No Man's Daughter

Fugitive

Opening the portal could kill me, but I’m a dead woman, anyway. Wincing, I tear at the gash on my palm and write the last blood rune across the stonework of the gate. Behind me, a wooden door muffles the shouts of angry men. I lift my trembling finger from the black granite. In this once-forgotten place buried beneath a ruined castle, I can barely read the words I have written in the timid light of my kerosene lamp.

“Break it down,” a man orders.

Thump!

“Again.”

Thump!

The heavy thuds on the door continue, but the iron oak boards and hinges bolted into the rock should hold long enough. After all, I designed it to keep looters out.

“Wait,” a voice calls from beyond the door. “I have the keys.”

Shit, do or die. Brushing aside that the latter’s more likely, I kneel on the grit covered stone before the gate.

“Lord of the Bridge, hear me,” I plead in the old language. “By the ink of my blade and the earth’s bones, I pledge my life to you. Now open the path!”

Come on, work, damn it.

My heart leaps when gold sparks appear at the edges of the stone circle. I have no idea where this goes on the continent of Ymir, but anything is better than hanging. Then I feel it, something like cold tentacles, pushing on my chest. I inhale deeply and brace myself for what I know is coming—the extraction of payment.

Active magic isn’t a gift. It’s a trade.

There’s always a price. How did the ancients pay this toll to the unknown god?

I gasp as the invisible tendrils pass through my breast, wrap around my heart, and squeeze. A lightning blast of pain ricochets through my body from my toes to my skull, and I struggle to draw breath.

The door’s final lock clicks, and it swings open. The tendrils dissipate. Finally able to suck in air, I glance behind me. Jarl OrvarOdd’s men stand near the room’s entrance, slack-jawed and wide-eyed in their dusty gray uniforms trimmed with purple.

“High Gods, what has she done?”

I look at the gate as a chorus of whispers begins. A rainbow of light swirls inside the stone circle, and luminescent color weaves across the walls, filling the room with brilliance. The leaves and twisting branches of Yggdrasil, the world tree, cut into the rock ceiling above the gate shimmer. Below me, blood runs from my wounded hand to the unknown glyphs carved into the floor. Three interlocking triangles in a circle are now red.

Grabbing the stonework, I pull myself up. I can sense its ley line pulsing with golden light. Connected to that is another portal—my salvation.

Down the hall, OrvarOdd shouts, “Fire, you fools!”

The men hesitate.

“Out of my way!”

The thunder of gunfire and the scent of spent powder fill the space. A bullet zips through the air and into the rainbow, creating a ripple in the light.

“No! Stop, my lord.”

I’m on my feet, but I hesitate for a heartbeat. The last time a mage successfully opened a portal, his apprentice ended up as a pile of steaming entrails and muscle on the other side. His skin and bone presumably went to a different location.

“Hervör!” The Jarl screams.

There’s a whoosh of air near my cheek, and the bullet strikes the rock by my hand. Stone chips and dust strike my face. Trembling, I stumble through the portal. If I die, at least it will be quick.

And I fall face-first into a snowbank.

Panting and sputtering, I scramble to my feet. Twisting around, I slap my hand on the granite arch.

“Close!”

The light sputters, and the rainbow disappears just as a boot steps through. The lower half of the leg falls to the ground, cleanly severed. Crimson spills forth, corrupting the pristine white of the snow. That boot is not nearly fine enough to be the Jarl’s. Poor lackey just lost his foot. I can almost hear his screams on the other side.

Woozy, I grip the stone and breathe slowly. Fatigue and soreness seep through my limbs. The after-effects of the spell toll. I take two more breaths and straighten. Push through. I’m not safe yet.

I pull my hand away and gawk. Blood runes I didn’t write are on the warm stone—spelling the old word for “stop”—as if I willed them into existence, and my blood obeyed.

I reach out and touch the first rune, but a shiver runs through my body. The wind blows, and I push my black hair out of my face. Stepping back, I wrap my arms around my chest and look about.

Three frost-covered peaks tower over the gate, disappearing into a steel sky. Lords above, I’m on the side of a mountain in winter! The Upland Ranges run the length of the continent. I could be on any one of them. I turn, and in the valley below, smoke curls from a cabin nestled in a birch grove—deciduous trees. Nearby, a spotted shrew scampers across the banded rock—gneiss stone. This is the Wyvern Range.

Despite the growing ache in my body, a smirk of satisfaction crosses my face. My old geography teacher would be proud, and I’m well out of OrvarOdd’s reach. The power of a lowlands lord means nothing in the mountain republics. I’m weeks’ worth of travel southwest of Hesturbein, the mesa kingdom I started in. I’m free! Before I can sing praises to my golden goddess, the wind wipes away my smile.

Frosty balls and a shrunken rod. What do I do now?

The council prohibits portal magic for a reason.

“Shut up,” I mutter, attempting to purge Erik’s last lecture from my mind. Instead, a traitorous part of me whispers: He was right about everything else. You should have stayed in the capital.

“Can’t change that now,” I retort, as if my old mentor could hear me.

I study the gate. The dark stones that form the arch are the only things free of ice and snow. It leads straight back to my enemy’s lands. I’m not going to risk reopening it. The only escape is forward. At least I put on trousers and riding boots this morning instead of slippers and a skirt.

***

The western sky bleeds, and the birch forest grows dark. I wade through snowbanks up to my knees. I’m so cold, and my body aches. The frozen ground seems to call to me. Just lay down here among the trees. If I stop to rest now, that will likely be the end of me. Freezing to death is probably better than what OrvarOdd had planned for the woman who murdered his eldest son. But dead is dead, and I would like to keep living. Praying that the mountain people uphold the laws of hospitality, I approach the tiny dwelling.

A silver star hangs above the doorway. Embedded in the log walls are rocks with glowing words upon them, moonstone runes. This must be a protection spell to keep out the Killing Frost. It might be cold now, but this is nothing compared to the deadly ice wind that has slaughtered thousands. If they’re reacting, that’s not an encouraging sign for the weather. I don’t want to know what it’s like to have my blood freeze solid in the span of three heartbeats. There’s light in the single window that seems to promise warmth and comfort. Hope is a sticky thing, even when all the world seems to be conspiring to kill me.

An amber-skinned child with dark ringlets bouncing on her head bursts out of the threshold. The door slams into the log wall. Jumping at the sound, I stumble about in the snow with numb feet.

“Papa!” she squeals, bounding toward me.

“Wren, your coat.” A woman yells from inside.

The child comes to a skidding halt when she sees my face.

“Mama, a stranger.” The girl sprints back to the door, even faster than she came out of it.

A tall woman with long brunette braids and a rounded belly steps out with a shotgun in hand. But she does not level it at my chest. Maybe that’s a good sign.

She rests the barrel of her shotgun on her shoulder. “Name’s Ada.”

I stutter out my mother’s name, “K…K… Kára.”

“What brings you to my home, Ms. Kára?” She reaches inside the door, retrieving a red barn lantern. Ada steps toward me, stopping a few paces short of my shivering frame. Her brown eyes widen. “Prophet be blessed! What sort of fool woman walks about in the snow dressed like that?”

“I’m lost. I need shelter for the night.”

“Aye, you’re not from around these parts, that’s for sure.” She tilts her head to the side. “I’ve never met a raven-haired person with turquoise eyes before.”

She chews her lower lip, creases forming on her brow. I’m shaking like the tail of a midlands rattler as the wind stings my cheeks.

“Just… just until the coming storm p… p…passes, please,” I beg with chattering teeth. I wrap my arms around myself again, my leather duster doing little to shield me from the cold.

“The weather witches we met on the trail a while back said this season would have three Killing Frosts.” Her brown eyes glance upward. “I ain’t liking the look of that sky. I reckon this is more than a storm bearing down on us. Best you come in.”

“Thank… k… k you.”

“I’ll lay a bed roll before the hearth. Let’s get the chill off your bones, Ms. Kára.”

She examines me again, her eyes narrowing on my wounded hand. “That needs fixing. Wren, be a good girl and get me the white box from Papa’s chest.”

She turns back inside, and I follow, knowing I owe this woman a life debt.

Market Day

The remaining autumn foliage drifts to the earth, and the red maple leaves dance in the breeze like flames. The mountains embracing this valley are visible through the thinning trees. Snowcapped sentinels reach toward an endless blue sky. Overhead is the keening cry of an old friend. A sun eagle circles the grove, and her shadow passes over us before she rides the up-currents west toward the mighty stone sentries where she nests. It’s hard to believe that I’ve considered her a fellow hunter for six years. It feels like I just chose to stay in the Uplands, but Wren is hardly a knee-high moppet now. A few more years, and she’ll be taller than me.

I adjust my rifle strap and dismount, leading my horses through the grove, searching for signs of highland sable. It’s not long before my wolf Hati sniffs out a trail, the dry leaves barely hiding the familiar five-toe print the size of my palm. His brother Skoll lopes ahead, eagerly looking for more giant marten tracks. I kneel to set the first snare.

Oddly, pleasant days like this remind me of all the tales I was told about the uplands when I lived on the flat. The world’s spine, home of the brigand, rebel, wild cat miner, and exile. The sort of place where a man might shoot you between the eyes for a half copper. Twaddle cooked up by yellow paper journalists. I know better since meeting Ada. Although, the opinions of flatlanders shouldn’t matter to me, as I haven’t been one of them for a long time.

I pause my work on the second trap and take stock of that. Hervör, I haven’t been called that name since I escaped OrvarOdd’s vengeance. I am Kára, just another settler working in the fur trade as a tracker. After adopting my mother’s name, I committed myself to repaying the life debt I owe to Ada and the children. Marksmanship and hunting were among the practical skills I honed while living on the flat, so becoming a tracker seemed to be the most viable option. Magic has its uses, but it’s flashy, and it grabs people’s attention, good and bad. OrvarOdd’s gold is one heck of a motivator, and I would rather not have a run-in with his bounty hunters.

A leaf floats through the air, hooking onto my hat’s brim. I brush it aside, my steps crunching on the forest floor, releasing autumn’s earthy scent. I know the risk of being caught in a Killing Frost increases with each passing day, but I have stayed out longer this fall with the fair weather.

Kára, what were you thinking? Ada will probably say. The risk ain’t worth it!

I inspect a mother tree. My wolves do the same, sniffing at her roots. The elder trees are always the first to turn color and lose their leaves. Her branches are nearly naked. Yet, sweat gathers on my brow. Dark Skoll pants from his black lips, his pink tongue flopping about. Silver Hati whimpers a bit and nudges me with his nose. My horses both snort as if agreeing with the wolves.

“Thirsty?” I say, mounting Apples, a sweet-tempered palomino, directing her toward the sound of running water. Oats, my pack horse, a pretty snowcap appaloosa, follows.

At the stream, I fill my canteens while the horses drink. My wolf boys splash about. Hati presses his wet head against my back, trying to get me to join in.

“Stop,” I say, shaking my head and laughing. “Still a goofy pup.”

The hard winter season and its Killing Frosts are coming, but not yet. I figure I have at least three more weeks. Besides, I have traveled in the winter snows before. I will have to consult with the weather witches on the timing of the Killing Frost, but it’s doable if I prepare appropriately. This year, it’s worth the risk.

My traps have filled with valuable beaver and sable in the last few weeks. Fine furs for upstanding city folk, also known as haughty pricks with deep pockets. The temptation to take advantage of the warmer weather is just too much. I’ll stay in the wild one more week and sell my stock during Brookworth’s last market day. The town rests on the principal trade route to the capital of the Wyvern Republic and out of the mountains to the lowland kingdoms. This will be the year we finally pull ahead. I’m sure of it.

More of Ada’s ensuing lecture pops into my mind.

Only fools tempt the Killing Frost. Once the leaves turn golden, the wise find their way home and stay put until the spring daffodils show.

Since the frost took her husband, I can’t blame her. Still, putting up with her rant when I return will be worth it for the silver to send Wren to a proper academy next spring. Maybe even enough to hire on an extra hand to make Ada’s life easier. Naturally, I will buy gifts for the children: a book for Wren, and a toy horse for little Bo. Nothing is better than a child’s bright eyes when they receive a gift. Just the thought of it puts a smile on my lips. I should be able to get at least a full gold certificate and seventy-five silver for my stock.

***

That was my plan anyway. As I approach the long line outside Brookworth’s main gate, I realize every frontiersman had the same damn idea. Prospectors, homesteaders, trackers, and more wait for entry into town outside the stockade. The homesteaders have loaded their wagons with cranberries, cloudberries, and foxfire mushrooms. Adding the goods of the forest to their usual farm-raised items. Worse, there are at least twenty other trackers with horses and carts laden with furs.

People and animals pack the town’s narrow streets. The weird combination of rank body odor, manure, sweetmeats, mud, and cloudberry pies fills the air. Giggling children run in and out of any gap in the crowd they can find, some returning to report their findings to their parents. A few brave souls press in the opposite direction like salmon swimming upstream but make little headway. Two narrowly escape having their feet crushed by a buffalo cart. The wave of flesh and goods pushes toward the central square. I had never seen a busier market day. I lead my horses and wolves past the stands and head for the familiar purple board house of the Vela River Trading Company. They have set a tent out front to act as a second barter parlor. I wait in line to speak with a trader.

“Sorry, we met our quota for beaver this year,” the angular man says, when I finally reach the front. “But since you’re a reliable supplier, we’d be willing to take your whole lot for… twenty silver.”

The mousey-haired counting apprentice sitting next to him looks up from his ledger. The boy raises his eyebrows but says nothing before returning to his task. Right, kid, that’s a horseshit offer.

“I don’t think so.” My voice raises an octave despite my attempts to keep it level. My right eye twitches.

Sneaky lowlands snake—I can’t even resupply on that. I should have dealt with one of the mountain-born traders in this company, or at least a former lowlander, someone who plans to make a life here. This man is just looking to make a quick bit of gold downriver. I consider signaling my boys to growl just a little, but that would alarm everyone in the tent. So, I pat Skoll on the head instead. It’s not nearly as soothing as I had hoped.

“I will give you thirty-five silver, if you add in that ursine cloak you’re known for. You have it with you, right?”

The boy stops his pen scratching and watches me.