Spellslinger - A Witches of Galdorheim Story

Spellslinger

  A Witches of Galdorheim Tale

  By Marva Dasef

  Copyright Information

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Witches of Galdorheim Series is available in Ebook, Print, and Audio

  First Chapters of the Rest of the Books in the Series at the End

  Copyright © 2010-2016 Marva Dasef

  https://sites.google.com/site/mdasefauthor/home

  https://tiny.url/DasefAuthor

  Spellslinger

  By Marva Dasef

  Rune stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets and stomped down the street, his shoulders hunched. A clump of dandelions hugging the white picket fence leapt out at him, their squeaky little growls and slashing petals pulled a grin from the eleven-year-old warlock for a moment until he remembered he was in a bad mood.

  He punted the attacking flowers with a transforming spell turning them into a tumbleweed rolling along the street. Rune sprinted after and gave it a kick with a Beckham bend. The shrub careened out of control over a picket fence and into a yard. Lilac, a witch who lived in the cottage, stepped out on her porch. “Rune, get that thing out of my garden!”

  “Yes’m.” Rune felt his cheeks redden. He pulled out his wand and flicked it toward the offending bush. The shrub shook, then hopped in the air. When it landed, it sunk its brand-new roots into the ground on the edge of Lilac’s koi pond. The rose buds adorning the stems burst into full bloom and a few petals dropped and floated on the water.

  Lilac smiled. “Congratulations, Rune. You charmed your way out of a telling-off.” The witch walked back into her home.

  Rune continued on his way, his shoulders settling, a frown tugging the corners of his mouth back down. His friend, Dalton, had joined the Wolf Pack and seemed to forget that Rune was his best bud. The Wolf Pack wasn’t exactly condoned in the witch community, but as long as the transformed boys didn’t actually eat anybody, the warlocks turned a blind eye. Rune had promised his mother and aunt that he’d not get involved in the group. As a half vampire, the only vampire, he already had plenty to worry about without also taking on a wolf form. The boys’ play sometimes drew blood. No way could Rune keep from going mega-vampire at the sight of blood.

  It sucked. Since he wouldn’t join the pack, they all stopped letting him hang out with them. Now he was stuck in the ‛so not cool’ group to which his older half sister already belonged. She couldn’t cast a spell that didn’t blow up in her face, and since Rune couldn’t join the other boys in the Pack, he felt like an outcast. His mind pinged, and the word “outlaw” blazed in his head. Yeah, that’s what he’d do, spell up a place of his very own. To heck with Dalton and those other boys turning themselves into werewolves. He’d become an outlaw, a real gunslinger. Or how about a spellslinger? That had a nice ring to it.

  That’s it. He’d go old west, old U.S. west. He’d watched about a zillion westerns, so he figured he could conjure a proper old west town and he’d be...what? The leader of a bandit gang? The Sheriff of a little town taking on the bad guys? Yeah, he’d be the hero.

  Well, that meant a white hat for sure. A huge, white ten-gallon Stetson appeared over his unruly thatch of black hair. He hooked his thumbs in the gun belt that materialized around his waist. An outlaw gleam lit his dark eyes. His walk transformed into a swagger, and cowboy boots made him an inch or two taller. By the time he stood in front of the Witches’ Council Hall, he was well decked out in the western garb he’d seen so many times on the 52” flat screen television stored in the council room.

  TV channels couldn’t reach the witches’ island, Galdorheim. No station would bother sending their signals into the far reaches of the Arctic, nor would the signals penetrate the village’s protective shield. Captain Sean, the Irish warlock/sailor, took orders for entertainment and picked up CDs and DVDs when the supply boat made its way to Norway. The witches traded amulets and charms for things they couldn’t conjure, like the latest music and movies.

  “Aunt Thordis,” he called. Her office door behind the raised dais was closed, which usually meant ‛go away and leave me alone’.

  This time, though, the door swung open and the tall, blond witch came through. She glanced at Rune, and her lips twitched to an almost-smile. “Well, Rune, it looks like you’ve got something weird planned.” She walked across the platform to its edge, then floated to the floor. Thordis looked him up and down, put her hands on her hips, and snorted. “I do not believe, nephew, that we have any ranches close by.”

  “Oh, this isn’t a cowboy outfit. I’m the lawman.” A shiny star appeared on his shirt over his heart saying “Sheriff Rune.”

  The regal witch nodded slowly. “I see. What does that have to do with me?”

  “I want to spell up a town like in the old west in the United States. It’s got to have some bad guys. Maybe some bandits or cattle rustlers.” He touched his Stetson. “I’m the good guy.”

  “Again, why would this interest me in the slightest?”

  “I’m not good enough at spellcasting yet to make a whole town. I’m kind of stuck at the saloon. As soon as I try to add a bartender, half the bar disappears.” Rune stuck his thumbs in his gun belt and said, with what he hoped was an authentic western drawl, “I’d be right pleased, ma’am, if’n you’d loan me some magic.”

  “A whole town? Where exactly are you going to put this town?”

  “Oh, outside the village dome. There’s that big glacier near the ice cave. That should be plenty of room. All I need is the street, a saloon, ‛cause that’s where the bad guys hang out, the sheriff’s office, a trading post, and some horses tied up outside the saloon.”

  The corners of Thordis’s mouth turned down, and she heaved a deep sigh. “You’re not asking for much, are you?”

  Rune pressed his palms together and donned his best begging face. “Pretty please.” Thordis may give him a hard time, but he knew deep down she loved him. He’d just have to wear her down.

  Thordis shook her head, but said, “All right, but I’ll only give you two hours of booster magic.”

  Rune grinned. “That’ll be plenty, Aunt Thordis. Thanks!”

  With a quick spell, Thordis enhanced Rune’s magic for his project. When she finished, she grabbed his chin and leaned over him. “Stay out of trouble, boy. Indiscriminate use of magic can be dangerous.” Rune nodded his head vigorously, and she let him go.

  He jogged out of the Council building and rushed down the main street of Galdorheim village. He reached the gate leading out of the protective magical bubble, and hesitated when he thought how cold it was out on the glacier. The translucent shield surrounded the village, maintaining a constant warm spring within. Outside were the harsh conditions of an icebound island sitting in the middle of the arctic Barents Sea.

  Rune shivered while he invoked his own little bubble for his project. He went about building the town as he had described to Aunt Thordis. He shivered once more feeling the vast coursing of Thordis’s borrowed magic surging through his body. It almost made him dizzy. He hoped he would someday have that much power for his very own. He smiled when he heard Thordis’s voice in his mind. “Practice, Rune, practice is the only way.” He shook his head ruefully. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll practice.” He felt Thordis slip away, leaving him to his own devices.

  When the half-town was completed to his satisfaction, Rune spent a moment admiring his handiwork. Then he remembered he only had a couple of hours before the il
lusion would fade, and he’d be left standing out on a glacier at fifty below zero.

  He got his best swagger on, and headed for the saloon. On the way, he added spurs to jingle, jangle, jingle while he walked. He pushed open the swinging door and looked around the smoke-filled room. Deciding he didn’t like that, he cleared the air and added No Smoking signs to the walls.

  Rune looked left and added a stairway going up to nowhere. He plunked a piano with a mustached player under the steps. A tinny version of Buffalo Gals overlaid the background chatter. Glancing at the bar, he added a barkeep with a white apron polishing glasses. On the customer side of the bar, he conjured a few cowboys hefting mugs of beer. Looking to his right, he set up a poker table with more cowboys. One player was garbed in a black suit, black hat, black tie, black hair, a black cigar (unlit), and a black pencil-thin mustache. The villain.

  Taking a step, Rune paused, and then snapped his fingers. “Right. The saloon gal.” She appeared standing next to the villain with her arm draped over his shoulders. Nodding with satisfaction, Rune clanked toward the poker table. He had to get the action going pretty soon or he’d run out of play time.

  “Black Bart,” Rune said with a throaty growl, “I told ya to stay outta my town. Now I’m gonna have ta bring ya in.”

  Black Bart jumped to his feet and pulled a derringer from his waistcoat. Rune liked the brocade vest and quickly added a watch chain. Black Bart obligingly stood still waiting for Rune to complete Bart’s stylish outfit.

  Rune drew his own gun from its holster. “Don’t make this any harder than it has ta be, Bart.”

  “You’ll never take me alive, Sheriff Rune!” Bart pulled the dance hall girl in front of him as a shield. The girl shrieked and grasped the arm encircling her neck.

  Rune lowered his pistol. “You can’t hold onto her forever, Bart.”

  The villain sneered and dragged the girl across the saloon floor toward the swinging doors. “I can hold her long enough to get out of here.” Rune snapped a glance at the saloon gal, and she put on a show of struggling. When Bart reached the door, he shoved the girl away from him and fled into the street.

  Rune chased after him, but stopped a moment to help the girl to her feet. She gave him a simpering smile and a wink. Rune jerked away. “Eww! I didn’t make that up.” Then he forgot about the girl and dashed into the street just as Black Bart mounted his horse—a black horse, of course—ready to ride out of town.

  Rune raised his pistol, but knew he couldn’t shoot Bart until the bad guy shot first. It’d be against all good guy rules. Bart obliged by raising his derringer and firing a round at Rune, who easily ducked to the side. The bullet smashed into the wood door jamb. Bart jerked his horse’s head around, and dug his spurs (when did Bart get spurs?) into the steed’s ribs. The horse leapt forward putting Bart’s back to Rune. Good guy rules kicked in again. He couldn’t shoot somebody in the back, even if they were fleeing.

  He had to stand and watch Bart’s horse gallop to the end of the illusion and disappear. Rune jammed his pistol back into his holster. This wasn’t right. He should have come out of the saloon after Bart, who’d be standing in the street, then they’d have a shoot out like he had imagined. Bart wasn’t supposed to run. For that matter, Bart shouldn’t have had a horse tied out front at all.

  The street stood empty except for Rune. There were people here before; he just had to get them back in place. He closed his eyes and concentrated, imagining the old west folk with their buckboards, cowboys riding down the street on horses. He opened his eyes. Then his mouth dropped open. There were people all right, but not what they should be. Two men dressed in black leather jackets stood next to their Harley Davidson motorcycles. A woman leaned against the wall by the saloon door. Her silver, skin-tight outfit was so not western, and her wraparound silver sunglasses were definitely not. Rune flinched.

  He turned around to see his carefully constructed town melting and morphing into something entirely different, a melange of different centuries, none of them the old west he had envisioned. “What the...?” Shaking his head in confusion, Rune disappeared the bikers and the, what was she? A woman from the future or something from a movie he’d watched, he couldn’t tell.

  A lightning swift conjure restored the clapboard town. It now milled with cowboys with Stetsons and six-shooters and ladies in long skirts, their petticoats swishing the dust.

  Rune scanned the street for any more out-of-place people. Satisfied that only the old west people remained, he turned to go back to the saloon. A horrible metal-shrieking sound made him whip back around. A Conestoga wagon, appearing out of nowhere, began wrenching and twisting, then rising and transforming.

  “Aw, jeez! You’ve got to be kidding!” Rune yelled staring up into the face of the impossible robot. Rune grabbed at his holster and drew his wand instead of the gun. He cast a spell toward the metallic giant, but it didn’t poof away. Instead, it took a gut-wrenching, clanging step in his direction. Rune ran for the saloon.

  Inside, he slid his back down against the wall and peeked under the swinging door. The steel monster was nowhere in sight. He heaved a sigh, and pushed himself up. He really needed a sarsaparilla something awful. But the bartender, the cowboys, and even the saloon gal had disappeared. His mouth dropped open as the bar and the shelves behind it began to drip like burning candles, the wax pooling on the floor.

  He tried to stop the melting, but he couldn’t feel the boost of Thordis’s magic. The walls became hazy, then transparent. The glacier rose behind the fast disappearing structure. He glanced at his wrist, activating his built-in magic watch. “Crud. No way is two hours up. Aunt Thordis gypped me.” He tried to rebuild the saloon. When that didn’t work, he changed his western shirt into a heavy anorak with a fur-lined hood. The saloon melted away, and he stood freezing on the glacier.

  He searched for any vestige of his western town. Nothing. With tears stinging his eyes from both cold air and disappointment, he began to trudge toward the shimmering bubble protecting the village from the arctic cold.

  As he neared, he glanced around trying to find the gate. From the village side, it appeared to be a simple garden gate with a morning glory vine twining around it. From the glacier side, it was barely visible. Mundanes couldn’t see the bubble, much less the gate, but it should have been clear to Rune. It wasn’t where he remembered it. Frantically, he trotted up to the bubble, rubbed his hands where he thought the gate should be. He then moved to his left carefully searching for the extra sparkle encircling the gate. Then he ran back the other way. The gate was nowhere, gone, kaput, disappeared.

  Rune stood still, a tiny, sharp edge of anxiety gnawed at his thudding heart. It was only then he realized he was completely and utterly drained of magic. As the bubble faded away, he dropped to his knees and held his face with his hands. He gulped, fighting back the tears, but the sobs rose unbidden in his chest, and he couldn’t hold them back.

  When his knees began to freeze, he choked back his crying and stood up. He calmed himself, trying to think this through. Aunt Thordis wouldn’t abandon him out on the glacier, would she? Surely, she’ll be opening the gate any minute, calling him into the village’s warmth. But how long might that take? Maybe she was busy with Council work or taking a nap. He had to find his own way back into the village or risk freezing to death. He didn’t have long before the cold would overtake and drag him down into a final sleep.

  All the kids were taught early on that they shouldn’t go out onto the glacier by themselves. It was dangerous, even stupid. He counted on the magic Thordis had pumped into him to work, but for some reason it had disappeared. Why would that happen? It couldn’t be lack of power on her part; she was the strongest witch in the village. It must be something about himself or where he was that caused the magic to go away.

  Rune had only one option left. He had to let his vampire out. He’d been trained since he could barely toddle to hold that part of him inside, to never let it out. Mostly, he succeeded, but o
nly because his family kept all temptations away from him. He was not allowed to see human blood. He’d been magically blinded more than once when a witch accidentally cut herself. His mother and aunt had swaddled him in a deep layer of binding to prevent his vampire from coming out. He still had to have blood, but his mother controlled him when he received his daily ration of animal blood.

  Now, he had to fight off the damping spell that kept his vampire half in check. With his warlock magic gone, all he had left was the hot blood of the vampire. Vampire speed, vampire senses, vampire strength. But he knew the consequences. If he surrendered to the bloodsucker, then nobody would be safe around him. Even at his age, a vampire is a dangerous creature. He could only hope that the witches inside the village would recognize him and take the appropriate drastic measures. He shuddered, fully understanding it might include his death. But staying outside was out of the question.

  He stood, taking a few deep breaths to remind him he was still human, then he quit breathing. His heart stopped beating, blood slowed in his veins. The vampire fever crept into his mind. When he looked up, his flashing red eyes caught sight of the protective bubble. The glimmer of the gate drew his gaze. He swallowed and licked his lips. He leapt toward the gate at inhuman speed, for that was what he was. The vampire reached deep into the legendary past of his species and grabbed hold of an ancient breed, the Fire Vampire of Fthaggua. His body changed to a ball of lightning. The boy who quivered inside this new form whimpered. His last thought was that he loved his mother and hoped she could save him.

  This not-Rune creature smashed through the gate and it exploded into flames. He heard a scream and whipped his fiery form toward the sound. He saw only a deep red splotch of light, all else dark except his prey. Blood lust rose up and electricity surged through him. A lightning bolt jetted toward his prey, ready to engulf it and feed from its life force.

  The bright white light of his victim separated into three forms, purple, blue, and orange. The colors surrounded him and closed in. The hunter became the prey. A boom sounded as the three forms hit Rune at once. Thunder shook the earth, and the flash of multicolored lightning hit him, knocking his fireball to one side. He bent himself like a Beckham soccer ball and splashed down in Lilac’s koi pond next to the rosebush. Rune felt himself cool and his flames dissipate. His vision went black as he lost consciousness.