Rumpelstiltskin (Timeless Fairy Tales Book 4)
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Authors: K. M. Shea
Rumpelstiltskin
A Timeless Fairy Tale
By: K. M. Shea
a Take Out The Trash! Publication
Copyright © K.M. Shea 2013
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any number whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of quotations embodied in articles and reviews.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
When the hellhound howled, Stil climbed a tree. Branches scratched at his face, and the cold wind further chilled his wet clothes. He positioned himself on a branch, held his breath and clung to the tree trunk. The dull thud of horse hooves pounded in the forest like a war drum. When the animal snorted, its nostrils flared like an ember, placing the beast and its rider three trees over.
Stil’s lungs ached as he watched the horse paw at the ground. He was almost to the border. He couldn’t be caught now!
The hound howled again, the noise traveling away from Stil. The mount and rider retreated, cantering after the hound in the darkness of night.
When Stil could no longer hear the horse, he gasped for air. His chest heaved as he climbed down. He wanted to sit and rest, but he couldn’t take the chance. The rider would be back. Stil needed to get across the border and into Verglas before then.
Leaves crunched under Stil’s feet as he blindly made his way through the forest, his soaked cloak sticking to him like slug slime.
As Stil slunk along, he snatched up a leaf and rubbed it between his hands. It turned into the finest silver before cracking and twisting, shaping into an intricate snowflake the size of Stil’s thumbnail.
“Home,” he whispered before blowing on the magic-made snowflake. It glowed and lifted out of Stil’s hand, twirling and gliding through the air like real snow.
Stil almost lost sight of it several times. The snowflake was tossed through the dark forest by the rough wind and torrential rains like a toy boat bobbing on an angry ocean, but the tiny beacon of light led Stil closer to Verglas—closer to safety.
The snowflake bobbed ahead, and Stil smiled when he saw the silvery blue light of the Verglas border, glowing in response to his magic.
A short distance behind him the hound howled.
Stil gave up all pretenses of stealth and ran, the heavy pants of the hound snapping at his heels. Lightning illuminated the forest, and Stil barely avoided a fallen tree.
The border was within reach when the hound caught up. It snapped down on Still’s arm, yanking the mage off his feet.
The dog wasn’t a normal hunting animal. It was a hellhound—huge, dangerous, and deadly. Red foam dripped from its mouth as it clenched Stil’s arm, breaking his skin and drawing blood. The hound snarled. Its eyes glowed red in the darkness, and deeper in the forest the horse screamed an answer.
Stil kicked at the canine’s chest and grabbed a handful of mud. “Be rock,” he said between clenched teeth as the pounding of horse hooves drew closer. The mud hardened into rock, and Stil bashed it against the hellhound’s skull. The hound staggered, but it bit down harder on Stil’s arm. Stil held in a shout and hammered on the animal’s skull, using the rock like a mallet.
The hound let go, snarling and shaking its head. Stil stumbled backwards over a stump, which sent him crashing head over heels to the muddy forest floor.
Lightning flashed again, illuminating the nightmare when it arrived, carrying its rider. The nightmare was a horse—if it could be called that—which fed on nightmares and craved absolute darkness. It was skeletal, but its nostrils glowed, and its eyes were the same white as spoiled milk. It screamed (a sound more similar to glass breaking than the neigh of a horse) and gnashed its abnormally sharp teeth before its rider pulled it back.
“
Craftmage
,” the rider hissed.
Stil reached into his soaked clothes and slapped a red feather on the soaked stump. “Ignite!” he shouted before rolling away.
Even though it was old and saturated, the stump exploded into a roaring fire.
The horse spooked and shied away from the dazzling flames, shrieking in pain as the light burned its eyes.
Stil leapt out of his roll and ran forward, his eyes hooked on the glimmering Verglas border. Behind him the rider growled, kicking the nightmare forward. After a moment’s hesitation, the mount edged around the stump and chased after Stil, closing in for the kill. When Stil could almost feel the nightmare’s sulfur-scented breath on the back of his neck, he threw himself forward, diving across the Verglas border as the nightmare lunged for him. Stil hit the ground just as ice crunched, and giant stalagmites popped out of the ground—almost impaling the nightmare with sword-sharp tips and edges.
The rider reined in the nightmare as the ice wall formed, popping and cracking as more ice and snow gathered to create an impenetrable barrier that glowed unnaturally. The rider could travel up and down the Verglas border until his mount dropped with exhaustion, but he would never get inside. The Snow Queen’s magic wouldn’t let him set foot inside the country.
The nightmare screamed in rage on the other side of the ice wall. He turned his mount around and galloped back into Loire.
Stil chuckled between gulps of air. He forced himself to sit upright. He was soaked, and his arm was injured. The rain spattered his face as he dug through his cloak. When he found what he was looking for—a ruby cut in the shape of a flame—he breathed on it, sighing in relief when the charm activated and heat seeped into his body.
Stil stumbled to his feet and started in the direction of his temporary home. “I don’t understand,” Stil said, pushing his sopping hair out of his face. “What merit is there in hunting
me
?”
Gemma ran her hand over fabrics and cloth. Her fingers lingered on the bolts of violet-colored velvet and blush-red silk brocade. Her forehead furrowed she internally paged through patterns and dress styles like a child flipping through a picture book.
Lady Linnea would look fetching in the violet velvet, which would offset her blonde hair. However, red brocade was the rage in Loire thanks to Princess Elle, who wore many gowns made of rose-red material.
Gemma’s mind raced with the various styles she could design using the fabrics, but her mind was made up when she caught sight of the length of snow-white fur.
“I’ll take the fur, all of the violet velvet, and some more white linen,” Gemma told the merchant as she tugged on the desired materials.
“This is to go on the Lovland’s account?” the merchant asked.
“Yes,” Gemma said. She nodded in acknowledgment to the villager that entered the store—she knew him well. As a child, she had played often with his flat-nosed daughter who had a penchant for pinching. “I might be back for the silk brocade, too.”
The merchant recorded Gemma’s purchase. “It’s a good cloth. You’re sure you don’t want the grey silk?”
Gemma glanced at the described material. The silk was well made, and the color was a subdued dove gray, but that shade would make Lady Linnea resemble a pale ghost. “It’s not the right cloth for Lady Linnea.”
“Perhaps, but it would look stunning with your eyes,” the merchant said with a winning smile.
Caught off guard, Gemma blinked twice. “Perhaps, but I don’t need a dress made of silk. It wouldn’t survive my week. This is all I want for now,” she said, resting her hand on the new material before wrapping her purchases with worn linen.
“Of course, of course. You be careful walking home, Miss Kielland. Mind the weather, you hear?”
“Yes. Until next time,” Gemma said before she left the tiny store, hauling her fabrics on her back.
“Morning, Gemma,”
“Good morning, Mrs. Hagen,” Gemma said to the older woman as they scurried through the village square.
“Making
another
dress for Lady Linnea, are you?” the older woman asked, her plump lips set in disapproval.
“That is what she employs me for,” Gemma said as they hurried past an empty fountain.
“Frivolous, I say,” Mrs. Hagen grunted. “It’s a shame you took up clothes making. Your mother used to make the most beautiful quilts. Everyone needs quilts in this frigid place.”
“I should think everyone needs clothes, too, Mrs. Hagen,” Gemma said, “or the city would be a blinding and chilly place to live.”
“It would WHAT?” Mrs. Hagen exclaimed. “Child, you sound just like Guri these days.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hagen,” Gemma said.
“That wasn’t a compliment. So, Miss Gemma, when will you pursue a real livelihood? You cannot live off Lady Linnea’s charity forever. After all, who needs fashion and
dresses
in a country of snow and a mad—,” Mrs. Hagen cut herself off and looked furtively in the direction of the Verglas palace.
No one called King Torgen mad, even though he clearly was, if they wanted to survive.
Gemma and Mrs. Hagen reached the perimeter of the village square. In summers, the square used to house outdoor markets. But that was years ago. Now it was used to publically execute whatever poor sop King Torgen decided to kill on a whim.
“I enjoy making dresses and clothes,” Gemma said.
“So, buy a doll,” Mrs. Hagen said, her moist eyes sourly directed to Gemma’s cloth purchases.
Gemma smiled insincerely. “Perhaps one day. But for now, I must bid you good day, Mrs. Hagen,” she said, bobbing a curtsey.
“Good day to you, Gemma,” Mrs. Hagen said before Gemma sped up her walking pace until she was all but trotting. It was a survival technique. Most of the Ostfold gossips did not have the lung capacity to speak and run at the same time.
Gemma hurried home, taking a twisting path to Lady Linnea’s house.
The grand manor was situated closer to the village square than it was to the palace. It was a short walk in the cool, fall air before Gemma arrived. Several flags flew from the flagpole, marking the three additional noble families staying with Lady Linnea’s parents instead of risking the palace.
Gemma slipped in through the back entrance, avoiding the chaotic mess of the kitchen. She climbed a servants’ staircase and slipped into her workroom—which was a sea of lavish cloth and held the great luxury of a fireplace.
Gemma rang the bell to summon a scullery maid before she unwrapped her materials and splayed them out over a workbench.
“Did you need something, Gemma?” a scullery maid asked, poking her head in the room.
“Sissel—perfect. I was hoping it would be you. Could you get a fire started, please?” Gemma said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Sissel said, darting for the fireplace. In minutes she had the fireplace cleaned and lit, warming the room to a toasty temperature.
“Is that all?”
Gemma snapped a knotted rope. “No. Stand, please.”
Wide-eyed, Sissel stood, brushing off her ash-smeared smock.
Gemma walked around the scullery maid, brandishing her rope. She maneuvered Sissel’s arms, measuring them and her shoulder width. “Thank you, Sissel,” Gemma said after making a complete circuit around her.
“Sissel?
Sissel!
”
“Excuse me, Gemma,” Sissel said, bolting for the door.
“There you are,” Malfrid, the head maid, said. “Cook needs you in the kitchen. Get a move on!” the red-faced woman said, folding her formidable arms across her chest. In this pose, she resembled a cream puff in her brown and white uniform.
“She was helping me, Malfrid,” Gemma said, but Sissel was already gone, pounding down the servants’ stairs.
“Hmph, no wonder,” Malfrid said, strolling into Gemma’s workroom. “Must be nice to be paid to sit around a room and do little.”
“Is it? I wouldn’t know,” Gemma said, writing Sissel’s measurements on a small slate.
“At least I’m hired because I’m good at what I do—not because I’m a personal friend of Lady Linnea,” Malfrid said.
“You needn’t worry about that ever happening to you—with Lady Linnea or anyone else,” Gemma said, snagging a pin cushion.
Malfrid went stiff as she tried to figure out if Gemma was insulting her or not. “Tale-teller,” she finally said.
“If I told tales, I wouldn’t put up with your presence,” Gemma said, picking up a scissors. “Now if you don’t mind, I have a dress to make,” she said, pointedly staring at the door.
“You might be proud of yourself, Gemma Kielland. But you’re nothing but a chicken borrowing turkey feathers,” Malfrid said before storming out of the room.
“Peacock feathers. You mean I’m borrowing peacock feathers,” Gemma called after the stocky maid, although her attention was focused on the fabrics spread across her workbench.
