Dolor and Shadow (45 page)

CHAPTER 54

Nidaros buzzed with an air of excitement as Emma and Olga scurried with the last of the provisions. With unchecked enthusiasm, the women took turns stuffing an assortment of food and drink into the satchels. Lured by the enthusiasm of the Alfar, a small crowd had started to form and on-lookers extended their parting wishes to Rune wherever they found the chance in between Olga’s orders.

It was not long before Halvard joined him armed with three flasks of mead, two of which he crammed into the saddle of a short, cream horse deemed Freyja. With long, strands of the finest fur, Rune curiously ran his hand down the pony’s thick neck.

“Freyja is from the north in Gasdalr,” Halvard said. “Brand arrived two winters ago with her on board.”

Rune intricately examined the strands of wavy, cream fur as soft and as thick as rabbit hide and twice as long as his arm in length.

“She isn’t much for riding,” Halvard said, heaving a roll of blankets onto her back, “but her wide girth can handle the mountain air during the coldest of winters, and her stout legs will ensure an easier climb through the forest in Heidmork.”

Halvard gave Freyja a final pat and unstopped his flask.

“Avoid the lake to the south of Aursund or you’ll find yourself trudging through days of bog.”

“Bog,” Rune said with a hint of concern.

“Aye.” Halvard tugged the leather strap. “Bogs. The kind that stretch for days on end. You’ll be forced to double back countless times before you manage to find the right path through.”

“Days,” Rune said, “in a bog…with Kallan.”

The thought alone made him shudder.

“Once you cross into Heidmork,” Halvard continued, “stay to the river. Always stay to the river. There’s a gorge there, that will cause you more headache than its worth with a pony, a horse, and a lady.”

With interests piqued, Rune shifted a brow.

“A gorge?”

Halvard nodded, pulling back the mead from his mouth.

“Aye, nearly two thousand paces from the river at one point. Don’t let the lady wander.” His eyes were cold and severe. “And keep a sharp eye for yourself if you veer from the river.”

Rune shook his head.

“The lady won’t like it,” he said.

Halvard stared at the ground in thought.

“The lady won’t.”

“I won’t like it,” Rune said, glancing to Halvard who grinned and threw back another mouthful of mead. “Speaking of the Venom Queen, where is she?”

The mead sloshed about in the flask as Halvard dropped it again and gulped.

“She was with the horses when I grabbed Freyja here.” Halvard patted the horse’s rump then added, “She might still be there.”

But Rune was already gone.

* * *

Kallan’s hand poked through the fur of Ori’s overcoat as she gave a vigorous rub down the neck of one of the fjord ponies. Happily munching away at Idunn’s apple, she planted a kiss on its head. Already, its coat glistened with the sheen of a newborn colt.

Once more, her thoughts strayed to Rune’s final words. Her stomach tightened with a hurt that clamped her chest and stung her nose. She dug a hand into her eyes, forcing away the fire that burned there.

“I was hoping you’d be here.”

Startled, Kallan jumped and heaved an audible sigh with relief at the sight of Brand, and not Rune, leaning over the stall gate.

“You’re getting ready to head out?” he asked, coming to stand beside her. The wide grin Brand frequently sported was gone, replaced with a somber smile.

“Yes,” she said with a single nod.

“Will you be back?” he asked with wide eyes.

She did not miss the hopeful tone rounding each word.

“No,” she said.

Brand’s shoulders dropped, pulling Kallan’s pity with him and she let it, happy to feel anything other than bitter rage for Rune.

Silently, Brand nodded and extended his hand to hers.

Within his outstretched palm, a pair of tiny discs stamped with a profiled face and crowned with a dome glistening with silver. Around the edges, foreign runes encircled the image. On the back, a cross divided the discs into quarters. Each had been dotted in the center. Runes on the back also lined the edges.

“What are these?” Kallan asked, turning the pieces over, intrigued by the foreign markings.

“Coins,” Brand said, his flashy smile somewhat revived, “from Eire’s Land, stamped by the finest horse trader in all of Dubh Linn. King Sigtrygg just started making them.”

“They’re beautiful,” she said, encouraging Brand to speak.

“We picked them off a monastery on our way through.”

Kallan looked up, suddenly aware of how very close he stood.

She dropped her voice to almost a whisper.

“Where are you headed to next?”

“Well…” Brand said. “…I’ll have to wait for the ship to come around for port, which will be around next moon.”

The horse shook its head, snapping the reins against the wooden beam, as Kallan looked the coins over, unaware that Rune lingered several stalls over.

“But after the snows, I’ll probably take to Eire’s Land again,” Brand said.

Kallan shook her head, still mesmerized by her new trinkets.

“I’ve never seen her land.” Kallan looked to Brand. “Eire’s Land. I’ve been to Northumbria, but Gudrun left no time in my schedule to make a trip to Eire’s Land.” Her eyes glistened with intrigue, urging him on, begging him to speak without saying a word.

“Eire’s Land is as beautiful and as green as the sea is blue,” Brand said. “Endless green. There’s something in the air in Eire’s Land as if the gods are still there breathing life into it.”

Kallan’s eyes glazed with wonder as her chest rose and fell with each breath.

“There are scholars there who produce pictures,” he said, “hundreds of pictures on vellum with the most intricate of art work, some made out of gold. They’d fetch a high price on the trade roads. If you can get to them, that is.”

The fine strands of rabbit fur grazed Kallan’s cheek. Her hair bunched up around the collar, spilling out and over the black fur, down to her waist where Brand’s eyes lingered.

“Kallan?” He stared at her lips. “Come with me.” The words came fast.

She grinned.

“Over your sea through the land of green to your world flowing over with wine?” Kallan said, remembering and allowing her words to carry her through to the ends of the earth.

“Where we’ll find the maps in the stars and sail home again,” he said, daring at last to brush her face with the back of his fingers, and she let him. Brand split his face with his wide grin, both oblivious to the Ljosalfr who slipped from the stables, unseen, unheard, unknown.

“Home,” she whispered, and remembered, her smile falling with her memories. “I must go home.”

Releasing his breath, Brand nodded and dropped his hand.

“I know.”

As if his accord was the cue she had been waiting for, Kallan swept past Brand, leaving him alone in the stall.

“Kallan.”

His voice pulled her back, as keen to hear his words as he was to speak them. “If ever you’re done being queen, and there’s ever a day when you’re looking for a somewhere…”

Kallan grinned.

“Come find me,” he bade.

Her eyes beamed.

“And where shall I look?” she asked, still grinning.

“To the sea.”

With a nod that shook her hair into her face, she turned, leaving the memory of her smile behind.

* * *

Rune’s insides twisted, igniting his rage with a maddening lack of sense. Thoughts of impaling Brand entertained his wrath for only a moment, before shifting his thoughts to Kallan. Too angry to growl, Rune marched back to Halvard still nursing the mead. With a second run of curses, he ripped the drink from Halvard’s hand.

“That bad?” Halvard asked as Rune threw back a gulp.

“Why would anything be bad?” Rune asked. “Can’t a man be thirsty without being prodded with questions?”

“Brand got to your wench, didn’t he?” Halvard asked.

“Not my wench. Never my wench.” Rune shoved the empty flask back to Halvard as he collected Astrid’s reins. “She’s the damn Dokkalfr who I wouldn’t touch with all the blessings from Freyr.”

Still grumbling, Rune hoisted himself into the saddle and froze when he spotted a black, leather overcoat swallowing a certain Dokkalfr emerge from the stables. With a tug of the reins, Rune veered Astrid, giving him a gentle nick.

“What of the lass?” Halvard asked as Rune rode off.

“She’ll follow,” he said, picking up speed.

“Are you sure?” Halvard called from beside Freyja.

“Yep,” Rune said and encouraged Kallan’s horse into a light canter down the beach.

Along the banks of the river Nid, Rune grimaced beside Astrid as Kallan and Halvard joined him with Freyja.

Two weeks.
Rune deepened the furrows on his brow.
Two weeks enduring a sniveling, spoiled, palace brat.

Too sour to notice the off-hand quips and glowers from the Dokkalfr, Rune greeted Halvard, extending his thanks with a cold shoulder facing Kallan.

“That’s including the two you have packed,” Halvard said, passing a mead to Rune.

With another run through the directions, they exchanged their good wishes and bid farewell, then watched as the Throendr made his way back to Nidaros alone.

With a distinct squeak of the flask’s stopper, Kallan seemed to catch the darkness blanketing Rune’s face. Eyeing her with callousness, from her leather boots, to the piercing, cold iridescent blue of her eyes, Rune threw back his head and began the first of three flasks. Without a reprimand or word, he took up Astrid’s reins, and began the long trek home.

Rune gritted his teeth until he was certain they would crack. Kallan’s melancholy was no better, though he didn’t give much thought to what inspired hers.

By the time Rune polished off the last of the first flask, her blatant sneers had become vile glares that accompanied them down the River Nid.

* * *

The river differed from that of the harsh, barren region of the Dofrarfjell. Endless pines mingled with the reds and oranges of autumn that had settled in with the impertinent cold of the harvest.

After half a day’s walk, the lake of Selabu greeted them with an air of dread that added to their bitter temperaments. Steep slopes plunged the land into the lake, making the journey difficult, at best. For hours, they walked without rest, the ground fixed at a near permanent incline. Whenever the opportunity arose, they led the horses away from the persistent drop of the terrain.

The sporadic flat stretches of land that would allow them to rest came too infrequently, adding to the hostile strain between them. On occasion, a misplaced step sent them sliding into the water. Only once did Rune extend a hand to Kallan, who slapped it away mumbling something akin to ‘murderer.’

Tension brewed as the impending argument thickened, leaving them both bitter and vile when they arrived at a wide, but shallow, river that interrupted their path.

Rune looked to the sun suspended over the lake then to the northeast where the river flowed. Ahead, the water spanned seventy-five paces, though appearing shallow enough to cross. Without a word, he tugged on Astrid’s reins.

“What are you doing?” Kallan asked behind him.

“Halvard said the river would lead south,” Rune said, still making his way toward the water.

“But he didn’t say anything about there being a river before then,” Kallan said, clutching Freyja’s bridle.

“I don’t know how you’d know that, seeing as how you were too busy making plans with the whelp.”

“What difference does it make what I do with my whelp?” Kallan asked.

“It doesn’t.” Rune returned his eyes to the slippery stones submerged in the water. “But it does matter what that whelp does with my prisoner.”

“I am not your prisoner.”

“Well, I’m not yours,” Rune said, spinning around in time to see Kallan heave like a dragon ready to scorch the earth.

“I will not follow you blindly,” she said.

“Blindly?” Rune barked an unstable laugh. “You have done nothing
blindly
since we started this, princess.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Foolishly, weakly, loudly maybe, but never
blindly
,” Rune said.

“It’s because of you we’re here at all,” Kallan said. “I won’t follow you!”

“How is that?” Rune asked, too angry to stop pushing his way through the river.

“You killed my father.” Rune turned to her. “You took me from Lorlenalin, and I’ll not follow you all the way to Gunir!”

Rune arched a brow as the river’s babble filled the silence.

“Alfheim,” Kallan corrected.

Rune heaved a patient breath, his grimace holding strong.

“I am going south,” he said, “and Astrid is coming with me.”

Without another word, he guided Kallan’s horse across the river, leaving Kallan to stay or follow. A moment later, with her slew of curses mumbled under her breath, Kallan entered the river behind him.

The flat plain on the other side of the river was more than enough to convince them to stop. They watered the horses and rested their feet while eating a quick meal composed of apples, flat bread, and mead. After a handful of silent sneers, they continued with only the whine of the third flask stopper to break their silence.

Around the water with the curve of the lake, Kallan and Rune made their slow way south then west along the shores. When, at last, the water glistened with the light of the setting sun, the forest ended, and the southern river flowed like glass. Exhausted, their path veered from the lake and Kallan and Rune began putting distance between them and the lake in Selabu.

Long after the day’s end, and too tired to grimace, they, at last, settled along the bank of the river and made camp, without so much as an insult.

Empty and forgotten, the third flask lay among their bags as Kallan stared up at the crescent moon. With every image that plagued her imagination, her sanity slipped further from rational. Huffing, she flipped to her side. From across the fire, light spread up and over Rune, spilling over his back.

Just like Emma,
she thought and again sorted through endless variations of Rune and his Englian strumpet.

Hatred swelled, clawing her insides with a maddening rage that urged her to march back to Nidaros and kill the wench while he slept peaceably, free of the demons he beset upon her.

How dare you sleep while I lay tormented?

The words rent all thoughts, stirring awake other memories—barely forgotten memories—of her father as he lay dying and her blood-soaked hands. A wave of hate washed over her, abating all thoughts of Emma, and Kallan gazed at the Ljosalfr asleep beside her. A new darkness consumed her and the eye of the dragon awakened.

Dead men breed no pain.

Her eye settled on the black and reds of
Gramm’s
pommel.

While he sleeps…he wouldn’t even know…and I could return and conquer Gunir.

Throwing off the blankets, Kallan grabbed the nearest saddlebag and rose to her feet. With full force, she threw the satchel into the back of Rune’s head, jerking him awake.

Before he could turn and assess, before he could comprehend, Kallan took up his sword and unsheathed
Gramm
, its blade ringing out as if sounding off the opening note to his dirge.

Within two long strides, she came to stand over the Ljosalfar king and gave her battle cry. Seeing the blade turned down, Rune visibly braced for the sword to penetrate his heart as Kallan dropped all her weight onto him and plunged
Gramm
into the earth.

Blocking her face in shadow, her hair hung free as she heaved. Blood flowed where the blade nicked Rune’s ear. Against the black of
Gramm
’s hilt, Kallan’s white fists shook. The fire popped as Rune watched.

“Far too long I’ve dreamt of my sword stained with the blood of your people.” Kallan said. “Too long I’ve sought your death. Too long I’ve moved to strike. Even as you pulled me from the rancid darkness and I lay dying, did I plan to kill you and avenge my father’s death. Even now, all I have to do is strike. At the end of it all, I must decide. Should I kill you? Should you die?”

Rune watched, ready for whatever choice she made next.

“I should kill you,” Kallan whispered, “and watch your blood run with the blood of my people. If I kill you, all my troubles end. And I go home to Lorlenalin, my father’s death avenged.”

“And if you’re wrong,” Rune said, “if it was another who stole your father’s life, leaving him to die dishonorably upon the fields of Alfheim, whose life then will you have avenged by wrongfully killing me?”

The heavy burden of understanding weighted down her eyes, and, all at once, there was doubt.

“What wars may come by staining your hands with my blood?” Rune’s hush swept through her. “What lies then will you tell yourself once you’ve lied to your people? Can you risk being wrong, Kallan? Can you risk all the lives that will die and mine, all from your mistake?”

“Why did you save me?” she breathed. “Why did you kill my father only to save me?”

“I didn’t kill him,” he whispered.

“I can’t believe you.” Her voice wavered as the words caught in her throat.

“A king’s head is worth its weight in gold,” Rune said. Her eyes widened with unshed tears as she recalled Aaric’s words to her. “Name your price,” Rune said.

The back of her throat burned as she forced all other thoughts aside.

“Crawl through Svartálfaheim,” she said, “into the depths of Hel, beyond the roots of Yggdrasill, and bring him home to me.” Kallan stifled a sob. “That is my price.”

The chill from Rune’s eyes was gone, replaced instead with a pity that reached down into her and shook the walls she had built on anguish.

“Find the father you took from me,” Kallan bade, “and restore him unto me.”

“I can’t,” he whispered thickly.

Kallan’s dagger was suddenly unsheathed and pressed against his throat.

“Please.” The word tripped on a gasp. A tear slipped from her eye. “If I let you live,” she said, “please give my father back to me.”

He visibly swallowed against the blade.

“Please,” she said.

With a
thwit
of an arrow, Kallan and Rune stared at a shaft protruding from the ground beside them.

“Don’t move,” came the aged, gruff voice of a man from behind. “The next one is aimed for your heart.”

Kallan shifted her weight.

“Don’t move,” he said again, but his voice wavered with doubt and Kallan rose to her feet. Rune stood beside Kallan where the fire’s light bathed them in orange and gold.

Hunched before them, the beaten, aged frame of an old man stood. A scraggly, graying black beard covered his face. His mottled hands shook with an unsteady draw of a withered bow.

“You’re on the wrong side of the Raumelfr, Alfar.” Fear shifted the old man’s eye. Fear shook his hands as he pointed the bow at Rune and then Kallan. “There’s nothing but death on this side. What are you doing here?”

“We need to get to the Raumelfr,” Rune said, making no movement. Blackened from grief, the old man studied the tapered ears and grand height of the Alfar with hardened eyes.

“Raumelfr, eh.” His jargon slurred with exhaustion as he lowered his weapon. “You’re a few days out of your way if you’re looking for the Raumelfr.”

Casting an eye over their camp, the old man seemed to assess their accommodations, lingering until his gaze fell to the pendant fastened at Kallan’s neck.

It was a long while before he spoke again, unable to tear his eye from the tri-corner knot.

“You need food? Shelter?” He grumbled the words more than asked, and slumped away. His back, too long laden with burden, arched under the weight. “Come with me,” he growled and was on his way through the thick of the wood from whence he came.

The Alfar collected their things and extinguished the fire.

“I heard a scream. It’s why I came running,” the old man said thickly as they joined him. “I’m Bern.” He didn’t bother to ask for their names.

Away from the path of the river, through the dark of the forest, they marched, led by the ramblings of the old man. Dead branches on the ground cracked beneath his feet as he stomped, clearing a somewhat crude path.

“I was sitting with my wife,” he tried to say. “Well, maybe it’s luck that I found you…maybe in time,” he muttered.

“Is someone sick?” Kallan asked, eager to forget her own grievances.

With each hollow step, his torchlight flickered.

“Not sick.” Bern pulled back a branch. “Dying.”

The old man said no more until they reached the end of the wood where the land stretched out ahead beneath the moonlight. Black shadows spanned a vast clearing, throwing silhouettes into the dark. Mounds were strewn about mingled with barren land that seemed to end at the base of a mountain.

In the distance, through the mounds, the only sign of life spilled through the slip-shod planks, blanketed in peat moss and lichen in what was the dilapidated remains of a long-house. Orange streaked the black of night where the faintest cries carried through the air.

“My wife, Halda,” Bern said. Grief shook his tone.

“What’s wrong with her?” Rune asked as they made their way into the distance.

“It’s Svenn, our son,” he said, his voice cracking.

Kallan looked at Bern as he forced himself to explain.

“Nearly a fortnight ago, Olaf came through, demanding we denounce Freyja. When we refused…” His words were lost to his grief.

Bern rushed through his tale while he still had the nerve to speak. “But our boy…he didn’t die right away…and now he has the fever. We can’t…It would be kinder to kill him, but Halda won’t…She has hope, you see.”

The sobbing was nearer as they came to stand before the dilapidated remnants of a charred longhouse starting to fall in on itself. Releasing Astrid’s reins, Kallan pushed on what she could only guess had been a door.

The familiar stench was overpowering. Metallic and rancid, mingled with the strong scent of feces. The smell hit her stomach and she gagged back a mouthful of bile, knowing what it was.

Black blood soaked the charred, wooden planks. A two-week-old trail led to the wall where rows of wide benches flanked the sides of the longhouse. The central fire pit burned with glowing embers that cast shadows of orange and red over the black and ash, and on the wall, kneeling beside a small, pale boy about thirteen winters old, Bern’s Halda hovered.

Waxen flesh was pulled taut over the boy’s skeletal face as his brown eyes, glazed with death, stared beyond his mother to a point unseen by the living. Trembling, Kallan fumbled over the flap of her pouch, her eyes frozen on the boy.

Too long, Kallan searched among the pouch’s contents. It was with a deathly grip that she withdrew the luscious treasure.