Daughter of Rage and Beauty (Berserker Academy Book 1) Read online

  Daughter of Rage and Beauty

  Berserker Academy Book 1

  Amy Pennza

  First edition published by

  Scribble Pretty Books November 2019

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Copyright © 2019 by Amy Pennza

  Cover design by Andreea Vraciu

  Edited by Kimberly Dawn

  All rights reserved.

  Created with Vellum

  For my daughter, Priscilla. One day it’ll be your name on a cover.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Amy Pennza

  1

  I gripped the door handle and gazed at the forest zipping by the car window. My stomach did a lazy flip, like a slimy sea creature flopping over. Saliva pooled in my mouth. I swallowed and took shallow breaths through my nose.

  It didn’t help. Any second now, I was going to lose my battle with nausea and barf all over the car.

  “Is something wrong?”

  The deep, masculine voice came from the seat across from me. Its owner pegged me with a look that was somehow both bored and irritated.

  I swallowed again. “Just a little car sick, my lord.”

  Harald Berregaard raised a white-blond eyebrow. “Car sick.” His eyebrow continued to hold at a precise angle above his icy blue eyes. The pale color was striking enough on its own, but it was made even more so against the stark purity of his long platinum hair.

  He didn’t like it. At least that’s what the maids at Berregaard Manor whispered behind his back. “You’ll never see Lord Harald with his hair unbound,” they said.

  They could be wrong. Servants whispered all kinds of things. Maybe he just didn’t like hair in his face. Maybe he thought the blond made him seem less warrior-like.

  Or maybe he hated seeing the same coloring reflected back at him every time he looked at me.

  His lips compressed in a tight, hard line, and I realized he was waiting for me to answer.

  “Ah, yes.” I cleared my throat. The car hit a bump. My stomach sloshed, and I hid a wince. “A little car sick,” I finished weakly.

  Disgust flickered across his features. He faced forward, dismissing me. “We’ll be there shortly.”

  The creature in my stomach turned into a thousand tiny butterflies. The prospect of finally getting out of the car was great and all, but it also meant arriving at our destination. In the movies, road trips always end with a visit to a theme park or maybe the Grand Canyon.

  This one? Yeah, there was no Disney World vacation waiting for me.

  The car hit another bump. I clutched the door handle. Before I could stop myself, I blurted, “Couldn’t we have just opened a portal?”

  This time, Harald’s look was all irritation. When he spoke, his words were even and precise, each one like a verbal lash. “That you even ask such a thing is precisely why I’m sending you to the Academy, Elin.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “This penchant for cutting corners, for taking the easy way out, is most unbecoming.” His voice got lower and quieter as he spoke—a sign he was truly angry. Most people yelled when they were upset. Harald Berregaard got deadly quiet. At his most furious, he spoke in a menacing whisper.

  I opened my mouth to defend myself, but he talked over me.

  “I thought hiring an extra tutor might give you the push you needed.” Bitterness made his accent more pronounced, his English more clipped than usual. “Clearly, I was wrong. You are determined to remain unfocused, emotional, and flighty.”

  Like your mother. He didn’t say the words, but they floated in the air nevertheless.

  Anger surged in my chest—a welcome change from the nausea. I folded my hands in my lap and met his gaze straight on. Dared to lift my chin a little. “I only asked why we couldn’t use a portal. I don’t think that makes me flighty.”

  His expression didn’t change. He had too much control for that. But the subtle glint in his eye told me he’d noted the lifted chin and didn’t like it. His response was sharper than the longsword leaning against the seat near his knee. “The Academy is like any other quest. When a berserker accepts a quest, he doesn’t take shortcuts. This is one of first things you should have learned.”

  “Then maybe you should have hired better tutors.” As soon as I said it, I wanted to stuff the words back in my mouth. But it was too late. My throat went dry. Now he was going to kill me. I couldn’t help glancing at his sword. A horrible scene flickered through my mind—him pulling the blade from the scabbard and chopping my head off. Maybe he’d display it from the gates of Berregaard Manor so passersby would know not to sass Lord Harald. Not that anyone ever did. Apparently, I was the only person stupid enough to do that.

  I held my breath, waiting for him to lash out.

  But he didn’t. He just stared, the weight of his displeasure like an icy hand extending across the space between our seats. The muscle ticking in his jaw was his only concession to rage.

  Which was, of course, the reason he was revered by berserkers. As soon as their children were old enough to walk, mothers put a sword in their hands and told them, “May you be like Lord Harald, wise and restrained!”

  Except my mother never told me that. She never got the chance.

  The silence stretched. The fine hairs on my arms lifted as Harald continued to stare. My pulse thumped in my ears. Desperate to break the uncomfortable spell, I opened my mouth—

  “My lord?” The driver’s voice came from a small speaker in the panel behind my head.

  Harald answered without breaking eye contact. “Yes?”

  “We’re approaching the gates.”

  “Thank you, Nils.”

  There was a soft click, which meant the speaker was off, and Harald and I were free to resume our staring contest.

  His expression shifted. The scathing disapproval was still there, but now there was something else . . . something that might have been satisfaction. He settled back in his seat, and his tone became dismissive. Almost bored. “You’re insolent.” He gestured out the window. “The academy will remedy that.”

  I followed the direction he pointed—and any reply I might have offered was snatched from my brain as a looming structure filled my vision.

  Bjørneskalle Castle. Seat of the Rage Lords and home to the Berserker Academy. I’d seen it just once before, when I made my first offering to Odin as a child. Most of the time, places that seemed massive in childhood tend to shrink when viewed again as an adult.

  Bjørneskalle didn’t suffer from that phenomenon. Twelve stories of weatherworn stone soared against a bright blue sky. The main keep was built into the shape of a rectangle, its two long sides decorated with twin spiraling towers—one taller than the other—and row after row of windows. Dozens of chimneys dotted the roof, their edges adorned with grimacing gargoyles. Window turrets poked from the four corners. Smaller stone structures nestled at the castle’s base. Halfway between the front gates and the castle proper stood a lone round tower. Unlike the
others, this one was plain, with a sheared-off roof.

  The Dragon Tower. My eyes widened as I took it in. Legend said it was the oldest part of the castle—even older than the keep itself. Seeing it, I believed it. The stone was darker, the individual blocks somehow rougher. Every berserker child knew the saga of the Dragon Tower. Ulfrik, the first berserker king, had built it for his dragon, Fridgeir—a fearsome beast that could fly high enough to reach Odin’s hall.

  Some claimed the current berserker king still rode a descendant of Fridgeir. I was more inclined to think he traveled by private jet like every other celebrity, Mythical or human. But considering no one had seen King Magnus in over a decade, it was tough to fact-check the story.

  The road curved, bringing the castle wall into view. It ran the entire perimeter of the castle until it connected with the cliffs that made up Bjørneskalle Fjord.

  Most walls are designed to keep people out. Not this one. The wall around Bjørneskalle was there to keep people in.

  As the car rounded the final curve leading to the gates, a flock of birds lifted from the castle roof and wheeled into the sky. Black as night, they streaked across the blue like arrows. One broke formation, dipped to the fjord, and dragged a talon through the dark blue water, raising white spray in its wake.

  “Ravens,” Harald said.

  When I looked at him, he was watching me, his pale eyes emotionless once more.

  “They alert the headmaster when someone approaches the gates,” he added.

  Oh. Well, that was nice. Sort of like guard dogs or a security force—

  “As well as anytime a student dies.”

  Never mind.

  I looked back out the window as my stomach resumed pitching and rolling. The road curved again, obscuring the gates and part of the castle. I focused on the horizon. That’s what my old nanny, Fiona, always said to do whenever I felt sick in the car. “Jist keep yer gaze oan th’ trees, lass. ’At will calm yer belly until I can gie a wee biscuit in ye.”

  That was Fiona’s solution for everything—biscuits slathered in butter and honey. Brownies were like that—forever baking and cleaning. If I scraped my knee during sword practice, she clucked her tongue and pulled a biscuit from her apron pocket. When reciting the sagas for hours gave me headaches, she pushed a biscuit at me. The time Harald banished me from the great hall for giggling at a mouse running under the tables, she tapped on my door at midnight with a basket of fresh baked biscuits, cheese, and ham.

  It was the only time I saw her look angry. Her normally cheerful face with its upturned nose and layers of wrinkles had been scrunched into a scowl, her bright brown eyes narrowed and dull.

  “What is it?” I’d said, taking the basket from her.

  She’d shaken her head, her brown curls bouncing under her white cap.

  I’d leaned against my doorframe, my arms folded. “Fiona.”

  As if she couldn’t hold in her words anymore, she spoke in a low, aggravated burst. “Punishin’ a bairn for laughin’. It isnae right.”

  “Berserkers don’t laugh.”

  She snorted. Then her eyes softened. The anger fled, replaced with something soft and sad. “Och. Everyone laughs, lass. Some jist choose tae forget how.”

  The car slowed, pulling me out of my memories. From outside came a long, dull groan—like a giant shuffling his feet along the ground. Then we picked up speed again. A square, stone tower slid past my window, and I realized the noise came from the gates opening for our arrival.

  We were at an angle now as we drove up and up and up, the narrow road following the curve of the castle’s outer wall. Buildings passed, each one built from the same gray stone as the castle. A flash of green caught my eye, and I leaned forward so I could crane my neck toward the source.

  It was a flat, square field tucked between two buildings, the outer edges bordered by wooden stands. Pennants snapped in the wind atop striped poles positioned at the corners. In the middle of the field, several pairs of swordsmen sparred. Male and female, they wielded long broadswords like the one at Harald’s knee.

  Berserkers. Despite the chill of early September, most wore tank tops or sleeveless leather jerkins.

  Yep, definitely berserkers. I rubbed my suddenly damp palms on my jeans.

  As we passed, a young woman forced her opponent to one knee. As he struggled to recover, she spun and pinned me with a look. Even with the distance between us, her amethyst eyes were like two purple chips in her pale face. Her long black hair was plaited around her crown, then allowed to trail down her back in a ponytail even Beyoncé would envy. Whereas the others on the field wore black, her jerkin was a rich burgundy.

  I tried for a smile.

  Her expression didn’t change. Just before the field passed out of view, she whirled, black hair swinging.

  I sat back in my seat. What was that?

  I didn’t have time to analyze it, though, because the car slowed to a stop. Within seconds, Nils was at my door, one fist over his chest.

  “Madam.”

  I climbed out and gave him a look. I really wished he wouldn’t call me that. No one else at Berregaard Manor did. Of course, they weren’t the son of a disgraced berserker who abandoned his family and ran off with a siren. Nils was desperate to rehab his family’s good name, so he did whatever he could to ingratiate himself with Harald.

  I could have told him that sucking up to me wasn’t a smart way to go about it.

  Of course, now wasn’t the time. Not with Harald exiting the car.

  I settled for bumping Nils’ shoulder. “Hey, I thought you were coming to this place with me.” I glanced around the stone courtyard, then up at the castle towering above us. My teeth threatened to chatter, so I clenched my jaw.

  Nils dropped his stern expression. For a moment, the boy I remembered peeked out of his brown eyes. For a couple years, I’d thought his steady, wholesome handsomeness was what I wanted. “I know, Eely,” he said, using my childhood nickname. “I wanted to.” He hesitated, then added under his breath, “Lord Harald said I need permission from my dad first.”

  “Do you know where he is?” I whispered. I glanced over my shoulder. Harald rounded the back of the car, his black leather coat flapping around his ankles as he buckled his sword in place.

  Color entered Nils’ cheeks. “Somewhere in the Caribbean.”

  “With your stepmother?”

  “With a harlot,” Harald said behind me.

  I turned. He loomed over me, his face hard. A faint breeze stirred his hair, making long white strands whip against one leather-clad elbow. Without taking his eyes off me, he addressed Nils.

  “Don’t worry, son. Your father isn’t the first berserker to be lured by a conniving female. A trait particularly common among that sex, I’m afraid.”

  I covered my mouth like I was sharing a secret with Nils. “Someone must get a lot of left swipes on Tinder.”

  His lips twitched.

  Harald frowned, a mix of anger and confusion playing over his features.

  Before he could question me, ringing footsteps drew our attention. A young man approached.

  Or at least he appeared young. With most Mythicals, it was almost impossible to guess chronological age.

  As he drew near, I was confident he was exactly as young as he looked—more boy than man, really. Fiona had taught me to look in the eyes. That old saying about the eyes being the window to the soul? It was pretty accurate.

  This guy had young eyes—and a general attitude of someone trying to present themselves as authoritative but falling short. He was just a little too stiff. His stern demeanor just a little too forced. He was dressed like the swordsmen on the training field, in leather pants and a sleeveless jerkin that fell to his upper thighs. Like the black-haired girl, his was burgundy. And he must have never missed an arm day, because his biceps would’ve made Madonna jealous. His features were regular and even, his hair a light brown cut close to his scalp, his eyes an unremarkable blue.

  When he
reached us, he snapped his heels together, put a fist to his chest, and gave a short bow. “Lord Harald, it’s an honor to receive you at Bjørneskalle.”

  Harald returned the salute, then clapped the boy’s shoulder. “It’s good to be back, even if just for a short time. Are any of the other lords in residence?”

  “No, my lord.” The boy hesitated. “Term began two weeks ago. If I’d known you wished to see them, I would have—”

  “Don’t mention it.” Harald waved off the explanation. His voice tightened. “My apologies for our tardiness. Elin was supposed to train at home, but her tutor resigned his post.” He looked at me. “One of several to have done so.”

  The boy turned to me. “You’re Elin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Welcome to the Berserker Academy. I’m Olaf.”

  I waited for him to add “and I like warm hugs!” When he didn’t, I cleared my throat. “Thank you.”

  “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your quarters.”

  My heart jumped into my throat. I looked between him and Harald. “Right now?”

  Olaf spoke as if he hadn’t heard the panic in my voice. “You’re permitted one bag.” He glanced at Nils. “Your man here can leave it in the courtyard. Someone will fetch it later . . . after it’s been inspected.”

  They were going to search my stuff? I did a quick mental review of everything I’d packed. Was it like the TSA, where you had to put everything in travel-size bottles? Whomever came up with that rule had no clue how much conditioner it took to tame hair like mine. The only thing standing between me and troll status was an arsenal of John Mitchell products.

  Nils fetched my duffel from the trunk and set it on the ground.

  “This way,” Olaf said. He turned on his heel and started toward the castle.