CHARLIE HILL CREATIVE
PROLOGUE
Prince Baldur dismounted. His boots hit the earth with a muffled thud. Gisl, his horse, shied, nostrils flaring in the damp, rank air.
“Easy, girl,” Baldur murmured, his gloved hand brushing the animal’s neck. “Steady now.” But even his practiced, firm touch did little to calm the beast.
He thrust the reins into Jorvan’s hands. “Here, Jorvan. Hold her. This shouldn’t take long.”
Jorvan hesitated, his eyes flicking nervously to the decrepit shack beyond the tumbledown stone wall. “Are you sure she’ll have the answers, my lord?”
“She’d better,” Baldur snapped, his voice low and cold. “I’ve wasted enough time chasing whispers.”
The shack crouched in the shadow of the surrounding forest like a thing afraid of being seen—its roof sagged, the walls patched with mismatched planks and tufts of sod. The air hung heavy with decay, carrying the reek of rotting wood and something fouler, something that clawed at the back of Baldur’s throat.
The prince squared his shoulders and strode toward the opening in the wall, but his confidence faltered as his boots sank into the muck. The mud gripped him like hungry fingers, and he stumbled, grabbing at the crumbling stones for balance. A string of curses hissed between his teeth as he kicked at the earth, trying to free himself.
Skinny chickens with bedraggled feathers scattered before him, their shrill squawks cutting through the oppressive silence. He lashed out with his boot, sending one fluttering away in a flurry of indignation.
The doorway was little more than a gap in the shack’s decaying facade, veiled by a curtain of cracked and filthy leather. Baldur hesitated, then pulled the curtain aside. A wave of stench struck him like a physical blow—rancid and suffocating, it clawed at his lungs and made his eyes sting. He gagged, stumbling back, and turned his face away to suck in cleaner air through his cloak.
When he ducked inside, the gloom pressed in on him, thick and stifling. The source of the stench permeated everything: piles of refuse, scattered bones, and an acrid smoke that twisted upward from a feeble fire.
A shape stirred near the hearth. It was small and hunched, shrouded in a tattered cloak that seemed more dirt than fabric. As Baldur’s eyes adjusted, the figure resolved into something worse than he’d imagined.
The old woman’s skin clung to her skull like parchment stretched over brittle bone, her cheeks sunken and her mouth a gash framed by cracked lips. Her eyes—large, pale, and glittering with malice—tracked him as he moved. Tangled white hair jutted from her head in filthy clumps, a wild halo that only added to her otherworldly appearance.
Baldur swallowed hard and forced his voice to remain steady. “Are you Widow Alessoon?”
She grinned, a slow, unsettling expression that revealed teeth stained black and brown. “Prince Baldur,” she croaked, her voice like dry leaves scraping over stone. “You’ve come.”
He stiffened, unnerved that she knew his name. “I have questions,” he said, his tone sharp. “And I need answers.”
The old woman’s laughter was a rasping sound, thin and brittle. She motioned to the floor. “Sit. The runes will speak.”
Baldur glanced around, reluctant to touch anything in the filthy hovel. Finding no alternative, he squatted before her, the fire casting flickering shadows across his face.
Widow Alessoon reached for a bundle of rune sticks, her gnarled fingers trembling as she waved them through the acrid smoke. Then, with a sudden, almost violent motion, she scattered them across a flat stone. Her milky eyes seemed to sharpen, narrowing as she studied the runes.
“The rightful heir of Orcadia has a rival,” she hissed. “A stranger. He comes from the Ancients’ final resting place, and he threatens the crown.”
“Who?” Baldur leaned forward, his voice a harsh whisper. “Who is it?”
Her gaze snapped to him, piercing and unrelenting. “You’ve met him before.”
A chill slid down Baldur’s spine. He clenched his fists, refusing to let the unease show. “An interloper?”
“He must be destroyed,” the woman rasped, her voice rising like a storm brewing in the distance. “Or Orcadia will be no more.”
Baldur flinched at her sudden intensity but recovered quickly. “How?” he demanded, though his tone had softened. “How can he be destroyed?”
“With the instrument that binds all of Orcadia,” she said, her eyes returning to the runes.
“Frithgar? The Sword of the Ancients?” Baldur scoffed, though his voice wavered. “That’s a child’s tale.”
“It is real,” she said, her tone icy and unyielding. Her hand shot out, gripping his arm with startling strength. Her touch was cold, her fingers like talons digging into his flesh. “But heed this, Prince Baldur. The sword’s awakening will shroud the land in great strife.”
Baldur ignored her warning, his mind already racing ahead. “Where is it?”
“Where the lands of the five ancient tribes meet,” she said, releasing him.
“Loch Einar,” Baldur breathed. He rose quickly, eager to leave the foul hovel. “You had better not be wrong, witch,” he growled, tossing a handful of coins onto the dirt floor. “Or I’ll see you burn.”
Widow Alessoon watched him go, her eyes burning with hatred as he stumbled through the mud back to his horse. When he was gone, she gathered the coins with skeletal hands, then spat on the ground where he had knelt.
“The runes never lie,” she muttered, her voice a whisper of malice.
CHAPTER ONE
Jackson Bell lay sprawled across his bed, staring blankly at the network of cracks spidering across the ceiling. Frustration tightened its grip, a leaden weight pressing down on him. On his nightstand, the hammer amulet sat in stubborn silence, a constant, mocking reminder of his failure. Six months. Six months had bled away since his return from Orcadia, each day marked by fruitless attempts to reactivate the burial chamber. Every time he placed the amulet within the stone’s indentation, the blocking mechanism refused to yield, imprisoning him on this side of reality.
He clenched his fists, his jaw tight. Why wasn’t it working? He’d been so certain. The amulet’s reappearance on his pillow after his last adventure had filled him with the unwavering belief that he could return at will. Now, the connection felt severed. The doorway slammed shut.
His thoughts drifted to his father. Was he still alive? Was he waiting for Jack in Orcadia, or had he been captured by Prince Baldur and his cronies? Each question gnawed at him, sharper than the last. The uncertainty was a physical weight, a heavy ache settling deep in his chest.
His thoughts soured, turning to his mother—and Murdo Cunningham. The man had become a part of their family, though a growing unease settled within Jack. Something about Murdo felt off, a suspicion Jack couldn’t yet prove, but deep down, he was certain the man was dangerous.
Arguments had become a constant backdrop in their household. His mother ignored Jack’s pleas that his father might still be alive. Her patience for Jack’s insistence wore thin, and with each passing day, she seemed more drawn into Murdo’s orbit.
A memory surfaced, unbidden and sharp. Only a few days ago, Murdo had cornered Jack in the kitchen. The man’s voice was low, almost conspiratorial, and his words carried an unmistakable edge. Murdo whispered, his eyes cold and calculating, “You think I don’t know where you disappeared to six months ago?” A chill snaked down Jack’s spine. There was no way Murdo could know. Could he?
That encounter solidified Jack’s resolve. He had to find out what Murdo was hiding. He couldn’t let this man worm his way further into their lives. Jack had no intention of sitting idly by while Murdo tightened his grip on his mother and their home.
The school day dragged on interminably, each lesson a meaningless blur. Jack’s thoughts were elsewhere, plotting. When the bell rang, he barely registered the sound. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and started the long walk home, his heart heavy with determination.
As he approached the driveway, Jack’s pulse quickened. There was Murdo’s battered pickup truck, an unwelcome reminder of his intrusion. The sight of it stirred a simmering anger in Jack’s chest, a fire he could no longer ignore.
He glanced around, scanning the quiet driveway. The house seemed still, the windows dark. His mother was likely out running errands, leaving Murdo free to lurk. Jack approached the truck cautiously, his eyes darting from side to side.
It was unlocked. Jack’s heart thudded as he reached for the handle. Slowly, carefully, he eased it open, cringing at the faint creak. He held his breath, listening. Silence. Encouraged, he opened the door wider and peered inside.
Clutter filled the truck’s interior. But what snagged Jack’s attention was the bag on the backseat floor. His breath hitched as he leaned in; his fingers brushed against the coarse fabric. Could this be the proof he needed? Was Murdo involved in something illegal—something he could use to expose him?
Jack pulled the bag closer and unzipped it. The first thing he found was a diving mask. He frowned, turning it over in his hands. “What the hell is this doing here?” he muttered. Diving gear was odd, especially for someone who lived miles from the sea.
Digging deeper, Jack’s fingers brushed against flippers and the cold, cylindrical surface of a metal object. He pulled it out: an oxygen tank. Full diving gear, he realised, his confusion mounting. What could Murdo need this for?
His curiosity burning, Jack reached for the second bag in the footwell. This one felt lighter, almost empty, but as he rummaged, his fingertips grazed something cold and metallic. A sudden, searing pain shot up his arm, and he yanked his hand back with a yelp. It felt as though, just for a moment, his skin had fused to the object. His heart pounded as he stared at his hand, but it appeared unscathed.
Cautiously, Jack reached for the object again. Before he could make contact, an unseen force slammed into him, hurling him backward out of the truck. He hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from his lungs. Dazed, his vision swimming, he looked up. The truck door hung open, the bags remained, but a strange energy lingered, a crackling tension in the air.
Jack scrambled to his feet, his mind racing. What had just happened? Was it some kind of trap? His instincts screamed at him to get away. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was onto something.
As he backed away, his eyes never leaving the truck, a flicker of movement caught his attention. He spun, his breath catching in his throat. Standing in the house’s shadow was Murdo, his expression unreadable but his posture tense. Jack’s heart plummeted. How long had he been watching?
Jack swallowed hard. His mind raced. Murdo didn’t acknowledge him. He just turned and walked away; his movements unhurried but purposeful. Jack watched him disappear into the house, his chest tight with fear and determination.
Whatever Murdo was hiding, Jack was more certain than ever that it was something big. And he would not stop until he uncovered the truth.
