Dolor and Shadow (15 page)

* * *

Too broken to fight, Rune gazed upon what little remained of Swann Dalr. The only living left among the dead were those too injured to save. The countless corpses made his defeat more real to him than anything he could have prepared for. The last of his hope dwindled, pulling him into despair.

“Leave them,” a Dokkalfr called to the queen’s men. “Odinn can have his pick of the dead.”

All other conversations were too far away to decipher, making it easy for Rune to merge his thoughts until he remembered the chestnut hair that spilled over the blood-soaked earth.

Saved the maiden from the boar to kill the Seidkona whose death took what little victory I had.
Rune lacked the nerve to chuckle at the irony.
The queen will be sure my death is a slow one.

The fire burned to the ground as the Seidr flames consuming the tents started to dwindle. The fog muted the light from the flames. It pained him to breathe. In a senseless hope that he may see a single captain carrying a maiden with iridescent blue eyes over the dead, Rune kept his gaze fixed on the valley.

“You look as if you’ve lost something.”

The voice jarred him from his thoughts. Rune shifted his attention to a Dokkalfr, a warrior.

Soiled and bloodied by battle, the Dokkalfr stood away from his comrades, stiff and cold before the Ljosalfar king. War braids framed a gruff face that cloaked all emotion.

“Haven’t I lost everything?” Rune asked, dulled by the shock of his loss.

The Dokkalfr shrugged.

“Perhaps you have. And yet, you still look for hope among the dead.”

Once more, Rune looked to the valley, deciding to be uninterested in anything this Dokkalfr had to say. The smoke-filled fog rolled unbroken over the valley.

“If it is Bergen you seek, he has the better part of a two-day-ride before he arrives,” the soldier said.

Rune returned his attention to the Dokkalfr. Curiosity awakened his pain, putting an end to his sedated dullness.

“You’re Borg,” Rune said.

The Dokkalfr’s eyes narrowed with the secret they harbored. “I am.”

Pensive, Rune started back into the valley.

“A king’s head is worth its weight in gold,” Borg said. “A kingly ransom for a king’s life is only fair, don’t you think?” The sharp words were void of emotion and weighted with absolute logic. “How much would you be willing to pay?”

Rune studied the confident grin. A chill swept Rune’s spine and he fought the urge to shiver. “You’re a mercenary,” Rune said with pricked curiosity.

Borg smiled coldly. “Everyone is, at some price. What’s yours?”

* * *

Kallan slid from her saddle, touching her feet to the forest floor before Astrid had stopped. She was off through the thick pines and over the blankets of leaf litter as she hugged herself against the cold. There, among the thickest of trees, the canopy blocked the sky.

Daggon’s words rang back in her head.

“End of the war,” she muttered aloud, repeating the words as she pushed a path through the ferns and foliage. She hugged herself tighter.

Another three steps brought her to the middle of a clearing where the lowest of pine branches had died and fallen. Kallan dropped to her knees. Panting, she clasped her hands, tugging at her fingers, desperate for them to stop shaking.

“End of the war.” Kallan rocked. The words wouldn’t stop, as if they were taking the last of her father away from her. “End of the war.”

And then what? When the king is dead, then what would I do? This war is all I’ve known. This war and death. What am I to do without it?

Digging her fingers into her scalp, Kallan threw back her head and screamed.
Birds took flight, fluttering as their wings beat the air, then cleared, leaving behind an echo.

“If I see him…” Kallan hugged herself, rocking on her knees. “If I see him…”

I would have no choice. To see him, I would end this war. So long as I don’t see him… So long as I don’t see him…

Through the jumbled words, her father’s face appeared. Shaking her head, Kallan pushed the memory along with the pain, back behind her cold, black wall. Her anxiety eased. The forest grew still again, and she regained control of her senses.

I won’t see him. I don’t have to. Not yet. The war still goes on. And the Dark One will come.

Kallan almost grinned with relief.

The Dark One will come.

Kallan stopped rocking and drew in a deep breath.

So long as I don’t remember. So long as I don’t see him…

She sat a while longer until the last of her worry had ebbed.

Silent. Cold. Control. Forget. Forget it all.

And there was peace once more.

Having shoved aside the rising panic, Kallan shifted her knees out from under her. She would let the Dark One come to her. The men needed rest. And in Lorlenalin, they could regroup. Kallan shifted, and something through the foliage caught her attention. Curious, she peered through the brush and leaf litter, and stared at a sow left to rot on the forest floor.

“He didn’t take it,” she whispered. “Why didn’t he take it?”

CHAPTER 18

The sun settled beyond the trees, spilling the last of day’s light into the thick forests of Alfheim. In premature celebration, the Dokkalfar wasted no time erecting fires, stewing meats, and breaking into the mead.

Huddled around fires built a bit grander than necessary, the Dokkalfar war-men passed bowls of stew and exchanged drink with tale as they merged themselves in song and victory. The camp buzzed with a warm joviality that extended well into the night.

Amid the celebrations, unbeknownst to all, Borg made his way through the Dokkalfar camp. The solace of his tent couldn’t come quickly enough. Exhaustion from the day’s march was noticeable, and he directed his thoughts to the hot mead and meats waiting for him.

A shadow descended with a death-like chill and his breath stilled. Taking care to remain unseen, he redirected his path into the clusters of trees. The ground crunched beneath his boots. The orange glow of the camp faded as he neared the shadows within the forest. The camp was well behind him now.

He swept his gaze over the trees.

“Borg.”

Borg stopped. A growl emerged from the forest and he followed the faceless voice into the darkness without hesitation. A pair of deep, black eyes emerged, lined with the frame of a sickly-pale face cloaked in a thick, black beard with wild, wool-like hair to match. The shadows did well to conceal him.

“Motsognir,” Borg addressed the darkness where the night was blackest. “You’re running out of time, Borg,” Motsognir said.

Borg tightened his jaw as cold contemplation blanketed his eyes.

“There’s been a delay,” he said. “She’s alone now.”

“In a tent guarded by no less than two guards,” Motsognir growled.

Borg didn’t miss the bite in his tone. “You were supposed to be providing us with the opportunity. You’ve been paid to deliver.”

“And I gave you an opportunity last night,” Borg said. “I signaled you the moment she took off. You could have taken her then.”

“She was not alone,” Motsognir snarled. “There was another.”

Hot hate boiled in Borg’s chest and he inhaled, commanding his composure.

“I told you then. I don’t know the hunter,” he said through gritted teeth. “She was alone when she left here and alone when she returned.”

Through the shadows, Borg could feel Motsognir’s eyes pass over him, assessing him, ready to pass judgment.

“When?” Motsognir asked.

“We arrive in Lorlenalin in two days,” Borg said. “The queen hates confinement. She’ll seek to abandon her guard. I can signal you then.”

Motsognir examined Borg, who stared back with a determined hate that blocked all other thoughts.

“You have two days,” Motsognir said. The shadows shifted and Motsognir was gone.

Alone, Borg stood listening to the rustle of wind as life returned to the clearing. He wasn’t sure how long he waited before he willed himself to move again. Abandoning all thought of the idle comforts that waited in his tent, Borg returned to camp, pleased with the evening’s events.

* * *

Gudrun dropped the tent flap behind her. A few strands of silver hair hung in her face as she pulled close her evening robes against the chill. A single candle burned at the table where Kallan sat staring at nothing beyond the flame. Kallan’s thin, white chemise did little against the bitter bite in the air, but she didn’t shiver.

As Gudrun pulled her shawl around her shoulders, the single flame flickered, distorting Kallan’s face in a myriad of orange and black.

“Kallan?” Gudrun’s voice grazed over the queen, who sat motionlessly watching the fire engulf the wick. Gudrun approached her granddaughter, who didn’t move to smile or frown or reprimand. She hardly moved to breathe.

“Still fighting to delay the suffocation,” Gudrun whispered and brushed back a strand of Kallan’s locks. “Fighting and losing to the darkness that will eventually win.” Kallan didn’t move. “You seek to take shelter within the cold asylum of that void. Sink deeper into the black chasm where all thoughts end and where feelings cease to be. Keep sinking, Kallan, and you will find your Seidr leave you.”

Kallan coldly stared.

“You will die, killed by the grief that suffocates you. Kallan?” Gudrun shifted a gaze to the untouched tray of dried fruits and salted meats. “Kallan, you must eat,” she said. “It will be another two days before we reach Lorlenalin.”

In silence, Kallan stared, oblivious to the world around her.

Gudrun touched Kallan’s arm and effortlessly reached into Kallan with her Seidr. Almost at once, she found what she had been looking for. Kallan had already descended into the abyss within that she had made for herself. Her Seidr was cold like winter ice. Its flow was sluggish, almost stagnant like bog water where no air, no flow, and no life could reach it. In contrast, Gudrun’s own Seidr moved with an energy that exuded heat and nourished her lifeline.

She knew what Kallan had done, a dangerous thing for any Seidkona, especially one who underestimated her own abilities. Gudrun focused her energy deeper and, pushing her flow into Kallan’s, she forced the immobile Seidr to move and churned the currents with her own.

But something wasn’t right. The path flowed wrong. Gudrun furrowed her brow as the color returned to Kallan’s face and the life flowed back. In all of Midgard, only two could do such a thing.

Aaric?

The new path was too old to correct. Not now. It would require a lot of work to restore Kallan’s Seidr lines.

But when?
And
why?
Gudrun pondered as Kallan took in a slow, deep breath. Her chest rose, expanding with air, and Gudrun pulled back, withdrawing her Seidr from her grandchild.

For the first time in hours, Kallan altered her gaze, lifting her face to the old woman whose long, silver hair was braided back, the ends tied at the tip with a bit of leather. Gudrun watched the silenced scream staring back from Kallan’s eyes. Wordlessly, Kallan pleaded, while inside she crumbled beneath her grief.

A chill swept the tent and Gudrun stood. Aaric released the tent flap as the old Seidkona studied him. Scowling, she set to work making tea. Water filled the cup. Loudly, Gudrun clanked the cup and dipped her finger into the water, which was boiling in a matter of moments.

“How is she?” Aaric asked, keeping his voice low.

Unable to form the words, Gudrun shook her head and pulled her finger from the water. She knew too little about his reasons to say too much about Kallan’s altered Seidr path. Without a word, Gudrun poured powdered lavender, sage, and mint into the boiling water until the aroma hung heavy in the air. The fire crackled and Gudrun provided the cup to Kallan, who quietly took the tea.

Before Aaric could inquire, Gudrun dropped a fur onto Kallan’s shoulders.

“I’ll be back in an hour to check on you,” she said and planted a kiss on Kallan’s brow.

Turning, Gudrun mustered up her best fake smile for Aaric and slipped out the door, leaving the high marshal alone with Kallan.

“What do you need, Aaric?” Kallan said over the rim of her cup. Exhaustion weighed thick in every word.

“The prisoner has been cleaned and fed,” Aaric said.

Kallan nodded and tipped the cup to her lips. “Is there anything else?”

“There is,” Aaric said. “Will you be seeing him now?”

Kallan lowered her tea, keeping her eyes fixed on the candle’s flame. She pondered the question, enveloped by the cold panic that swept over her each time she thought of nearing King Rune’s tent.

“No.”

Aaric nodded in acknowledgment and reached for the flap of hide that was the door.

“Aaric.”

He turned back to his queen.

“Daggon should have presented you with letters of execution,” she said and took a sip of her tea.

“He did.”

“Are they ready for my seal?” She took another sip.

“Kallan.” Aaric stepped toward her. “I beg you to think about this. Killing the king will only enrage the Dark One.”

Kallan glanced up from her cup. The fire in her eye flared with conflict, refusing to leave the war on the battlefield.

“The Dokkalfar will demand no less than his death,” Kallan said, “and with the endless amount of the blood that has been spilled by their warmongering, it leaves me little room to disagree.”

“The Dokkalfar are wrong,” Aaric said.

Kallan’s chest rose and fell with every silent breath. The surface of her tea remained undisturbed by the tremors of temper running through her. The air in the room thickened.

“Mind yourself,” she said. “You tread dangerously close to enemy waters. Or have you developed compassion for the prisoner you were charged to keep?”

The fire popped.

“Have you given any thought to the repercussions of this execution?” he asked. “By killing the Ljosalfar king, the Dark One will rise up in vengeance. Have you given any thought to the rage you’ll stir in him if you kill his king?”

Kallan’s eyes hardened at the mention of the berserker deemed the Dark One.

“He will come for his king,” Aaric said. “It’s only a matter of time, and when he does, he will rise up and demand Rune be returned. I promise you. You will want the Ljosalfar king alive to give back to him or he will break every stone of Lorlenalin.”

Kallan looked back at the candle. The Dark One’s vengeance was exactly what she was hoping for.

“In your eagerness to end this war, you will spark a new hatred within the Ljosalfar,” Aaric said. “They will seek to destroy you with a rage that will only be quelled when your blood flows onto the bones of their ancestors.”

“The Dokkalfar demand the king’s execution,” Kallan said. “The people have that right.”

“The people are blinded by an ageless hatred for that bloodline.”

“Why are you so moved to spare him?” Kallan asked, calming her voice to a whisper.

“Not spare him, Kallan,” Aaric said. “Protect you.”

Kallan studied his eyes then dropped her gaze to her cup. Sleep was settling in and she started to sip again. She sunk her back into the chair. Gudrun’s brew was working well.

“Kallan.” Aaric forced his voice low. “I served with your father long before the migration. I’ve known the Ljosalfar centuries longer than any Dokkalfr has known this land. I once ate with them, laughed with them…slept with them.” Kallan peered into her cup. “I promise you, they will rise up and start this war over again.”

Her tea had lost its steam.

“The Dark One does not know the way into our city,” she said. “Our stronghold is impenetrable. Our fortress, unbreakable.”

“He will find a way.”

Kallan raised her face to the high marshal. Venom overshadowed her gaze.

“The Ljosalfar king dies in Lorlenalin’s courtyard. Do not forget which side you’re on, High Marshal.”

She spoke each word sharply, confirming the end of the conversation. With his complexion slightly paler than it had been moments ago, Aaric lowered his head and forced an agreeable answer.

“I’ll have the letters prepared for the execution.”