Dolor and Shadow (30 page)

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Distant roars of the giants merged with the howling winds as Rune’s breath punched the cold night air, forming puffs of clouds in the storm. Specks of snow obstructed his view.

He afforded a glance to Kallan. Unconscious, she hung limp in his arms as she swayed with each step that crunched through the thin slate of ice on the snow. Her swollen eyes and broken nose distorted her face. The rags she wore did little to cover most of her, leaving her dangerously exposed to the elements.

Over sheets of sleet and snow, the cold burned his lungs, adding a chill, he feared, that would stay with him for days. He attempted to alternate breathing from his nose to mouth, but the cold coated his insides, freezing his air passages as the snow swallowed his shins.

The winds sliced Rune’s arms as if the snowflakes were blades. Desperate to shield her from the storm, he hugged Kallan tighter. The wind screamed and, with a start, Rune stumbled, mistaking the shriek of the wind for memories he heard in his head.

The Sickly One crawling for the door who never made it. The blood still covered Rune’s hands. He hadn’t bothered wiping it off. There had been no time.

Rune tightened his hold on Kallan, hugging her closer to his own thin tunic in hopes of shielding her from the storm. She wouldn’t survive the cold. He narrowed his eyes against the sharp sting of the snow, but saw nothing for miles but black.

“Ljosalfr!”

The command cut through the wind, stopping Rune in the snow. Slowly, he turned back toward the cave where he had just emerged, carrying the Dokkalfar’s queen.

Tall and pale and buried beneath a mesh of beard, a lone Dvergr stood. His large, leather overcoat fell to his knees where it settled onto the surface of the snow. Rune’s heart pounded his chest, increasing the amount of breaths he drew as he calculated the distance between he and the Dvergr. Kallan’s dagger hung out of reach at his waist.

“I’m not here for you,” the Dvergr spoke over the screaming wind that forced him to push out every breath against the gale. “I’m here for her.”

Rune tightened his hold onto Kallan.

“I can kill you just as quic—” Rune said.

“She’ll die up here like that,” the Dvergr shouted over Rune’s threat.

“Based on her condition,” Rune said, “I doubt very much you care.”

The storm was worsening, but neither moved.

“Here,” the Dvergr said and extended a large bundle wrapped in leather.

The wind cut the air between them, filling that space with groans. Rune looked him over. The Dvergr could be hiding anything within the folds of the overcoat.

“If I was going to kill you,” the Dvergr said, “I would have done so when your back was turned.”

Without the luxury to stand in the cold and weigh his options, Rune decided to move. With long, cautious strides, he closed the space between them, stopping just out of a sword’s reach.

The bundle hit the snow with a muffled slump and the Dvergr shifted his arm, startling Rune into a retreat.

Cursing himself for being so foolish, Rune moved to run, but before he could take a step, the Dvergr pulled off his large, black overcoat lined with thick, black fur, and dropped it over Kallan’s near naked, frozen body.

With a second flourish, the Dvergr brandished a sword, sheath and all. Silver filigree and black opals, the largest of which was a pommel, encrusted a black elding steel hilt. The retracted light reflected off the snow, adding a magnificent shimmer, the likes of which Rune had never seen before.

“I’ll start them on the roads toward Vestfold,” the Dvergr said. The warning pulled Rune’s ear. “I’ll keep them there for as long as I can. That should clear the southern roads to Viken for you.”

Rune forced his gaze from the sword and studied the deep black of the Dvergr’s eyes.

So much like Bergen’s,
he thought.

“Please,” the Dvergr said. “Keep her alive.”

Waves of relief and gratitude filled Rune, mingling with a hatred that boiled over at the sight of Kallan’s condition.

Before Rune could spit in his eye or thank him, the Dvergr placed the sword on Kallan and, without coat or weapon, the Dvergr backed away several paces then turned.

In silence, he vanished into the darkness, leaving the bundle where it lay in the mountain’s snow.

CHAPTER 42

Kallan stirred at the unmistakable hush of rain. The rancid stench of the Dvergar was gone. In its place, the soft, sweet scent of lightly chilled earth engulfed her senses. The fire popped and Kallan jerked awake, opening a single eye.

A dilapidated shack suspended the remains of a low ceiling that barely provided rudimentary shelter. One full wall and half of a second had rotted away, leaving much of the bowed ceiling suspended by derelict corner posts and weathered wall planks secured to the floorboards where she lay.

Kallan curled the tips of her fingers against the grains of a wooden, weathered plank. A fire in all its wonderful collection of smells of smoke, dry earth, and charred wood mingled with the delicious scent of roasted grouse.

Her belly tightened with hunger and a cool breeze hit the ground rolling. It swept up and over her body, sending a gentle chill through her. Light of the mid-day sun shone through the rains.

She had to work to focus her one eye on the clear, white rain that fell like sheets onto a variety of wild ferns peppered with hardened tundra. It rolled like the sea, blanketed in crimson, orange, and yellow. The foliage had grown, spreading wild into the shelter through the mostly missing walls. An arm’s length away, a single tundra flower grew and she stared, mesmerized by its simplicity.

The fire crackled, drawing Kallan’s attention to Rune, who sat studying her with eyes too dark to read. He didn’t falter when she glanced at him or when she looked back to the light, lost in thought to the caves.

The bitter tang that had dulled her senses and made her indifferent to the beatings was gone. She could feel everything now, and began to assess the damage. More ribs were cracked, fractured, and shattered than were whole. Her nose had been broken and recently reset. Crushed into powder, the smallest finger of her left hand distended into her signet ring. Swelling forced her right eye closed, significantly limiting her vision. She could hardly breathe, but, as much as it hurt to move, it hurt more to be still.

Attempting to stand, Kallan shifted her stiff legs, but something thick and heavy restricted her movement. She glanced down and hot anger devoured her insides. Splayed over her body, on top of a blanket, the leather overcoat lined with fur lay.

Ori
.

Kallan twisted her face. Something between hate and rage grew and she bit the corner of her bottom lip as she fought back the urge to cry. Upon careful inspection, she discovered that her new warden had taken the liberty of stripping off the remnants of her chemise and replaced her clothes with a heavy, green woolen tunic that loosely hung from her shoulders to her knees. A pair of plain trousers, too large for any woman, extended well past her ankles and Rune had obviously washed the first layer of grime from her skin.

Despite her battered body, overall, she was comfortable and warm.

Kallan shifted again to stand, forcing Rune to emit a syllable that sounded too much like a botched protest. She stumbled and fell, breaking her fall on her crushed finger. Like a curtain, her hair fell, shielding her face from Rune.

Anger sent tremors through her.

Each bruise that covered her, each cut that burned, sent wave after wave of agony that seemed to start at the side of her hand. She bit her lip, quelling her anger and arousing the hate the Dvergar had seeded.

Memories clawed at her head, of the pain, of the darkness, of the nightmare she had endured for so long. Tears burned her eyes as a giant wave of hate washed over her, dragging her into the darkest-most fathoms of abhorrence where vengeance brewed.

Kallan’s body shook against the silent screams, making her aware of every ache the Dvergar had inflicted. A greater loathing settled as she ached to scream, to lash out, and cry, but no Dvergar sat before her. Only Rune who sat silently with her, oblivious of the desecration she endured.

Kallan waited to speak until she could slow her breath and ease her rage.

“Where am I?” she gasped, careful to keep her face hidden behind her hair.

Sound scraped her throat and she shook, coughing on the words. Worry enclosed her mind as she drew in long, deep breaths, forcing herself at ease.

“Where,” she growled again, and lifted her eyes to Rune. Tears burned the back of her throat.

“Upplond,” Rune said. “As of yesterday.”

His voice was like sweet honey and assured her the last of the caves were behind her, and she hated him for it.

Kallan gasped and her good eye widened at the rising sick.

“Midgard?”

Rune nodded. “Drink this,” he said shoving a tankard at her before she could speak further.

Too weak to object, Kallan accepted the tankard of hot tea that soothed while she drank. It flowed down her throat, coating the muscle with the familiar sweetness of black currant tea. She coughed.

“Where is Astrid?” she asked.

“Safe,” he answered. “Again.”

Kallan drank.

The liquid hit her belly, immediately flipping it in on itself. She fought back the rising nausea as Rune rotated the multiple skewers of roasted grouse over the fire and her stomach clenched for food.

“Before yesterday…” Her throat clamped shut against the words. “Where was I?”

The pause that followed confirmed Rune didn’t want to tell her.

“Jotunheim,” he replied.

The single word dowsed her back with a chill. Kallan shuddered and forced the next words out.

“You went to Gunir.” The words dripped with resentment. “Why did you come back?” she asked, lifting her eyes from her curtain of hair.

“Bergen went to Gunir,” Rune corrected. “It was he the Dvergar followed.”

He removed a spear of meat and passed her the smallest one, which she devoured within moments, easing one cramp in her stomach as another, more prominent, cramp doubled in objection.

“By the time I caught up to you, they were preparing for their descent into Svartálfaheim,” Rune said through a mouthwatering slice of grouse. “You’ve been unconscious since.”

While she attempted to process his story, Rune took a moment to look over her condition.

“I reset your nose and bound your ribs,” he said. “Several of them are broken. Most are cracked. Your eye…” Rune trailed off. “I am no healer and Geirolf isn’t here. I did what I could.”

Kallan dabbed at the swollen flesh around her eye that felt strangely empty.

“Your finger was smashed,” he said. “I did my best to splint it, but found nothing in the bags or your pouch to help much.”

Kallan looked to the smallest finger of her left hand and raised the bandaged mess. After inspecting it, she knelt back on her makeshift bed. Her thoughts drifted and Rune gave her a moment of silence before beginning the plethora of questions he must have waited days to ask.

“Did they tell you what they wanted?” Rune asked.

“Repeatedly,” she whispered. “Where is my pouch?”

She could see the reservation stay his hand. After a moment, Rune turned to the leather bag behind him, exposing the hilt of an elding blade encrusted with fine jewels that drew her attention.

“Where did you get that?” Kallan said. Her voice was barely a breath.

Rune didn’t answer.

She tightened her jaw, repressing the countless questions that came as Rune pulled the pouch of amadou from the bag of supplies. With her good hand, Kallan snatched the pouch.

“I already emptied it of whatever herbs I could identify,” Rune said. “There wasn’t much.”

Kallan shook as she shuffled the contents, pushing her way past potion packets and herbs until her fingers clasped Idunn’s apple. The shimmering fruit with golden skin glistened like the opals in the sword behind Rune.

Sinking her teeth into its flesh, Kallan ravished the apple in a few mouthfuls. After the smooth fruit slid down her throat, Kallan focused and muttered a charm as she reached for her Seidr. She was elated to find it there, intact, eager, and readily waiting. The Seidr flowed and mingled with the Seidr from the apple, repairing the damage done as it moved through her.

Muscle fibers re-wove themselves and bones re-calcified, returning to their original state. Bruises vanished as the clots broke down, urging her blood to flow. Her heart pounded her chest with a zealous vigor. As Kallan took her fifth bite, the ligaments and nerves in her finger re-knitted themselves, and fluids restored her eye.

Free of the pain that had limited each breath, Kallan fell to her hands as the last rib mended itself. She gasped against the sudden rush of air and drew in long, deep breaths that fully expanded her unbruised lungs, leaving her lightheaded.

When she found her breath again, the only evidence that remained of her captivity was the filth of the cave that still clung to her iridescent skin.

“How?” Rune asked.

Kallan looked up. Silence and cold confirmation stared from behind Rune’s eyes.

Kallan scoffed.

“You brought me here. You took me from my city. Were it not for you, I would still be in Lorlenalin. Were it not for you, my father would still be alive. And you want me to answer how.”

The rain fell in a constant sheet. Striking the ground with a persistent patter that did well to drown out unwanted thoughts. Free of the incessant pain, Kallan turned her eyes to the elements and scrambled to her feet, taking care to secure the pouch around her waist while she did so. Eager for the taste of her restored freedom, Kallan leapt from the blanket and overcoat, scrambled her way out of the dilapidated lean-to, and stepped into the clean, cool rain.

She pulled each breath deep in her lungs and lifted her face to the sky, welcoming the shower as it washed the filth from her skin. Like tiny red rivers, blood and black streamed from her hair and face and pooled, down her body to her bare feet, free of the lacerations, calluses, and scabs from the cave floors.

The soft earth beneath her feet was kinder than any night she had spent among the Dvergar. The winds of Midgard blew colder than she ever remembered in Alfheim and the rain seemed tainted somehow, weighted with a grief she couldn’t place.

Closing her eyes, Kallan pulled from her core. The Seidr flooded to each limb, mingling with each fiber as it twisted and wove its way through her, restoring her very cells to their beginnings. The last of the pain vanished, nurturing the life that shone with renewed energy in its stead. When Kallan opened her eyes, her plans were clear, her path decided.

“I won’t stay here,” Kallan called through the rain.

Rune stood. She was more than vaguely aware of his heightened guard, alert and ready to leap the moment she moved.

“Where is Astrid?” she called over the rushing rain not bothering to lower her face from the skies. She expected him not to answer at all and jumped when he spoke.

“There’s a lake at the base of this hillside,” he answered. “He waits by the river that flows from the north.”

Inexplicable anger surged, and Kallan shook with the effort it took to contain it.

“You left him?”

“You had a fever,” Rune answered. “I couldn’t afford to keep you in the rain and there are no shelters by the river, nor could Astrid make the climb. He’s hidden and safe. I checked on him not an hour ago.”

Kallan trembled with rage that pulsed through her. She felt her Seidr pooling, and clutched her fists at her sides.

“How many days from Alfheim?” she asked, indifferent to the rain.

“Come out of the rain, Kallan,” Rune bade coldly.

Kallan dropped her face from the sky. Rune’s hand rested casually on the hilt of her dagger buried in the waist of his trousers. His face, forever hardened on hers, was as unreadable as always.

“How many days?” she repeated.

“Fourteen.”

A sudden sick tightened her stomach.

“H—H— how long was I—?”

“Twelve days.”

Her head spun as it tried to find a way to understand that her endless captivity had lasted only twelve days.

“Twelve days,” she breathed.

Twelve days without sunlight. Twelve days without rain. It felt like twelve months.

“Come out of the rain, Kallan.”