Chapter 7 Solveig
At five minutes to seven, Maddock had yet to arrive. Solveig tucked her timepiece back into her pocket with care. It had been crafted for her by Queen Koa’s personal inventor as one of the first to exist within the magical realms.
The most promising of the mortals had once worked in the Asgardian courts, where they created such wonderful items for other races. Her timepiece was a piece of pure black obsidian save for the gold arrows pointing to numbers encircling the face of the clock, as the inventor had called it.
She’d said the obsidian acted as a power source, connecting with the sun, so the time would always be correct.
Solveig didn’t understand how it worked, but she treasured the object and began to rely on it.
Soon clocks appeared all over the realm lands and were adopted as common practice by all races, as with other Midgard inventions.
Solveig checked the time again, smiling as she counted down the seconds. Eagerness began to brew as she thought of executing—or at the very least castrating—Maddock. She used those precious seconds to imagine how she would do it.
A classic beheading was always a good choice, but she didn’t want to bestow him that honour. Maybe an arrow through the neck? She’d have to put in the effort to work on her archery skill—she had yet to master that weapon.
Just as she was counting down from ten, she heard heavy footsteps and Maddock came into view.
“Damn it,” she muttered to herself. Now she could enjoy executing him only in her imagination.
The other soldiers gathered around as Maddock strolled leisurely to their group. She gave him her back for the second time that day and addressed her warriors.
“I will not insult you by speaking flowery words to disguise the danger we face tonight. Some of you have carried out raids before. For some, this is your first. Despite the gods having ignored our prayers for millennia, I pray to them still to protect us. If you die tonight, you die with honour. Your ancestors will greet you with pride in Valhalla.”
Solveig paused, allowing space for the nervous energy to grow and fuel their determination. Some gripped the rune-stone pendants that hung from their necks. Her own stone was cold against her skin.
“You have each been given your assignment. Commander, since you arrived last, you will be in charge of protecting our horses. Guard them with your life.” Maddock gaped, outraged at the menial task he’d been given, but Solveig paid him no mind.
Raising her dagger to her palm, she sliced down the same scar she always used to offer her blood to a spell. Though none of them could feel their magic, this ritual was grounded in their history, and even the motions of it were comforting after all these years.
Solveig bowed her head and raised her bleeding fist across her chest. The others followed suit. “May Tyr guide your sword, may Frigg light your way, and may Thor bring you home safely.”
She used the blood that dripped from her hand to draw the Algiz rune of protection on thirteen of her companions’ foreheads.
Maddock refused, muttering, “Bloody witchcraft,” under his breath.
Solveig drew the rune on her own forehead with the last of her drying blood. There wasn’t enough to complete the rune, but without her magic powering it, it was only a symbol anyway.
“Let’s go.”
They mounted their horses and followed Solveig through camp to the main gates. They had settled closer to a mortal settlement than ever before, and thus their journey would not be long. This was the third time raiding from their newest camp location.
Every few years the Southern Wilds legion had to pack up and move whenever they were about to be discovered.
Though the war was over for the mortals, the magical races continued to fight a silent battle within the confines of the Block. Before they could lay siege to Midgard, they had to fight in the shadows, stealing crumbs of information like starved rats.
This was the only way of life many of her people knew.
Even as raids and attacks dwindled their number of warriors, families developed and her people thrived.
The least she could do was give them some semblance of a life, especially for the witchlings.
As their numbers grew, the process of moving became more laborious.
It was vital, though, that they made each new location feel like home.
At each new location, they built a large dining hall, a school, stables for the horses, and, because the legion was first and foremost a war camp, a dungeon called the Vault.
Their tents were arranged in rows with wide streets down the middle to resemble a village.
The lines of tents spread like spokes on a wheel from the large firepit in the centre of camp next to the fighting ring.
They constructed a large wall around the outside of their makeshift village with wooden gates they transported from place to place. It was an exhausting but necessary task. Solveig had learned her lesson when the mortals followed them back, storming in to slaughter innocents.
This camp had great potential for a longer stay since it was buried deep in an ancient pine forest. The ground was covered in a thick layer of needles and moss, creating a soft, soundless blanket to hide their movements when they dispatched the raid parties.
The maze of trees made it almost impossible to find without significant intel, and the mortals had grown complacent over the years.
With the sun setting quickly, the woods blocked most of the light, cloaking their journey in an eerie glow.
The forest was silent, as if holding its breath.
Time passed in slow rivulets, like water lazily lapping at the shore.
Unhurried and disinterested in their plight.
Solveig’s shoulders grew sore with tension, urging the speed of time.
Solveig studied each of her warriors, and Maddock, wondering who would be sacrificed tonight. Gerrie caught her eye and gave her a small smile and nod, reading her unease as she had done many times.
The plan was simple. Slip into the village after dark.
This strategy had proven the most successful in all their attempts. Fifteen soldiers would break into seven teams of two, leaving one to guard the horses.
Maddock would wait with their horses just outside the town. Solveig gave him this post for two reasons. First, it was the most boring position, usually given to the soldier with the least experience. The second being, as much as she hated to admit it, Maddock was necessary.
The King of Jotunheim would retaliate tenfold if his lead commander, and son, was kidnapped or murdered. Solveig hated the Giant, but she was pragmatic. They couldn’t afford to lose him. Not that she’d tell him that.
Solveig’s ears pricked and she whipped her head around, one hand taking both reins and the other flying to the pommel of her sword, her soldiers silently following suit. Narrowing her eyes at the surrounding area, she searched for signs of movement behind the large tree trunks and exposed roots.
Chills ran down her spine as she strained to hear any broaching sounds.
She spotted nothing out of the ordinary and gave a quick flick of her hand to command them to return to their riding positions. She didn’t dare speak, knowing there were more than animals and harmless woodland folk lurking in these woods.
Vanaheim had not escaped unscathed when an unseen darkness invaded the land at the beginning of the war. Shadows were not something one could escape easily.
A sense of unease settled in her stomach, as it always did when they approached the mortal towns. The feeling, though, grew stronger than normal, slithering under her skin almost painfully. The hair on her arms rose as if charged with forgotten energy.
With the luck of the fallen gods, they would cross without any unnatural incidents.