Chapter 45 | Ravinica

Chapter 45

Ravinica

I STOOD IN FRONT OF the monolithic castle, Fort Woden, defiant. Staring up at the twisting black spires, the high windows, the black shield and white dragonhead banner of the academy hanging from the second story rampart.

This was a structure that had stood the test of time, built by human hands, stone by stone, when true Vikings roamed the land in their thousands, wreaking havoc on the known European world.

The Danes, the Norsemen, and other Scandinavians assimilated to life on the greener pastures of England's shores, and elsewhere. They integrated into the societies, after centuries of war, and would not be ousted. They became ingrained in those societies, as much a part of the fabric and history as the landowners they had first come to pillage and destroy.

I felt like an honest Viking as I stood there, solitary, so small against the backdrop of the fortress. No less than a dozen Huscarls headed my way, toward the iron gate holding me back.

I, too, had once had pillaging and destruction on my mind. It had been ingrained in my head from an early age—that the only justification for past grievances was retribution by blood.

Recently, I no longer thought that way. I was trying a new approach, hoping compromise and reason could win the day. It was foolish, and I knew my dreams could see others get hurt.

People would die if I did what I was planning. If I went through with it, I very well might regret it years down the road, for the rest of my life.

Yet I could see no other answer. No easy way out of this.

If I did nothing, a man I loved would be tortured, killed, ridiculed. He would be made an example of, and the cyclic nature of war and strife would only continue to roll on as usual.

The elves were supposed to be my enemy. I had lived my whole life believing that, only to have it shattered in less than a year.

Unlike my brethren and kinsfolk who blindly hated because their elders told them to, I had lived with the elves. No other mortal man or woman, that I knew of, could make that same claim.

Given my recent history with them, I liked to think I had something of an authoritative voice when it came to the nature and demeanor of Ljosalfar elves.

Dokkalfar? Their dark elf cousins? Well, I knew nothing about them. They could've been wicked, evil, and twisted, just as the humans thought—just as the Ljosalfar would have me believe. I couldn't know that until I met them.

And that was my point: Blind hatred was not the answer here. I was starting to understand you couldn't truly know a people's motivations or beliefs until you met them, dined with them, and, yes, even slept with them. Many truths came out during pillow-talk, after all.

My rebellion no longer hinged on the lies Vikingrune Academy had instilled in the minds of its students. No, I was past that, moving beyond the immediate and looking toward the greater, grander issue.

My rebellion now regarded humans and elves as a whole.

If I could find a way to sever the thread that kept our people at each other's throats like nooses around our necks—like puppet strings commanding our every move—and could instead use that same thread to bind us together . . . well, then that was a fight worthy of having. Worthy of dying for.

The lead Huscarl, a burly man with a graying beard, a missing eye, and a flat piercing through his nose, stood in front of me on the other side of the gate. "State your business, student."

"I have come to request a meeting with Gothi Sigmund Calladan, sir."

A couple Huscarls to the side of the leader chuckled at the incredulousness of my request. No one, especially a student, could simply request a meeting with the leader of Vikingrune Academy.

The chucklers were the younger ones. The elder soldiers elbowed them to shut up, noticing the stoic, severe expression on my face.

"That is impossible," the commander said.

I stared at the vertical scar cutting down his right eye, rendering the socket empty. It dragged down and cut into his lip.

I gazed at the scar to show this man he didn't scare me. None of these fuckers did, no matter how big they were, how much gear they wore, or how they presented themselves.

I said, "It concerns his prisoner, the Ljosalfar elf named Corym E'tar. Believe me, sir, the Gothi will want to hear what I have to say."

At mention of Corym, the commander flared his nostrils with loathing. The bone piercing stretched his nostrils. He gazed directly into my yellow eyes, into my soul, while the ten other soldiers beside him shared questioning glances and looks of surprise.

The leader turned to a man and whispered something to him.

"Are you sure, sir?" the younger guard asked, eyes propping high under the rim of his helmet.

The commander simply fixed him with a wordless, deathly stare.

The younger guard nodded his apology and ran off.

I waited in the freezing morning cold for nearly half an hour, not moving a muscle or changing my stance. The commander waited with me, even as his comrades wandered off, finding me no threat.

The commander stayed unmoving, and I felt obliged to respect his resilience if he was going to respect mine. This was a man who did not underestimate anyone, and I admired that because it reminded me of the kind-hearted, stern-faced soldier who had trained me, Swordbaron Korvan.

"What is your name, commander? If I may ask."

His lips pursed beneath his long beard. "You may not, student."

I nodded. "Understood."

With my attempt at trivial talk squashed, I averted my gaze and kept my arms folded. The cold winds whipped my hair around my face and bit to the bone, even through my fur coat. It took everything to keep my teeth from clattering.

Overhead, the weather was ominous, with bleak gray-black clouds and a light drizzle starting. Mixed in with the rain were flakes of snow, and in the far distance on the northern horizon, I could see that the peaks of the Telvos Mountains were topped with white.

Finally, Huscarls behind the captain started to part the way from the long entrance of Fort Woden, stepping out of the cobbled road leading up to the courtyard and foyer.

I glimpsed Gothi Sigmund marching in my direction, flanked by ten soldiers, and my heart lodged in my throat.

I had never seen the Gothi, the dean of the academy, outside his ceremonial robes during Dorymir Hall speeches and orientation. It was almost like he never left Fort Woden, preferring to lead behind the closed doors of the fortress.

Gothi Sigmund was a striking figure, taller than the rest of his soldiers tailing him, and was an equal height to the huge commander in front of me. Neither of them were as tall as Grim Kollbjorn, of course, but then again, neither was any other man I'd ever met.

Sigmund gave Grim a run for his money in size, and easily outclassed him in ambience. He had a grave aura about him, a huge black beard peppered with fetishes, bone ornaments, and braids running through his long hair and beard. He was not a pretty man, with a perpetual scowl, scars and warts marring his face, a burn mark riddling his left ear with raised, puffy pink skin, and a big nose. His eyes were pits of black and brown, discerning and small in his head.

He reminded me of a Viking of yore.

On top of that, the headmaster of Vikingrune Academy wore a blackened chainshirt that was dinged up and well-worn, gauntlets on his fists that made them the size of my torso, and greaves running up his shins.

On a freaking Monday morning.

I suppose there's never a wrong time to be prepared for anything. Even in your own home.

The commanding Huscarl stepped away from the gate, giving Sigmund a simple head-nod as a salute.

Through the fence, the Gothi's lips hardly moved. He spoke low in the howling wind. "What is your name, young woman?"

"Ravinica Lindeen, sir." I pounded my chest with a fist and lowered my head in a salute.

"Ah. I can tell by the ears that you are not simply a deen . You are the bastard daughter of Lindi Foradeen."

My head peeled back, surprised he knew my mother. Then again, they looked a similar age, so it wasn't too surprising, since Vikingrune was my mother's alma mater.

"That is correct, sir."

"Why do you besmirch your own given name?"

"Because it is not the name I prefer, sir. I was born a bog-blood, perhaps, yet I have worked my way here. What is a name among our people, if not a symbol of our endeavors and victories?"

Sigmund's mouth didn't move. He didn't enjoy my small, defiant smile, and I felt my blood run cold.

"Are you finished pontificating?" he asked.

I squared my shoulders, clearing my throat. "Yes. Sir."

"Why are you here? You know I am a busy man, yes? Were you not in Dorymir Hall with the other initiates during the debacle the other night?"

I floundered, not expecting that. "I was, sir. I do know you're a busy—"

"Were you responsible for the treasonous pages inside the commencement pamphlet?"

"Erm, n-no, sir."

"Do you know who was?"

I shook my head fervently. "I don't," I lied.

I had not expected to get grilled when coming here. Actually, I hadn't even expected to speak with the Gothi, realistically.

"Tell me, then, what it is you wanted to discuss about the academy's prisoner. What you believe I want to hear."

"His name is Corym E'tar," I said, too forcefully.

Sigmund paused. His head tilted. "You know the brigand."

Of course I know him! I wanted to blurt out. Do your own scouts not debrief you? Did you not know I was held captive by the elves for a month, while your Hersirs harassed me and my friends?

Of course he did. He also must have known I'd been caught with the "brigand." Who else could order a contingent of Huscarls that large to besiege the elf encampant? The order had to come from the top, which was this severe man standing in front of me.

Which meant he was simply prying for information. Trying to find an angle on me no one under his employ had been able to yet. Perhaps trying to find a way to control me.

The easiest way, of course, would have been to shackle me right there and beat the information out of me.

But Gothi Sigmund Calladan did not do that. Instead, he remained silent for a long moment, examining my face through the bars separating us.

"Speak, Daughter of Lindi."

I braced myself, breathing puffs of mist from my nose and mouth. "I have a proposition, sir."

The Huscarls behind Sigmund stiffened, as if I'd said the wrong thing and they were waiting for him to explode on me and curse me for my insolence.

"It has to do with my ears you mentioned, Gothi. A compromise I believe will benefit everyone involved," I added, past his unnerving silence.

After a long, heart-thumping wait, Sigmund said, "Tell me what this proposition involves, and I will tell you if it merits a response."

And so I did.