Water's Wrath (Air Awakens Series Book 4) (9 page)

That much was proven true as they arrived at the windmill. A tired-looking village woman came out to greet them, and Schnurr wasted no time putting his sword through her eye. Vhalla stared at the gaping hole the blade left behind in the woman’s face as the Knights untied their prisoner. War had taken its toll, and she was beginning to struggle to feel anything toward the death of innocents.

The windmill had one entrance up a short flight of stairs, a place horses couldn’t go. Schnurr decreed that she was too valuable to leave outside, so Vhalla was finally untied and carried inside. She tried to find her legs, to stand on her own, but after nearly a week of being stuck in a saddle, they were useless from stiffness and sores.

They threw her unceremoniously atop bags of grain. The dust sent her dry throat into a coughing fit. But when she could breathe again, Vhalla took solace in the smell of the wheat. It reminded her of home in the fall, when the barn was full; it gave her some measure of comfort in spite of her newly conflicting feelings about her upbringing.

She waited in silence as the men settled. They relaxed, talking and laughing. Schnurr had forbidden a fire given the dry contents of the windmill, and Vhalla knew that meant they would not stay up late and instead tuck underneath blankets to fight off the mountain chill.

Vhalla lay unmoving as the last of them began to settle. She counted to a thousand and listened for any indication that any were still awake before sliding off her sacks of grain. Vhalla kept her wrists close so that the shackles wouldn’t clank together.

She crept through the dim moonlight, holding her breath. She’d get one chance. Schnurr had made it quite clear that while he wouldn’t kill her, he could do a laundry list of other horrible things that would make her wish she was dead. If this attempt failed, Vhalla had no doubt he would be starting at the top of that list.

Vhalla stood over the sleeping man, debating if she should try for the saddlebag he clutched in his sleep—for the key she knew would be in there alongside the axe, or if she should take his sword and slit his throat first. Vhalla glanced at his weapon. Drawing it was likely to make enough sound that someone would wake. She crouched down and reached out slowly.

The man shifted and Vhalla stiffened, but he didn’t waken. Her fingers wormed their way through the flap of the saddlebag, feeling within. The crystals on the shackles almost burned her skin as her fingers brushed against the axe, and Vhalla winced. It was as if they waged a magical war with each other and her flesh was caught in-between.

Reaching forward, Vhalla continued her slow rummage. She was about to give up when she touched something iron and distinctly key-like. Her breath wavered with the rush of anticipation of removing the cuffs. Like a viper, fingers closed suddenly around her elbow, tight enough to pop bones, and Vhalla met Schnurr’s wide eyes.

“You are a bold little cur,” he growled.

Vhalla gripped the key and tugged herself free. Schnurr was moving as well, and Vhalla fumbled with her hoped-for salvation, but she couldn’t quite get the right angle of the key and lock while shackled. He lunged for her—sending the saddlebag sliding across the room—and their tumbling woke the other Knights.

Schnurr grabbed for his sword and Vhalla tried to wrestle it from his hands. She leaned forward, biting one of his wrists hard enough that blood exploded into her mouth. Cursing, Schnurr instinctively pulled away, and Vhalla won the weapon.

Still sheathed, she drew it back and twisted her body—
just as Daniel had once shown her
—to put all her momentum in the thrust. The tip of the scabbard sunk into Schnurr’s neck and Vhalla watched his eyes bulge as he gasped for air. It was blunted, but the force crushed his windpipe.

The other Knights were nearly upon her. Vhalla looked around desperately, trying to reason if it made more sense to try to fight them off or spend the seconds she had left trying to get the shackles unlocked. She dropped the sword and scrambled for the key.

“Wind scum!” one of the Knights shouted as he kicked her, the heel of his boot digging into her shoulder.

Vhalla was sent rolling, but she clutched the key so tightly her nails left bloody arcs in her hand. She was back to trying to unlock the shackles. Her magic would mean her freedom, her longevity. The axe was already in the hand of one of her assailants.

“We should just kill you,” one snarled as he looked at the corpse of the bushy-mustached major.

“Kill her! Take the axe,” another said, brandishing the weapon. “We can find another Windwalker in time. We have the axe and that is more important.”

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.

T
HREE 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.”

“What is it?” Tim was ever-helpful. Vhalla had expected the people of the valley to shun her and her magic, but time and tales had healed the reputation of the Windwalker, rebuilding Vhalla in the eyes of the Southerners as their chosen champion. Furthermore, according to Tim, the Knights of Jadar had plagued the citizens of Mosant for decades as the town was on the route from the Crossroads to the Crystal Caverns. They would rather harbor a criminal than do anything that could remotely please the Western group.

“I need a cape.” Vhalla thought of the symbol she’d donned at the warfront. If she was the South’s war hero, she’d look the part. “I need a black cape with a silver wing on the back.”