was far out from shore, so far that the waves had calmed and slowly rocked the wooden boat. The square mainsail was down, and the carved dragon figurehead on the stempost gazed out upon an endless horizon. This place seemed a liminal world, away from the conflict and expectations of land.
Astrid wrapped her furs around herself and gazed upon her traveling companion.
A man sat in the boat, facing her, tending his fishing line. The wind tousled his blonde hair as his long fingers worked the line. His chiseled face was kissed with a hint of sunburn, and his blue eyes crinkled when he gazed at her.
“I’ve done it now, Viktor,” Astrid said, pressing her elbows on her knees. She placed her chin in her hands and stared morosely across the ocean to shore. From here, she could glimpse her small house, where she lived with the love of her life.
“And what have you done this time?” he said, his voice teasing. “Have you bested your brother at swordplay again?”
She shook her head. “Father is dead.”
Viktor’s hands stilled on the line, and he reached for her hand. “I’m so sorry, Astrid.”
Her throat swelled with tears. “I miss him. But he had a good death.”
Viktor leaned forward in the boat to wipe the tears from her face. “He was a good king. And a good father to you.” He would know. She had dreamed of him since she was a young woman, telling him all her secrets and hopes. In her dreams, they’d built a house and a life together, isolated, far from the castle and the responsibilities of ruling. Here, she was free.
She nodded. “He was everything.” She blew out her breath... “And now, I mean to become queen.”
Viktor’s gaze was heavy on her. “You mean to take a husband.”
Her heart broke when he said that. “No, no.” She shook her head so violently that her hair slapped her cheek. “I’m not going to marry.”
“Astrid.” He reached out to embrace her. He smelled of winter and frost. “It’s okay. I understand.”
“I won’t marry anyone but you,” she whispered against his chest. “I can’t.”
He leaned back to cup her face in his hands. “You can’t let your brother have the crown. I would never leave you, even if you got married.”
“No,” she said.
“I mean, I’ve suggested poisoning him in the past...” He smiled slyly, and Astrid never knew if he really meant for her to take that suggestion.
“No. I’m going to ask the dragon for his favor.”
Viktor’s brows drew together. “Oh, Astrid. No one survives that mountain.”
She sucked in her breath and stared at him. “I’m going to ask him for his favor. I’m going to ask it, get it, and carry on my father’s legacy.”
Viktor sat back, holding her hands. His expression was bemused. “You have all the makings of a legendary warrior queen, Astrid. And you should be queen. But don’t risk yourself like this. Not for me. Not for a dream.”
Astrid pulled her hand away and pressed her palm to his warm cheek. “I won’t betray you, Viktor. Not ever.”
She leaned forward and kissed him. The mist had condensed on his lips, and he tasted like melted snow.
ASTRID WOKE UP WITH snow dusting her face, her cheek pressed to the moss. She sat up, brushing snowflakes from her braided hair. Her heart ached, as it always did after dreaming of Viktor. She so much wanted him to be real, not a figment of her imagination. She’d dreamed of him since she was a young woman, and his presence haunted her nights like a ghost. She measured every man she met to him and found them all wanting.
Perhaps that wasn’t fair. She could surely find a good man in the kingdom and be happy, securing the future of the kingdom. Couldn’t she? She felt selfish for risking her future, and the future of Solveig, on this errand to gather the dragon’s favor. She should climb down the mountain, serve her people, and be content. Despite what Viktor said, she was certain that once she married another, Viktor would vanish from her dreams forever.
But she couldn’t. Whenever Viktor arrived in her dreams, she ached for him in a way that she ached for no one else. They had the life she always wanted in her dreams: fishing, walking along the beach, tending to the house. It was a simple, beautiful life they’d built together. If Viktor didn’t exist, then...then she would be alone. That would be enough.
If the dragon didn’t kill her. She frowned, drawing her hood around her neck. She’d worn her breastplate and gauntlets, armored against mortal threats. But the dragon could incinerate her with a whisper. And it had done such things before. From the generations before her father, a story was passed down of a dispossessed relative who had gone to seek the dragon’s favor. After he presumably arrived at the mountain, ash rained down on the valley. And that contender for the throne was never seen again.
It was still dark, and the shifting green and blue Northern Lights played over the snow, rendering the mountain a scene from a fairy kingdom. When she was a little girl, her father had told her that they were reflected light from the shield and swords of the Valkyrie. Astrid had gone to sleep feeling both awed and protected, knowing that the mighty women fought monsters in the sky.
But she was soon to face a monster of her own. And the sooner she did so, the sooner her fate would be resolved.
She gathered her pack, doused her fire, and began to climb. There was sufficient light to see by, with the flashes of the Valkyries’ armor reflected against the snow, brighter than a full moon night. Wind whipped snow in her face, and she put her head down and climbed. The goat-trails were steep and narrow, and on more than one occasion, Astrid grasped handholds and ledges no broader than her shoe. She clung to the rock face with all her might, progressing slowly, determined to meet her fate in one piece. It would serve no one if she fell to her death. Her hands became frozen in the shapes of claws, and her cheeks stung before they became numb and unfeeling. Her eyelashes froze to her cheek, and she rubbed her face against her shoulder to separate them.
As her muscles ached, she climbed. She ascended until the aurorae faded and the sky began to lighten in the east. By then, the peak of the mountain was in sight, sharp and jagged as a tooth against the violet sky.
Astrid squinted up at it. She had no idea where the dragon’s nest was. Did dragons make nests, like other flying creatures? She presumed so, that it would be in a safe place not visible to the casual observer. Perhaps underground.
She stared into the shadows with a sharp eye, searching for some place that a dragon might call home. As she moved, she found bits of goat hooves, still sticky with blood. Her hand rested on her sword hilt. She was getting close.
