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  LUMI’S SPELL

  Ulana Dabbs

  Website: ulanadabbs.com

  Twitter: @UlanaDabbs

  Copyright © Ulana Dabbs 2021

  All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission of the author.

  To Fiona.

  Thank you for your coaching, insight, and inspiration.

  I

  Serfs rushed around the courtyard lighting torches and lanterns to chase away the evening gloom. Their heightened voices, mixed with the scraping of shovels, carried into the night as they worked their way through snowdrifts to clear out a path. With a flurry of snowflakes, the wind fought against the torches, tugging at the flames, trying to extinguish them with each gust. Secured with bolts and latches, the iron gates loomed over the courtyard, strong against the blizzards of Nordur, warding off trespassers. The sentry upon the tower sounded his horn, announcing the arrival of my father and his warriors.

  The riders drew near, surrounded by a dust of snow, and my heart quickened when they reached the gates. I hadn’t seen my father in weeks, but his deep voice still rang in my ears, asking me to take care of Mother in his absence. ‘Jarin, you are a man now,’ he said, and I remembered the pleasant shiver deep in my belly caused by those words. Every few months he would gather his most skilled warriors to ride against the Varls and Mother grew lost in prayers, locked in a world filled with worry and fear, reading scrolls about the Day of Judgement and the Wrath of Skaldir while I filled my lonely hours practising with a pine-wood sword Father had carved for my eighth birthday. For the past two winters, this blade was my companion as I scoured Stromhold, fighting imaginary foes hidden in the hallway tapestries, or challenging the wooden statues of the gods with my battle cry. They would wake, beg for mercy, and surrender their powers, but like my father, I would be ruthless and end their lives with the slice of my blade. I couldn’t wait to be old enough to join my father on one of his adventures, to fight beside him in a real battle against the Varls. Being ten felt like a hindrance, a waiting game until the day I was a warrior like them.

  Serfs unbarred the gates and let the warriors into the courtyard. I searched for my father, scanning each silhouette whilst serfs tended the horses and took charge of swords and axes. My breath caught at the possibility that Father was not among the living, but then I saw him, wrapped in furs and looking as powerful as ever, and I heaved a sigh of relief. Broad-shouldered with an overgrown beard, he sat in the saddle with his head high, the wind tearing at his long hair. He reminded me of the warriors I read about in the scrolls in our library, proud and fierce. His black horse, bigger than the rest, seemed as dominant as his master, stomping the ground and it looked as though the long and treacherous journey had barely left a mark on them.

  The skies darkened and the last of the evening light drained away, turning warriors into black shadows. Father motioned one of the serfs his way and when he unfolded his cloak, I glimpsed a small person nestled between the furs. He lifted his passenger with ease and handed him over to the serf. Once they had blended with the nightfall, I ran to the main hall where Mother stood with a silent prayer on her lips, hands pressed to her chest, waiting for the men to enter.

  ‘They’re coming.’ I ran circles around her.

  ‘Shh…Jarin. Not so loud. Show some respect,’ she said with her eyes fixed on the entrance.

  The door swung open and my father crossed the threshold followed by his warriors. In the candlelit hall they looked tired and battle-worn. Even Father had not been spared, his cheek ruined by a gash, daubed by an angry scab. His hand rested on his sword, its hilt pointing at me like a shaft from a stray arrow, silver glinting in the light from the fireplace. And not for the first time, I found myself enthralled by it. The blade of Stromhold Guardians—one of a kind.

  ‘Aliya,’ Father said, taking my mother’s hand.

  She reached for his face and ran her thumb across his scab but no words escaped her. She concealed her emotions like a true warrior’s wife. She relaxed against him and the silent moment stretched between them.

  I gaped in awe at the ugly stump that replaced Argil’s left arm, wrapped in rags with dried blood embedded in the fabric. My own hand twitched at the sight, an image of it laying, severed, on the ground made me shudder. But despite this, I wanted to see what hid beneath the material covering his wound. Perhaps if I asked, he would show me. Orri stood next to him, the left side of his face mangled and his eye lost amidst the scars. He looked like a monster from the Nordern tales that spoke of frost giants and ocean creatures feeding on human flesh. Pride filled my heart. I had visions of the fallen Varls they left in their wake and I dreamed of having scars of my own.

  ‘You have grown, son.’ Father placed his hand on my shoulder. ‘At this rate, you’ll soon be ready to ride with us. Have you been practising during my absence?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’ Thrusting my chest out, I stepped forward, hoping to impress him with the moves I learned. ‘Let me show you.’

  ‘There’ll be plenty of time for that.’

  Before I could voice my disappointment, Mother motioned to the serf and his charge. ‘Who is she?’

  A girl in a white gown stood surrounded by Father’s men, looking small and fragile with her bare feet and bluish lips. Black hair framed her pale face. Judging by height and the size of her feet, she was about my age, but the resemblance ended there. I never saw a Nord with a face like hers, but it was her eyes that fascinated me the most—large and lifted at the corners, they held vivid images of deep, blue waters, shifting and changing as she focused on the flames in the hall’s fireplace. Though frost was thick on the shutters and wind howled outside, she didn’t seem to be bothered by the cold.

  ‘We found her lost in the blizzard,’ my father said. ‘She hasn’t uttered a word during the ride. There was no one around and we couldn’t leave her alone in the cold.’

  ‘She is not dressed for the snow. Anyone wearing a dress on the plains, without shoes or a cloak, would freeze to death within moments,’ Mother said, her voice tinged with suspicion. She approached the girl and touched her cheeks. ‘Icy cold!’ She turned to the serf, standing in the shadowy corner of the hall. ‘Selma, take care of her. Make sure she is warmed and fed.’

  Selma, a woman from the South who had been sold as a serf by her parents and brought from Hvitur to serve my mother, trotted up to us. Her left leg was shorter than her right and she moved with great difficulty.

  ‘Come, child,’ Selma said, offering her mottled hand.

  ‘Where is she from?’ Mother asked again when the door closed behind them.

  Father shrugged. ‘We found her wandering in the forest. At first, we thought someone was pursuing us, but then we saw her, wading through the snowdrifts.’

  ‘But you know nothing about her.’

  ‘Aliya, she is a child, no older than Jarin, for sure.’ They exchanged glances, a subtle message passing between them.

  ‘Still—’ Mother shook her head—‘these are dangerous times. She isn’t a Nord, that’s for sure. Have you ever seen features such as hers?’

  ‘To put your mind at rest, I’ll send a scout at first light to search the forest and the plains.’ He turned to his warriors. ‘You have proven yourselves again and I’m proud to be the Guardian of Stromhold with you at my side. Let us rest and celebrate our victory. We have managed to drive away another wave of Varls and show Hyllus that his magic is no match for the forces of Nordur. Some of you paid a heavy price—’ he regarded Argil’s stump—‘and such are the pitfalls of war, but your sacrifice wasn’t in vain, for we fight for our land and pe
ople.’

  The road-weary men acknowledged his words with a cheer and shuffled outside into the night. Father caught Orri on the shoulder.

  ‘Send scouts and look for footsteps or signs of life,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Report any findings.’

  Orri nodded and followed the warriors out.

  ‘Can you tell me about the battle?’ I asked. ‘I want to hear about your adventures.’

  ‘It’s late,’ my mother said, steering me towards the door. ‘Your father needs rest. There will be plenty of opportunities for stories in the days to come.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Mother is right,’ Father said. ‘I have many tales to tell, but they can wait.’ He ruffled my hair and lowered himself, so we faced each other.

  ‘Did it hurt?’ I traced his scab with my fingertips.

  He waved his hand. ‘It’s just a scratch.’

  I threw my hands around his neck and buried my face in his furry cloak. It smelled of damp and felt cold against my cheeks. For all the stories I conjured up, no warrior ever matched my father in greatness and the only thing I wanted was to be like him.

  ‘Come now.’ Mother’s voice broke the moment, and I pulled away from him.

  ‘We’ll talk tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I promise.’

  I sighed and followed her out.

  * * *

  I waited for my mother’s footsteps to fade before I snuck out of bed and tiptoed along the dark hallway towards my parent’s chamber. Careful to not make any noise, I perched on the stairs with a clear view of the fireplace. My father stood watching the flames and Mother sat on a chair, hair cascading down her back in a golden wave, fingers curled around a black pearl hanging down her neck on a silver chain.

  ‘How bad is it?’ she asked.

  ‘We’re outnumbered and the forces from the west are gaining power. Hyllus is creating an army of Varls with his magic, turning people into beasts, twisted in their once human bodies, howling with pain and rage. I can still hear them ripping through the bodies of our men.’ He turned to face her. ‘They’re so strong and every time we clash I lose more men than I can replace.’

  ‘May the gods have mercy on us all,’ she whispered. ‘How are we to withstand such horrors? What will become of us, of our son?’ Her voice caught in her throat and she turned her head to the fire.

  ‘The gods are sleeping, Aliya. We fight this battle alone.’

  My mother’s lip quivered. ‘They may be asleep, but they can still hear us. Don’t lose faith, for Jarin’s sake. We must do all we can to keep him in Stromhold, out of harm’s way.’

  ‘I know what we must do, but Hyllus is relentless. I’m surprised we have managed to keep him at bay for so long, with such limited forces.’

  Mother inhaled deeply. ‘There is still time. Your brother—you can ask him for help. He will not turn you away if—’

  ‘Never.’ Father tightened his fists. ‘I will never bow to Torgal.’

  ‘Perhaps now is the time to forget the past and join together against our enemies? We won’t always be around to protect our son. One day he will learn the truth…’

  ‘I’d rather die than ask Torgal for help.’ He slammed his fist against the wall and I winced at the depth of anger in his voice.

  ‘You can’t keep blaming him for what happened,’ my mother said, and she crossed the room to stand beside him. She lifted a tangled lock from his face.

  ‘We swore an oath to protect our father, but he chose to spill his blood. It’s because of him you set foot on that forsaken hill. This betrayal can never be forgiven and if I ever see my brother again, we’ll cross swords until only one of us is left standing.’

  I knew little about the war and even less about my cousins dwelling far north. They lived on the edge of Nordur, in the settlement of Hvitur, and sailed vessels decorated with the heads of mysterious serpents. My father once told me the serpents’ song can kill a man, enticing him into a storm created by its sweet melody. I imagined myself steering a boat through the ocean storms, fighting serpents and adorning my ship with their heads. Everyone would bow to me—the first warrior that survived the insidious songs of the Great Atlantic. I grinned at the thought of bringing glory to my name.

  ‘What about the girl?’ Mother’s voice brought me back and I shrunk further into the shadows. Father had caught me eavesdropping in the past, and the experience left me with a burning backside.

  ‘What of her?’

  ‘Who is she? How did she come to be in the wilds?’ Aliya looked at her hands. ‘She could be one of them. We know nothing of Hyllus’s magic. Is she dangerous? Working her own illusions?’ She pointed towards the window. ‘How could anyone survive the bitter colds of Nordur in a cotton dress?’

  ‘The war is raging at our door and you’re worried about a child?’ he asked, lifting his eyebrows. ‘It’ll take more than a girl to take down Stromhold.’

  ‘Doesn’t it strike you as odd that you found her alone, wandering the plains? She doesn’t resemble any of us, a clear sign that she is not from here.’

  ‘It is odd that she didn’t freeze to death, I grant you that. We need to learn more about her before we decide what to do.’ Father kissed her cheek. ‘Tomorrow, at first light, Orri will scout the forest. Have patience. We can’t just throw her out now.’

  The girl I saw earlier had looked frightened and alone, so this exchange between my parents didn’t make sense. Dangerous? My mother didn’t know much about war. It was unlikely that a little girl would be capable of inflicting any kind of damage, and besides, what could be more powerful than my father and his sword? With the warriors at his command, he could defeat anything.

  ‘I can’t understand how you can be so calm and trusting of her. After all you have seen, would it be any wonder if something dark came this way?’ Mother paced around the room with her nightgown sweeping across the floor. ‘Senia softened your heart, but she is gone and will never be replaced.’ Her voice wavered. ‘There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t weep for our daughter. I pray to Yldir to keep her safe in the Fields of Life until I can hold her again.’ She wiped at her cheek.

  My father caught her arm. ‘Do not speak her name. I can’t bear it.’

  They stood silent. The fire crackled softly, filling the room with an orange glow.

  ‘There is nothing to fear,’ Father said after a few long moments. ‘The girl is no threat to us.’

  ‘What about Jarin? How will he react to having a girl around?’

  ‘The boy has no siblings or other children to play with. She may prove good company for him when I’m away.’

  Mother shrugged. ‘As you say.’

  Father wrapped his hands around her waist. ‘I have missed you so much.’ He kissed her on the lips.

  The way they looked at each other made me cringe. A silly smile replaced my father’s frown and Mother laughed softly as he pulled her closer. I slipped away, ears impossibly hot as I sprinted across the hand-knotted rugs in the hallway, under the guilty looks of the wooden gods.

  II

  In the morning I hurried into the dining hall and my stomach rumbled at the smell of freshly baked bread. I always looked forward to the first meal of the day. Truth be told, it was a wonder that I still woke up every morning following so many hours of sleep without a meal in between.

  Mother and Father were engrossed in a conversation and the girl was also there, staring at the food on her plate. She paid no notice to me as I took my place at the table. Sven, a serf brought from the southern borders following a battle that wiped out his farm and family, placed a steamy bowl of porridge in front of me and I tucked in without delay, letting the warmth fill my belly and pacify the hungry noises within. He winked at me and placed a heel of loaf on my plate, knowing from my many ventures to the cooking quarters that it was my favourite part.

  Sven was a funny man. He laughed at his own jokes and his bulbous nose reminded me of the potatoes he peeled daily. Unlike other serfs who were captured or
sold into servitude, he took an oath of his own free will to serve my father and to lay down his life for Stromhold.

  ‘You’ll burn your tongue,’ my mother warned me then turned her attention to the girl. ‘Aren’t you hungry, child?’

  The girl didn’t respond and continued mixing her porridge with a wooden spoon.

  ‘How are we going to communicate with her?’ Mother asked. ‘The girl hasn’t said a word to me, or to Selma. We don’t even know her name. Someone might well be looking for her.’

  Father frowned at that. ‘Winter storms are coming in full force and we’re away from the main settlements. I don’t see how anyone could get here without being noticed. The scouts have returned this morning with no news. The plains and the forest are quiet.’ He took a swig of mead from his wooden cup and regarded the girl. ‘Are you afraid of us, child? There is no need.’ He leaned across the table. ‘Stromhold is the safest place in Nordur. No harm will come to you here.’

  She met his gaze for a briefest of moments then dropped her head back to her bowl.

  ‘Such unusual eyes,’ my father said, stroking his chin. ‘The girl is a mystery, I grant you that. Pray we learn more about her in the coming months.’

  The girl fixed her eyes on mine and their startling shade mesmerised me again. There was something moving and shifting in their blue depths, evoking thoughts of lightning storms and rain. Time ceased to exist as I sank deeper into them, chasing shapes and patterns, trying to keep up as they danced and glimmered like stars in Nordur’s midnight sky. My eyes grew heavy and my breath turned icy, the chill that spread through my body left me shivering and numbed my tongue. The girl dropped her eyes and I gasped, trying to steady my trembling hands and calm my racing heart. I caught her fleeting smile before hair concealed her face.

  ‘Sven! Why do you have to be so heavy-handed?’ Mother dabbed at her dress where a cup of mead, spilled by the serf, was turning into a yellow flower. He apologised and set to mop up the liquid dripping on the floor. They fussed over it and none of them had time to notice my curious interaction with the girl moments ago. I pushed my bowl aside, no longer hungry.