Dolor and Shadow (44 page)

“That’s all I ask,” Rune said with a nod. “We leave at dawn. We can’t afford to sit still for too long, and while we’re on the road, try…try not to draw any attention to yourself.”

Still obviously seething, he turned leaving Kallan alone on the beach.

With the same spitfire she reserved for him, Kallan called to his back.

“But my blade will pierce your gut with the first foot fall that touches down on Alfheim!”

Rune flashed her grin. “I’m looking forward to it,” he said and marched back to the village.

CHAPTER 53

“Harald carved this stone after his father Gorm and his mother Thyra. Harald, who won for himself all of Dan’s Reach…”

Through the darkness, Svenn Forkbeard peered at the runes etched in stone. The fraction of moonlight permitted by the crescent was barely enough to read the lettering. Countless times, he had spent his youth reading the inscription carved there by his father. He had repeated the words until the sounds had burned themselves into his memory. Each time, his hatred grew.

This night, his eye held fixed to one part of the inscription.

“…Harald, who won for himself all of Dan’s Reach…”

The small, silver disc Forkbeard turned over in his hand passed through his fingers as he followed the lines of runes stamped into the coin. His eye lingered, caught on the words and, once more, he debated having the stone torn down altogether. The temple Blatonn had erected was easy enough to burn to the ground, but this…

A twinge of hesitation pulled at his chest as he re-read the names again.

Gorm and Thyra.

His gaze shifted to his left, and the great southern mound of Thyra’s grave. Those names alone were what saved it.

Forkbeard stared at his father’s stone again. Its size dwarfed Gorm’s stone, which was twice the grandeur. From this angle, it completely hid the second stone from view.

Another reason to tear it down,
he thought.

“My king?”

Forkbeard looked up from the stone. Along the side of his Mead Hall, looking closer to thirty than he did to twenty, Vagn, son of Akes, stood.

Releasing a sigh, Forkbeard straightened his back as the young captain peered through the dark.

“Speak,” Forkbeard said, annoyed at the disturbance.

“The Alfr is here.”

* * *

The darkened halls of the Mead Hall carried a lingering gloom that moved through the whole of the room where Queen Sigrid paced the floor. Forkbeard eyed her blue silk gown. It rustled as she moved, adding to the chill of the deep blacks of the Hall. Despite her wide, sturdy frame, there was a feminine delicacy about his wife’s composure. Her freckled complexion appeared almost untainted and misplaced by the black walls of the Hall.

Tonight, she had sleeked her blond hair into a braided bun that accented her high cheekbones, drawing his eye to the sleek curve of her slender neck. With her chin high and shoulders relaxed, she moved with an air of command, keeping her arms to her sides.

“You’re proposing we lay waste to Alfheim,” the queen spouted.

Forkbeard’s boot struck the floor following each step with a noticeable offset gimp that dragged his every left step. If the king’s arrival daunted their dark guest, he gave no indication.

“As of right now, the Ljosalfar have no king,” the Alfr said. “Gunir looks to Bergen Tryggveson, who sits restless on the throne. Gunir has lost great numbers. The city is weak and leaderless.”

“And without aid, you lack the power to move in and take Gunir for yourself,” Sigrid said. “But what guarantee can you give that Lorlenalin will side with us once battle is at hand?”

Svenn stifled a smile he hid well within his forked beard and said nothing as he climbed the steps to the throne, positioned between a set of high seat pillars.

“All Dokkalfar have felt the queen’s disappearance,” the Alfr said, impervious to the regality of Dan’s Reach’s queen. “Her people are shaken. Vulnerable, they are desperate for leadership. The city is on the brink of chaos. I assure you, the Dokkalfar will unite against Gunir. If you were to move now against the Ljosalfar, no one would stand in your way.”

Forkbeard pushed a fist to his mouth, the coin in his grip.

“There are others you could request for aid,” Sigrid said. “Why Dan’s Reach? Why not Englia, Lade, or the Rod Men of Gardaríki?”

The Alfr beamed, knowing their position.

“No other alliance has as much to gain.” His answer was as honest as it was simple.

While pondering her reply, Sigrid settled herself into her throne positioned beside the pillars.

“Gunir has long since battled against your stance,” the Alfr said. “Since Blatonn’s reign, the southern keep has held you at bay. Even now, though Danelaw spans all of Dan’s Reach and Northumbria, you can’t gain the position for Alfheim, which would give you a great advantage unmatched by any other location.”

“We’ve spent our rule content to leave the Alfar to their own…uninterested in the politics of ancient wars,” Sigrid said, tired of the Alfr’s evasion. “Above all, the Alfar know this. Yet, you came here confident we would accept your offer. What boon do you bring that would win our favor?”

The Alfr peered at the woman, knowing the weight his words would carry.

“Olaf has claimed the Northern Realms.”

Svenn looked at Sigrid in time to witness the blood drain from her face before she flushed red with hate.

“The sting of his hand still burns my cheek,” she said and the Alfr knew he had her. He continued, giving little pause for her to regain composure.

“He’s already laid claim to Throendalog and Opplandene. His troops now march to Viken and Vestfold. Nothing stands in his way from Lade to Agdir. He moves to take Aeslo where his hand will move freely into the Silver Road and the Eastern trades from Volga to the Khvalis Sea. A hold in Alfheim will gain you the advantage to move troops into Viken and everything west of the Raumelfr without resistance. From there, you could reclaim the North.”

Lowering his fist, Svenn spoke with a deep lull that boomed from his seat on the throne.

“Where is the queen?” Forkbeard asked. “Where is Kallan Eyolfdottir?”

The Alfr shifted his attention to the king, leaving Sigrid to brood.

“Arrangements have been made with Gunir’s king,” he assured Forkbeard. “Kallan Eyolfdottir, is dead.”

Svenn threw Sigrid an impassive glance, allowing a chance for her to speak. When she didn’t, he stared down at his guest.

“Return to the White Opal,” he said. “My scouts will follow. They will watch. And when Lorlenalin is ready, we will answer.”

With a silent bow, Borg turned from the feet of the monarchs and took his leave of the Dani’s king.

* * *

Kallan shifted and stretched her legs out along the flat planks of Olga’s longhouse. Movement amplified every ache, leaving her painfully stiff that morning. Instead of the usual bustle around the central fire pit, boiling over with the midday’s meal, the longhouse was empty.

Grateful for the absence of Olga’s kin buzzing about to wash and dress for the day, she forced her sore joints back into the gown of green and gold, wincing with every stretch. With her pouch secured to her waist, and her dagger sheathed at her side, Kallan fluffed her hair, preened before the glass, and stepped into the crisp, morning haze that had moved in from the Northern Sea.

She allowed a moment for her eyes to adjust and grimaced at the late hour of the day. A lone pile of cindered ash smoldered in the square where a single strip of smoke rose into the sky, mingling with the fog. Workers had all but abandoned their progress on Olaf’s house. Without a second glance, Kallan trudged along to the Mead Hall, concluding it to be the most reasonable place for a certain king to be.

Kallan’s mood was lighter by the time she entered the hall. Almost immediately, she located Rune at the same table where the inebriate and his comrades had indulged the night before.

He downed a morning mead next to Halvard and exchanged a chuckle, taking turns devouring strips of dried meat from the pile on the table between their tankards. She was pleased to see he too had secured a fresh change of clothes, boots, and, from the looks of it, a bath. A weathered, but well-made, leather belt firmly secured a quiver of arrows on one hip and
Gramm
on the other. He wore his hair loose, which blocked her gawking from his peripheral vision.

Pulling herself out of complacency, Kallan straightened her skirts, fluffed her hair, and proceeded to the table. Before either could voice their objection, she snatched up a strip of salted reindeer and settled herself down beside Rune.

Flashing a quick smile, Halvard downed the last of his mead and, dismissing himself, gave a firm pat to Rune’s shoulder. Day’s light engulfed his wide frame in the doorway before Kallan snatched up a second strip.

“I thought we were leaving at dawn?” Kallan asked, biting into the venison.

“You needed the sleep and we needed time to get the provisions together.” Rune watched from behind his tankard as he gulped down another helping and dropped the drink to the table.

“Where’s your bow?” she asked, eyeing his back a bit longer than she needed.

“Halvard is having a new string put on,” Rune said, shoving the end of a strip into his mouth. “The last one was looking threadbare.”

The mood of the Mead Hall was nothing as it had been the night before. With most benches empty and the fire in the center of the hall extinguished, a fresh air had settled over the room.

“Astrid will be saddled and ready as soon as you put something in your belly,” Rune said, shifting a glance to Kallan, who was delicately prying apart the individual strips like cheese curds.

“Halvard has gifted us with a second horse,” he said. “Olga and Emma are preparing salted and sugared foods that will keep well on the road and should last us a few days.”

Kallan finished the last of the strip and snatched up another.

“How many days before we meet the river?” Kallan asked, pulling this one apart as she had the first.

“Raumelfr,” Rune clarified.

“What?” she asked between coughs on a mouthful of meat.

“It’s the River Raumelfr.” He gave her no time to recover. “If we keep the same pace, ten hour days of steady stride, in five days we should see Alfheim.”

Kallan gasped.

“Ten hours? Are you mad? A horse, on that pace will be dead in three!”

“You have your apples, don’t you?”

Kallan frowned and bit back her bottom lip.

“At Lake Aursund, the river starts,” Rune continued. “From there, she will lead us down into Heidmork, then Raumariki, and into Vingulmork, the first fylke of Viken. We’ll need to be sure to catch the east side of the river when leaving Aursund or we’ll have to cross the Raumelfr in Viken.”

Pausing to drink, he passed a discrete glance to Kallan, who seemed only engrossed with her meal.

“The frequent rivers and streams will keep our water and fish supply well stocked,” he said, giving her time to comment or question.

Kallan bit another helping in two while she eyed Rune over the venison.

“Halvard has invited us to look through the armory,” he said. “You should see if anything holds your appeal before we leave.”

“What happened to the swords you picked up?” Kallan asked before dropping a bit of meat between her teeth.

“I gave them to Halvard’s smith, who thinks he can re-forge the metal into something half decent.”

“It will weaken the metal,” Kallan said, speaking between a venison strip.

“They know that,” Rune said.

With a loud smack, Kallan finished off the strip and stood from the bench then snatched up Rune’s tankard.  She drank his mead, and, with a wide grin, dropped the drink to the table. With a flourish, she made for the door.

In the sun, Kallan frowned at the strip of meat lodged between Rune’s teeth as he joined her and sorted the strips clutched in his fist.

“You’re the King of Gunir,” she reminded him with a tone that suggested this would improve his etiquette.

“I’m a man,” Rune professed through the chunk animal clamped between his teeth. He gave a hearty chomp and a swallow before continuing. “I like my meat. This way,” he said, looping his arm into hers and steering her to the right.

“Where are we going?” Kallan asked, cocking a brow at his jovial mood.

Pointing to the barracks ahead, Rune declared in a booming voice, “To the stars!”

With their arms still linked, Kallan furrowed her gaze as Rune walked her past the center square, around the barracks to the back where a smith plinked away on an anvil.

Polished weapons honed into fine precision, lined the walls of the armory. Bows splayed about covered every surface beside quivers of arrows and a wide variety of daggers. Eagerly, Kallan untwisted her arm from Rune’s and bolted for the nearest table strewn with doubled edged swords.

“I thought Olaf laid waste to this land?” Kallan asked while judging the spine of a particular blade.

She checked the balance before giving a few practice thrusts and down swings.

“I asked Halvard the same thing,” Rune said, shoving the last of the strips into his mouth. “Apparently, the land’s seclusion has won his favor. He plans to make Nidaros his base here in Midgard and wants to get into good standing with the Throendir.”

Kallan paid no mind as she poured all her focus into the blade, guiding each swing through to pull on her stiff joints.

“The villagers said he’s calling it Kaupangen,” he said, “and plans to station his own
prestr
or
priast
here at the house he’s having them build. They couldn’t remember what he called it.”

Kallan heaved, aligning her arm with the spine as she peered down the blade.

“And now he marches south to Aeslo?” she asked.

With a final swing up and around then down to the table, she returned the sword and switched it out for a second blade. Again, Kallan assessed the spine and balance before guiding the blade through the air with a fluidity she carried through to the next position.

“There’s rumor he’s looking to expand and join the Silk Road and the Volga Route in Aeslo,” Rune said.

He said nothing more for a moment, and she continued testing the blade until he spoke in a sudden rush.

“Why did you leave with Brand last night?”

Through the air, Kallan moved the sword, cutting the wind with her blade.

“I fail to see how the selection of my…companions….concerns you,” she answered.

“I asked why you left with him. Not why you slept with him,” Rune said. “And standing you up does not a
companion
make.”

Kallan raised the sword to thrust, and froze. Her stomach twisted with ire. After a silent glance, she returned to sparring and lunged as she stabbed the air with her blade.

“He did not stand me up,” she said. “You ran him off.”

“Saved him,” Rune corrected.

Returning to form, Kallan lowered the sword to the table and ran her fingers over a series of daggers, eyeing each for their balance.

“And what matters, if I did?” she asked.

Taking up a pair of matching blades, Kallan wielded the daggers through a series of turns, slashing at the empty air where she imagined Rune to be standing with his smug smirk smeared on his face.

“None,” Rune said as Kallan slashed the air and sparred with the imaginary Rune. “Unless your actions were conducted to provoke me.”

Kallan returned the weapons to the table and lifted a double-headed axe.

“Were they?” he asked.

She gave it a wide swing up and over her head, stopping mid-air as she carried it down before deciding to answer.

“Perhaps I was fond of the youth,” Kallan said, giving a second swing of the axe. “Stamina counts, you know.”

Rune heaved a single breath, but his composure remained.

“Perhaps you found a way to aggravate me,” Rune said.

“Did I?” With a wide swing overhead, Kallan brought the axe down toward Rune forcing him to unsheathe
Gramm
and meet her advance. He blocked her.

“And why would that aggravate you,” she said glaring from behind the axe.

This time, Rune cocked a brow.

“For the same reason my warming Emma’s bed last night would aggravate you.”

Flushing with anger, Kallan pushed against his blade with the axe.

“Did you?” she asked, seething.

Rune said with a grin, “Now who’s prying?”

Swinging the blade, Kallan lunged, forcing him to pivot.

Before she could recover from the weight of her missed swing, Rune pinned her and slammed her against the wall with his body.

“I’m beginning to think you’re angry,” he goaded, his grin never waning. “Has your jealousy finally clouded your judgment?”

Tightening her grip on the handle, Kallan pushed against him, and Rune released her, allowing her the space to swing at the air, her blade missing every time.

“Thoughts of me with Emma getting the better of you?” he asked, widening his grin.

With a shrill exclamation, Kallan took up the daggers from the table and threw the blades at Rune.

“
Uskit
!” Rune exclaimed and dove through the door, hitting the ground hard just as Kallan flicked both wrists, ignited her hands, and fired.

A pillar of fire roared, grazing Rune’s back as he lay with Kallan’s rage rolling over him.

The confidence was gone, replaced by a blanket of white that coated Rune’s face. Afraid to breathe, unable to move, he waited, motionless until the fire died and the smoking, charred door of the armory groaned as it swayed closed. The smith’s rhythmic plink carried on the wind without missing a beat.

“Don’t you have enough sense to not anger a Seidkona?” Halvard’s boisterous voice quelled a chuckle. Rune raised his face from the dirt.

With mead in one hand and bow slung over a shoulder, Halvard lifted Rune to his feet.

“Stubborn wench doesn’t know how to admit when something’s eating away at her,” he said as he slapped the dirt from his trousers.

“Let me give you some advice, lad,” Halvard said, still chuckling. “If it can throw fire at you, don’t make it angry.” The last bit of his words slurred into a chuckle that brought tears to the old man’s eyes.

Rune’s smile had recovered.

Studying the door, he watched as the last of the Seidr flame whispered out.

“Could be worse, I suppose.” His grinned widened. “She could be incessantly weepy.”

Snatching the flask from Halvard, Rune headed for the stables as he took a drink.

“Astrid and Freyja are saddled,” Halvard said. “Olga and Emma are stocking the horses now with the last bit of provisions.”

Rune nodded. “As soon as I’ve collected my wench, we’ll be off,” he said and downed another gulp.

“Your wench?”

Halvard grabbed Rune’s shoulder, stopping him where he stood and snatching back the mead. “So, you did plug her. Is that why she set fire to your arse?”

“Not yet,” Rune answered, grinning boldly, and the old man released another bout of laughter. “But if I don’t, somebody has to, or one of us won’t be making it to Gunir alive.”

And before Halvard could object, Rune grabbed the mead back from the Throendr and downed the last of it as he sauntered on into the stables.

Within the armory, Kallan heaved, gasping between breaths. Oblivious to the fire that rolled from her palms and the hot tears that fell down her face, Kallan stoked her temper as endless images filled her head of Rune and Emma.