Dolor and Shadow (36 page)

* * *

The door of Gudrun’s chambers struck the wall, jolting her awake at the table.

Through a glassy-sheen, and with his hand held to the door, Daggon threw back his head and downed a large mouthful of mead. He drank until his cheeks bulged, holding the mead in his mouth for several moments as his amber eyes peered through the dark glow of the room.

The countless nights spent awake, dragged his posture down with a weary slump. Only when he released the door, did Gudrun realize he had been holding his inebriated self up from the floor. Pink and red gouges scored his face.

The hearth popped behind Gudrun where a large, black cauldron brewed something that smelled wonderfully like stew. A small bed shoved up beside the side of the hearth filled the darkest corner. The rose, heather, and mint hanging from the ceiling to dry mixed pleasantly, almost hypnotically, with the aroma of fire, sage, and food.

Daggon swaggered then stumbled, catching himself on the wall as he attempted to stand upright. By the degree of his sway, Gudrun concluded he had been drinking for a while, and the second stage of inebriated babbling was about to begin.

“Well, you look like a right mess,” she said, sitting back in her chair.

Daggon gulped down a mouthful of mead with a lavish swig from his flask. With a drunken stupor, he staggered across the room with a sway as Gudrun eyed his arm ring. Daggon fell against the wall beside her table reeking strongly of black currants, spices, and unwashed man.

“Aaric’s called off the shearches,” he slurred. “The sholders have been called back to Lorlilalin…Lorlela…the city…”

Daggon threw back another gulp and heaved a rank breath. Round, amber eyes weakened and widened with sorrow. Releasing a long sigh, he let fall his head against the cold stone and watched the fire in Gudrun’s hearth beneath the cauldron.

“He’s leaving her t’die out there.” Before his eyes could water, he threw back another mouthful then exhaled. “If she’s dead,” he said, raising his glassy-eyed gaze to Gudrun. “If she’s alive, you would know, wouldn’t you?”

Desperation clung to every word, mercilessly pulling at Gudrun’s heartstrings. His nerves were wrought raw with a pain he couldn’t dull in a flask of mead, no matter how many times he tried.

“Some things are not so easy to answer,” she said through a sigh. “What I see now can be just as easily changed with a simple choice or cha—”

“Oh, shtuff it, wench,” Daggon said. “You’d know if Kallan’s Seidr goes out.”

Gudrun studied the inebriate propped against her wall. The back of her throat burned as she gulped down a knot.

“You know Kallan passed from my vision a day after leaving Lorlenalin,” Gudrun said. “That I haven’t Seen anything since.”

Unable to answer, they shared the silence for a moment before she continued. “If you’ve come here for answers, then I have none. I know as much as you.”

“As much’s Aaric?” Daggon asked.

Gudrun raised a brow in question, wondering exactly how much Daggon knew.

“He says she’s dead,” he said. “He prepares a ship.”

The bite in his words thrust a gloom through Gudrun’s bower and he shook his head and added, “He wants my arm ring.”

A sting bit the tip of Gudrun’s nose and she gulped down the unexpected wave of tears.

After another gulp of mead, Daggon pushed against the wall and forced himself into a somewhat upright position. With an added stumble, he shuffled around the table and crouched down beside her. The stench of mead wafted into the air as he breathed, but beneath the mead-glazed stare, a sober desperation stared into the gold of Gudrun’s eyes.

“Can you really look at me and tell me she’s dead?” he asked.

Forced to abandon the path of the Seidr, Gudrun mulled her intuition over as she followed the streaks and lines of scarring on Daggon’s grizzled face. It was a long wait before she could answer.

“No.” Gudrun shook her head. “I can’t.”

“Then ride with me.” A spark of hope revived itself in Daggon’s voice. “We’ll go where the army didn’t.”

Gudrun chuckled at Daggon’s spirit and cupped his scarred cheek.

“And I supposed we’ll ride together to the ends of the earth and on to Ginnungagap?”

Daggon shrugged with a grin.

“If you like.”

“When was the last time you slept, Daggon?” Gudrun said, weary with grief.

The captain dropped his eyes to his flask, seemingly unable to think back that far. His hesitation was all the answer she needed.

Rising to her feet, Gudrun pushed off the table and listened to the legs of her little, wooden chair scrape the stone floor and the shuffle of her own feet. Throwing back his head, he washed down another helping of mead and stood. Dragging his drunken self around the hearth, the captain plopped down at the foot of Gudrun’s bed.

He didn’t move when the frail, thin hands whipped away his flask and shoved a bowl of thick, heavy stew in its place. Another scrape of wood on stone ended with the strong scent of mint as she pulled her chair around and seated herself in front of him.

“What of Gunir?” she asked, tugging at her shawl.

Daggon didn’t budge as he stared into his bowl at the vegetables, chunks of meat, and herbs soaked in a brown, thick broth.

“There has been no word,” Daggon said.

“And the Dark One,” Gudrun asked. “Has he started looking for his king yet?”

Daggon’s eyes beamed through the disarray of red hair as he looked up.

“No.” Daggon shook his head.

Nodding, Gudrun sat back in her chair, and watched the flames whip the air as Daggon downed the stew in one, continuous gulp.

* * *

Rune took a long draw from his pipe. He released the stream of smoke as he listened to the subtle movement of the war-men watching from the forest around them. Tension rose and he waited, but none of them had made their move.

Ten.
Rune took another draw.
They’re waiting for something.

Silence followed a faint rustling of leaves.

Perhaps eleven
.

He released another stream of smoke, and slid an eye over Kallan’s body.

If I go through with this, it must look convincing.

Kallan’s chest rose and fell with the steady pace of her breathing.

If she doesn’t kill me in the process,
he thought.

A rather convincing birdcall broke the silence, but Rune didn’t move. A reaction now would trigger an ambush.

As if it was only he and Kallan alone in the middle of the wood, Rune snuffed out his pipe and tucked it away in the satchel beside him as he did any other night. He sat back and tapped a finger on one knee.

For the first time since he had pulled Kallan from the caves, she slept without the accompaniment of nightmares. He had allowed her as much time as he could to let her sleep and hated himself now for having to wake her, but he had already lingered too long.

May Odinn send them all to Hel.

Pretending he heard no spies, Rune shuffled up onto his knees and crawled to Kallan’s side. Taking great care not to wake her prematurely, he moved and silently, carefully, positioned himself over the Dokkalfr until his body covered hers. He could only hope the image he created would keep them fooled until Kallan woke.

Please.
Rune held his breath.
Have the sense enough to listen before lighting my ass on fire.

The heat from her body hit him hard and his chest tightened. He leaned closer and fought to keep his head clear as he balanced his weight over her. He could not afford to restrict her movement. She would need the use of her hands.

His hair fell forward, blocking their faces from view. He brushed his cheek against hers and found her ear with his lips.

“Kallan,” Rune whispered.

She smelled of sweet rose and lavender, and he felt his reasoning waning.

“Kallan,” he breathed, louder than before.

He watched as sleep faded and Kallan regained consciousness. As she visibly tried to make sense of the situation, Rune pulled his mouth from her ear and the clouded haze in her eyes passed from exhaustion to bewilderment to panic. The last of confusion cleared and Kallan slammed her palms against his bare chest.

“Kallan,” Rune whispered again, desperate to draw her attention and fast.

He could feel her heart thundering and watched her face flush red. Panic was taking her. Desperate to shock her into listening, Rune slid his hand over her thigh. As he had hoped, Kallan locked her eyes with his.

“They’re here.”

His voice was barely a whisper, but he could see she understood.

“They’re watching.” He mouthed the words, barely breathing.

“Where?” she asked, matching his whisper. Rune drew himself closer where he could hear the pounding in her chest.

“In the trees behind me,” he answered, “and more near the oak in front of me.”

Kallan’s eyes didn’t waver.

“How many?” she asked.

“At least ten,” Rune said. “Maybe more.”

With a look that confirmed she understood, Kallan amassed the Seidr in her palm, and the Beast stirred hungrily. As if to kiss her, Rune moved and Kallan reached up and fired a blast over his shoulder into the trees behind him.

Before the bodies hit the ground, Rune rolled and snatched his bow too late. An arrow impaled Kallan’s shoulder and she fell to her knees as a soldier landed a blow to the back of Rune’s head. Like a swarm, four men were on Kallan. Grabbing her wrists and arms, they pinned her to the ground, shoving her face into the dirt while Rune tried to stand, but stumbled when a strike to his back forced him down and they bound his hands before he could stand. Kallan had gone still. A glazed stare blanketed her eyes and Rune, with the relentless hunger of the Beast within, felt for Kallan’s Seidr.

It slowly drained, not from the core where the Seidr began, but from the wound in her shoulder from the arrow’s head. Along her Seidr lines, he felt her energy fading as if a poison was spreading.

“Kallan,” Rune called.

Another blow to the head silenced him. All went black for a moment then color and light returned. The Beast stirred, pacing with great unease, and Rune stretched his senses to Kallan.

Despite the dull gaze on her face, within her a mass had formed. Rune felt her push her energy out and force her Seidr through the earth. Like a single strand in a tapestry, she wove her energy around the threads inside her captors. Reversing the flow of her Seidr, she pulled, drawing the Seidr inward and taking with it the Seidr around her.

Energy from her captors filled her as she drew their Seidr from them, pulling on the golden threads only she and Rune could see. Their strength abandoned them, and, one by one, they weakened their grips, freed her wrists, and fell. Kallan moved to lift herself from the ground, but as the last of the soldiers dropped, Kallan collapsed, caught herself, and tried again to pick herself out of the dirt.

The poison was spreading.

Wrapping her hand around the shaft, Kallan ripped the arrow from her shoulder with a scream. At once, the line of poison that was draining her Seidr stopped. Sweat beaded upon her brow and her hand shook as she withdrew an apple, provoking a new wave of excitement within Rune’s Beast. The fruit’s skin had barely grazed her lips when a set of fingers twisted into her hair and pulled her head back. A blade cupped her throat, and Kallan dropped the apple.

“Tarn! Get the apple!” a warrior cried and another obediently scooped up the fruit, cradling it like his firstborn.

Grabbing the face of the soldier who held her, Kallan fired the Seidr, propelling his body back. She caught his knife as he fell and threw the blade into the throat of the soldier holding Rune on his knees and, extending her arms, she blasted the Seidr from both palms.

Two of the last three soldiers fell before either could land another blow and all was silent.

Kallan stood and pulled her dagger from her waist. Heaving, she approached Rune and unsheathed his sword. Nerves unsettled him and he watched as she flicked her wrist and cut his bonds with her dagger, leaving him to rise to his feet as the Dokkalfar queen turned to Tarn, who kneeled, cradling the apple, oblivious to the fate of his comrades, ignorant of the Seidkona who tightened her grip on the sword and dagger. Death warmed Kallan’s lifeless stare.

In three long strides, she raised the sword and, as cold as a Nordic winter, thrust the blade up and through Tarn’s back, lifting him off the ground. With a twist of the hilt, Tarn’s body slid from the sword. Only when he hit the ground did he surrender the apple.

Blood dripped from the tip of Kallan’s blade and pooled on the earth. Ignoring Rune, Kallan retrieved the apple and sank her teeth into its flesh and Rune watched as the fibers re-knitted themselves and exhaustion vanished. The poison receded, leaving her lines strong once more. 

The forest was quiet. The sunlight had finally come, casting its light from the horizon. Picking himself off the ground, Rune took up an idle sword and calmly brushed the dirt from his trousers. The first of the earliest morning blue spilled into the forest and he gazed upon Kallan as she finished her apple.

With the back of his hand, Rune wiped the blood from his nose, assessed it then returned his attention to Kallan, who made her way to Astrid and gave of the apple.

Rune’s eyes glossed with the sheen of a bruise that had already begun to turn the flesh around his eyes black and red. While clutching his stomach, he ambled toward Kallan. He stumbled once and caught himself before continuing on to the Seidkona who stared across the field in thought.

She didn’t see the draw back of his arm as he closed in or his open, raised hand seconds before it connected with her face.

Seething, Kallan stared through the strands of hair as the red of Rune’s palm on her white face vanished almost immediately.

“You lied to me,” Rune said, clutching his side where someone’s boot had landed. His voice carried through the field. “You knew they were after the apples. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Kallan stared, but preserved her silence and Rune slammed his hand into her face again. Again, her white complexion healed at once, leaving no red, no markings, no sign at all that he had struck her or even felt it. Before she could turn back, Rune swung his sword. Kallan raised
Gramm
and met Rune’s blow inches from her face.

“Why do they want the apples, Kallan?” Rune asked.

Saying nothing, she stared between the blades locked at the hilts. With a surge of strength, he pushed their swords down, and Kallan raised her dagger to his throat.

Cold emanated from the iridescent blue rings of her eyes, and just as quickly as he felt her Seidr ignite in fury, it ebbed and indifference moved in and took the fight from her. She lowered her dagger, succumbing to the impassive walls he felt her put up.

No sooner had she returned to her dispassionate haze than Rune swung his sword. Kallan sidestepped his attack, but, this time, he was ready. Closing his hand around hers that clutched the dagger, he shoved her back into the oak and drove her blade into the trunk as he stepped in, pinning her against the tree.

“Why did the Dvergar take you?” Rune asked, keeping his hand on hers that clutched the dagger.

He felt her Seidr rebound with the fight in her eyes, and she pushed against him. He laughed, encouraging her wrath, and freed her. She pulled the dagger from the tree, poised for battle, but her Seidr ebbed once more. Again, she lowered her dagger and the sword to her side.

Rune swung and Kallan stepped aside.

“I killed your father,” he said. “Now hate me!”

He swung and Kallan blocked his blade.

“Hate me, Kallan!” The metal rang as she diverted his blade. “Stop blocking my blows,” he shouted. “And hate me!”

He struck the blade of her sword, goading her, but she remained impassive and lowered her weapons again. Her indifference only drove him to pursue. Swinging the blade back around, he aimed for Kallan’s head and, forced to defend, she caught his blow on the hilt. With a spark in his eye, Rune leaned across their blades and closed his mouth over hers. He felt the Seidr erupt within her. It awakened the Beast that stood and paced hungrily. He bit her lip. Her Seidr surged, the Beast roared, and Rune released her and laughed.

Kallan lunged with an ignited frenzy, evoking a second boisterous laugh from Rune, who dodged her offense with a smile. With his sword, he forced her weapon to the ground and added a hearty chuckle.

He felt her temper spark and, undaunted, Rune slipped behind her, sliding an arm around her waist. Aggravating her fury further, he brushed his lips over the back of her neck, ensuring to keep her wrath awakened now that he had it.

Rune felt her shudder with ire and he pushed himself closer, holding her tighter. With a growl, Kallan turned and, as Rune emitted a third laugh, she threw the blades to the ground, ending their game, and pooled her Seidr. Rune braced to accepted the hit and absorb her Seidr while the Beast roared hungrily in anticipation.

A sob rose from the distance.

Kallan extinguished her Seidr as Rune stood straight, lowering his blade, and they listened.

A second cry confirmed their suspicion. Exchanging a quick set of glances, they forgot their quarrel, abandoned their differences, and, after Rune snagged up his bow and quiver, they sprinted out of the wood together. Over the fresh turned earth they ran side by side into the grave field, slipping in and out of the stone ships, drawn by a woman’s cry. At the far most end of the field at the edge of a lake. Over the graves, they saw a lone soldier and a maiden. There, clad in a tunic adorned with Kallan’s
naudr
, a soldier sat grinding the girl beneath him.

Rage inflamed Rune. Craze awoke the berserker. With his wrath ignited, he pulled, drew, and aimed an arrow, releasing it all before Kallan could summon her Seidr. Howling, the soldier arched into the arrow that impaled his back, and, taking three long strides, Rune raised his sword and swung the blade through the soldier’s neck.

With a bloody thud, his head fell to the ground, leaving the whimpers of a pale, blond-haired woman, half stripped and trembling on the ground beneath the headless corpse.