Page 34 of The Last Valkyrie (Vikingrune Academy #4)

Chapter 34

Ravinica

OUR VICTORY PARADE and boost to morale was short-lived. As the onlookers below reached a crescendo with their cheering and hollering, Kelvar the Whisperer made an appearance behind my mates, at the base of the cliff-walk where no one below could see him.

I landed next to my men, furling my wings and facing the Hersir.

He had a frown on his face, as usual, and was unreadable. “Not what I had in mind when I asked you to rally the troops and speak for the leadership of the academy, cadet.”

I stood in front of my men. “You never told me how you wanted it done, Kelvar.” My hand spread out behind me, gesturing. “Can you not hear the rallying cries? I’d say it was a smashing success.”

“And what doors will it open, Ravinica? What dangerous path have you led us down, broadcasting your powers and true nature to these people? Have you given them false hope? Do you even understand your powers, other than the pretty wings on your back?”

My mouth opened and closed to argue, but no words came out. He had a point, and of course the Whisperer would be the first to shoot down my excitement.

Still, there was no denying the buzz of anticipation down below, where the students watched and called for more antics. They were reinvigorated by my showing, after going days of living through doubt, shame, and anger at who we had allied ourselves with.

Magnus said, “That’s not fair, Father. Ravinica did a good thing here. Don’t take that away from her.”

With Magnus’ help, I finally found my tongue. “Shortly before her death, Lady Elayina wondered if it would be so wrong if I showed my power to my peers—what I was. I’m starting to think she was right, after hiding it for so long.”

“How long has it been, really? Weeks? This is a new headache for us to mitigate, if the Dokkalfar and jotun bastards hear of this. You’ve painted a target on your back.” Kelvar shook his head, sighing. “I’m only wondering how much good it will do in the long run.”

“Better a target on my back than the rest of the academy, sir.”

“This will be the talk of town for days,” Arne said excitedly. “Isn’t that better than the constant conflicts we’ve been forced to fend off while you leaders hide away?”

“If nothing else,” Grim said, “it shifts the focus from one of impending doom to one of hope. Now the students have something new to fight for, Hersir.”

“Is there a reason you’re here shitting on our party?” Sven asked, helping swarm the Whisperer with questions. He had grown incredibly averse to leadership over the past few weeks, and no longer even called our Hersirs by “sir,” “ma’am,” or their titles.

It made me smile, hearing my men get my back, unconditionally.

“Yes,” Kelvar said flatly. “I suppose you’ve done one good thing in that regard, gathering so many people so close to Dorymir Hall. Rally your troops inside, cadets.”

He turned to leave, heading down the gentle decline that led to the steps of Dorymir Hall not far away.

“What reason should I give them?” I called out to the Whisperer.

“New Gothi’s been decided,” he grunted.

His grunt didn’t sound very promising.

The hall was bustling with energy as the vast room filled with students. The few elves from the stunt joined us, and I noticed some of the humans giving them a wide berth, while others were actually conversing with them.

It was the first time I’d seen any sort of civility between our two races since the elves had arrived here. Which showed me that, at least on a basic level, my stunt had worked.

For the time being. Gods only know how long the fever dream will last until we’re thrust right back where we started in a haze of fear and gloom. Hel, that moment might be right now.

As the students took their seats, the chatter didn’t die down. People were thrilled. Many of them came up to me to ask questions, wondering what else I could do.

“Can you breathe fire from your mouth?”

“How about breathing fire from your ass?”

“Hel, I can do that—just did this morning after that spicy stew we had in the southern mess hall last night.”

“Are you a real dragon, or just, like, part-dragon? The wings are cool . . . but where’s your tail? Your talons?”

“Where do your wings go when you don’t have them out?”

“Can I have your powers?”

“Can I have your autograph?”

I didn’t have answers for them. For the funnier questions, I joined in the laughter and camaraderie. My wings were gone, dissipated into nothingness, leaving no marks behind. Yet I could still feel them somewhere inside me, in my soul perhaps.

My celebrity status ended when the Hersirs took the stage at the bottom of the hall, speaking loudly to get everyone in their seats and shutting up.

Kelvar, Dahlia, and Ingvus, the trio who had spearheaded the vote and seemed most involved in the situation, were at the front. Behind them were Axel, Gudleif, and six other Hersirs I only knew from cursory experiences—lesser tutors, men and women who stayed quiet, and newly arrived councilmembers who joined in the tally.

My eyes locked on the threesome at the front when I took my seat between Arne and Sven, up in the middle rows of the hall. Other students were still filtering in at the top level—students who hadn’t joined in the dragon event outside but had gotten word of the campus-wide assembly.

Which one of these three will it be? I wondered nervously. I didn’t trust Tomekeeper Dahlia or Hersir Jorthyr at all, yet I knew Kelvar was the most reluctant to leadership. Some months ago he had explained to us how leadership had passed him over to go to Sigmund Calladan, and how he’d been perfectly fine with that.

Some of the best leaders are those who don’t want the job . . .

I shared anxious looks with my men. We fell quiet so the Whisperer could speak to the students gathered. Not everyone in the academy was here, but the word would spread quickly enough.

“This has been a grueling process, cadets,” Kelvar said lowly. He didn’t have the booming, authoritative voice of Sigmund. If this was how he expected to run things, he was off to a bad start. “First thing, we have news to share with you which will be disconcerting and worrying. That is why we have taken our time in Fort Woden, exploring all our options.”

The students muttered amongst themselves, before being cut off by Kelvar with a lift of his palm.

“Gothi Sigmund Calladan is dead.”

Gasps and shock, rolling through the hall like a lightning bolt tagging from one head to the next.

No way to sugarcoat that one, I guess.

Kelvar kept his palm raised, and Tomekeeper Dahlia took over next to him. Funny to see them aligned on one thing.

“A burial and wake will be held for our departed Gothi, who died in battle against the dark elves on an academy-oriented mission off campus.”

That’s one way of putting it.

Dahlia cleared her throat, her large body jiggling as she stood straighter, more proudly. “We have been voting on the new leader of Vikingrune, and it has not come without its fair share of squabbles and doubts, students. However, we have finally reached a consensus.”

Ingvus Jorthyr took over then, so they could all have equal speaking time and look like they were in agreement. I noticed the scowl on his face, and my first assumption was he hadn’t gotten the top spot like he’d wanted.

Ingvus said, “We decided it is in the academy’s best interest to explore outside influences. Someone who can come in with fresh eyes, who can look at our situation with an unbiased, calm demeanor, and help us navigate our struggles.”

Shit. If not him . . . if not any of them . . . then who? A headache built behind my eyes from the way he said things—the anxiety of it all. This is all political speak! Just get to the damned point, Jorthyr!

“And so,” Ingvus said, glancing at the man and woman to his left and right, “we would like to introduce you to your next Gothi of Vikingrune Academy.”

He stepped aside, creating a lane for the newcomer to step between the Hersirs.

As the tall, lanky presence filled out the stage from the back, the dark shadow cast on him became illuminated.

My heart dropped to my boots.

“Salos Torfen of the Torfen wolf pack,” Ingvus finished.

Sven was on his feet in an instant, reflexively, and Grim had to take him by the arms and shove him back down.

My mate’s father took the stage with a glint in his cunning eyes, the audience falling into a rare bout of confused silence.

No one even knew who the Hel this was.

No one except me and my guys, anyway.

Fuck, this is bad. My mind kept screaming, Why him?!

Before Salos could say a damned thing to the audience, one of the students far to my right shouted a similar question.

“He’s no battlelord!”

Another joined the first brave student. “That man looks like a politician more than a commander! We need a fighter to lead us!”

“Yeah! A warrior!”

The hall fell into an uproar.

Fuck. My head darted around, trying to gauge the sudden anger of my peers. All thoughts of my dragon wings and what they had accomplished were tossed aside for this back-breaking news.

I’d always known we were one false step away from a riot ever since the elves had gotten here—really ever since the failed battle in the Selfsky Plains. But the reality of the situation hit me square in the chest. My handsome mates had looks on their faces just as concerned as mine.

“Silence!” Ingvus’ voice cut through the din with a shrill screech.

Slowly, the voices fell away.

Salos took his place at the front of the Hersir group, clasping his hands together in front of him in a show of peace. He wore the dark robes of Vikingrune Academy, looking more like a Mimir Tomes scholar than a Gharvold Hall Huscarl as Sigmund had preferred.

An awful thought came to my mind, before the cruel leader of the Torfen pack—the same man who had tried to quell Sven’s role and dispatch his own son—had spoken more than a single word.

Salos and Sigmund met shortly after our battle against the jotnar and draug. They hid away in Fort Woden for days . . . before Sigmund joined me on our ill-fated journey to Selby Village.

The suggestion rang clear in my head.

. . . Did Salos Torfen have something to do with Sigmund’s death?

“Dans and deens of the academy,” Salos said with a small bow of his head. If he was nervous or showed any animosity or loathing toward the reaction from the crowd, he didn’t show it. “It is with a heavy heart we must say goodbye to Gothi Sigmund Calladan. With his admirable death in battle, we have been given an opportunity.”

The crowd fell completely silent, many of the standing students plopping down in their seats to hear Salos’ spiel.

“It is true, I am no master of battle, though I have been in quite a few of my own while protecting my family clan from rival packs.

“What I offer, however, is something Vikingrune Academy desperately needs: Connections. A level head that can look from the outside in, as my colleagues have generously put it, deduce problems, and mitigate them before they explode into catastrophes.”

The students yelling out were right. He’s a damned politician.

This was not what we needed. I couldn’t stop wringing my hands and chewing the inside of my cheek as I listened to him croon about what we needed , after he had only been here a fortnight or so.

What the Hel does a pack leader from outside the Isle have to offer us? What can he possibly offer us? And how did Kelvar and the others let this happen?

If I had to guess, I’d say the vote was tilted by the Hersirs I didn’t recognize. Kelvar, or at least Dahlia and Ingvus, had likely voted for themselves, all but canceling their vote. Kelvar had maybe gotten a vote or two, with Axel Osfen, I ventured, getting a few others. Most wouldn’t vote for a woman in Gudleif Selken, I knew, because our species seemed to correlate war with men .

. . . Which meant the mystery Hersirs I hardly knew—and hardly knew where they came from —must have been the deciding factor that gave Salos Torfen the edge.

And if I was a betting woman, I’d say Salos had a hand in making them Hersirs here in the first place.

Salos continued, not moving from his spot—shirking the casual pacing that Sigmund used to do to keep everyone’s attention. He didn’t have the deep, resonant voice of Sigmund either, opting for a calmer, more sinister timbre.

“We need to shore up our defenses. I can aid in that. I have connections with many of the pack leaders across Midgard.”

Next to me, Sven muttered, “Is this motherfucker talking about bringing outside influence into the Isle?”

“And while it might be alarming,” Salos said, “yes, we should be bringing human militaries into the Isle to help us in our efforts.”

The outcry was immediate, calling him a traitor and a dastardly dictator—all within five minutes of him taking the stage and proclaiming himself chieftain of our academy.

I understood my comrades’ hurt and anger. They had all worked their asses off their entire lives to be here. They were here based on merit, not nepotism or favors—as it seemed got Salos his position—and now he wanted to invite magicless humans into our magical land, when they knew nothing of our ways and traditions?

It meant guns, more politics, and armies that might spell our doom with their sheer numbers. The doom of the Isle itself was starting to take focus in my mind.

“If the next logical place for the dark elves to attack after the Isle is the greater realm of Midgard—the world —then the magicless deserve a seat at the table, do they not? They deserve a stake in this fight, and should know what’s going on here.”

I could tell he’d thought long and hard about his reasoning, and it was sound. That didn’t make it any better or palatable. Our people would never go for it.

But what can they do? The tally has been counted, the vote decided.

Salos Torfen is our next Gothi, and we have no sway or position in his plans. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I muttered, tasting blood on my lip as I chewed past the skin.

I wondered how long this had really been in the works. The ominous meeting Sven had had with his father made more sense now—the “last call” for Sven to join Salos’ “cause.” Did Ulf, Olaf, and Edda know about this too? Surely not.

Sigmund’s death couldn’t have been so tidily planned. It had all seemed so . . . arbitrary and violent. A true uprising, I’d figured, until now.

Now, well, things seemed more calculated. Devious. Insidious. Sinister. There were a million words to explain why this was wrong and felt off.

“It is important to note,” Salos continued, “the Dokkalfar are powered by the same thing everyone is powered by: Greed . They are simply people from another realm, come here to see what they can scour. That doesn’t make them the bad-guy boogeymen our former Gothi would have us believe.”

The shocked faces and sounds from the students were deafening.

“They can be negotiated with,” he explained. “Compromised with. We can prevent bloodshed, and is that not the ultimate goal of our people?”

No. The ultimate goal is to keep the Isle in our hands, to keep the enemies away from Vikingrune Academy, and to unite our allies!

“What is it the Dokkalfar want ?” Salos asked, seeming to ponder the question by tapping his sharp chin. “Is it land? Access to Vikingrune Academy? To our resources? I will ascertain what the dark elves crave, students, rest assured. We will be a stronger force once we understand their motives and desires.”

When he finished speaking, the audience erupted again.

I noticed the small smirk on his face. The haughty bastard.

Then his eyes landed on me in the crowd. They lingered much longer than they did on anyone else.

My heart froze in my chest.

Salos wants to know what the dark elves desire?

Swordbaron Korvan already made it obvious: He wanted me instead of Ma. He took her as a scapegoat—a means to negotiate.

. . . And I just showed my dragon wings to everyone at the academy.