Dolor and Shadow (49 page)
Authors: Angela Chrysler
Clad in black elding boots that protected his feet from Bilrost’s flame, Heimdallr lowered himself from his stallion, Gulltoppr. With a muscular build that matched his proportions, the god stood a head taller than Rune. Already dwarfed in comparison next to the Alfar, the
Naejttie
appeared like a small child before the god.
Encrusted with gems and gold, Heimdallr’s sword, Hofud, hung at his side across from Gjallarhorn, the grand golden horn ornately decorated with runes and images. He had tied back his long, blond hair and his iridescent skin shimmered as it reflected the fire’s glow of Bilrost. Heimdallr’s hardened eyes, like golden baubles, stared as if warning the careless challenger to think twice before raising arms to the guardian of Bilrost.
“What brings the Alfar to this side of the Vingulmork?”
His smooth voice boomed with a hallowed grace that exceeded the tales told, but his eyes were cold and menacing. His stance was anything but forgiving. Kallan was the first to break from her trance, forcing the awe aside. Ignoring Rune, she pulled her arm free and approached the Bilrost.
“Heimdallr, please,” Kallan begged. “Where is Loptr?”
Heimdallr tipped his head in question.
“The Deceiver.” His words, not quite a question, brushed the air and carried over the burning bridge. He tightened his grasp on the hilt of his golden blade.
“Where?” Kallan asked, not bothering to adhere to formalities.
Lost in the depths of his thoughts, Heimdallr stared through Kallan’s eyes as if trying to reach into the back of her mind.
“Chained,” he said at last. “Where the All-Father left him, bound to the roots of Yggdrasill where Nidhoggr feasts.”
His answer did little to ease her worry.
“Kallan?” Rune gently clutched her arm, coaxing her out of her daze. “It wasn’t real.”
With her eyes centered on a fixed point in the distance, Kallan recalled the images as the Seidr had flowed through her. In a series of pictures that flashed through her mind, she searched for a comprehensible explanation of what she saw.
“He’s free. He rides on the sea to Asgard.” Kallan’s voice trembled, but broke through Heimdallr’s hardened stance. Worry widened Heimdallr’s eyes and his shoulders dropped beneath his gold armor.
Her trance broke and she looked to Heimdallr. “He brings an army of dead and rallies the giants from the west. They ride to destroy Odinn,” she said. “They will succeed.”
Heimdallr shook his head as if perplexed by the Dokkalfr’s warning.
“None can cross Bilrost,” he said, but doubt weighed heavily in his words.
“Bilrost will be destroyed,” Kallan said. “It will sink into the sea.”
Her words honed Heimdallr’s attention and, as the words left her lips, she saw Heimdallr, fallen and impaled by a silver sword. With a start, she shook the vision from her head and opened her mouth to warn him, but stopped, taken aback by the living Heimdallr, unwounded and standing before her.
A tear slipped from her eye, and, in silence, seeing her failure in his eyes, she turned from Bilrost, the horse, and the god.
“Alfr,” Heimdallr said.
Kallan looked back. A cold, distant worry held in his eyes behind a kind curiosity. “How is it you have come to be here in Midgard?”
“The Dvergar,” Kallan said. “They carried me from Alfheim to the gates of Svartálfaheim.”
Heimdallr’s sallow skin drained of blood. His bottom jaw dropped slightly.
“The Dvergar entered the land of the evening sun?” he asked.
“Led by the Dvergar king himself,” she said.
“Motsognir.” The name left Heimdallr’s lips as a breath.
Without another word, he mounted Gulltoppr and steered the horse around.
“What will you do?” Kallan asked.
“Odinn must know,” he said. “I will ride to his hall and tell him what you’ve told me here.”
Grimly, Kallan nodded. With a cry, Heimdallr sent Gulltoppr back up the flames of Bilrost.
Her nerves ached with the need to speak to Gudrun and throbbed with the knowledge that she could not. More than ever, she was alone, and trembled at the shiver that ran up her spine.
“And they shall disappear into flame and rise from the sea,” Kallan spoke and another tear streaked her face.
Raising her voice over the thunderous hooves that pounded the Bilrost, Kallan called to Heimdallr. “Beware the Deceiver!” And her shoulders slouched, knowing he failed to hear her.
Sigyn forced her hands steady as she balanced her weight beneath the snake. The venom dripped, forcing the collected poison in her bowl to ripple. The wood sizzled at the renewed contact made with the fresh wave of poison as it ate through its sides.
“Is it full?” Loptr asked, panting heavily and pulled taut on his back.
“Almost,” Sigyn said, forcing back a wave of sobs and biting her bottom lip hard.
Just one more,
she thought.
Just one more and then…
Tears burned her eyes and she bit her lip again.
There would always be one more.
“Sigyn.”
Loptr’s voice rolled over her, penetrating the deepest core of her grief, and the tears flowed. Forcing her arms steady, she permitted a glance to the gentle eyes beneath her.
“Sigyn.” He smiled, unnerved by the burns that covered his face where the venom had eaten his flesh. “I’ll be alright.”
Another drop followed by another tiny wave rippled the poison and the wood sizzled.
“Go ahead,” he urged.
The smile was gone, but the softness in his eyes was still there.
She tasted sweat that burned her lips. Every time, her response was the same. She listened. She obeyed. She never argued and hated herself every time the venom fell.
Carefully, so as not to spill a single drop, Sigyn lowered the bowl as near to his wrists as she could. As stable as the awkward position would allow, she poured the venom onto his shackles.
The elding hissed, protesting the abuse as the venom flowed over the metal chains and onto his wrists, raw from his metal bonds. Gritting his teeth, Loptr quelled a howl with a grunt, and Sigyn eased up on the flow.
Loptr howled over the pain.
“Don’t stop!”
Blinded by tears, Sigyn poured, and Loptr screamed. Dumping the last of the venom onto the chains, the poison flowed onto and over Loptr’s bound wrists. The metal hissed and the giant arched his back, muffling another scream between his teeth.
With a hollow thud, the bowl struck the stone as Sigyn stood and gathered her skirts, ready to race to fetch the next bowl before another drop could fall.
“Sigyn,” Loptr said.
Sweat flowed down his brow as he gasped.
“Yes?” Her voice was frail from relentless tears. The word scratched her throat.
The exhaustion and grief weighed heavy on her, never allowing her peace, and still she waited on him at all hours between batches of venom and meals with ointments to aid his healing. She would argue. She would refuse, but he had thought of this long and hard. There were no other options.
“I need you to ride to Muspellsheim. Meet with Surtr. Send for him.”
Sigyn gasped.
“Muspellsheim,” she said, her weariness more visible than usual.
“Speak to Surtr,” Loptr said.
“But every second I’m gone, the venom burns.” Sigyn clasped her hands to resist their shaking.
Loptr tried to shrug and smiled. “I can handle it,” he said. “Besides. It keeps things interesting.”
“Interesting,” Sigyn gasped, her eyes widened with the insanity that was setting in. “Loptr…Surtr…The Muspell dwellers—”
“I am their kin,” Loptr said, knowing the protests had begun. “They’ll come. Now go…” He flashed a smile that somehow eased her worry, and filled her with the confidence only he could exude in the darkest hour. “And come back before I realize you’ve gone.”
Within a heartbeat, she was on him, moving her lips over his and leaving a tear on his cheek when she stood again. His eye caught the hem of her skirt as she pulled herself onto Svadilfari. Before he could change his mind and call to her, the black stallion was gone.
* * *
The venom dripped. His flesh sizzled and, arching his back, Loptr howled, shaking the earth as he pulled against his chains wrought with pain.
Gasping, he collapsed back to the stones that sliced his back. The ointment Sigyn had applied had already worn off. Loptr glanced at the snake overhead, studying the next drip that would fall. He rattled the chains that held him. They would never budge. He knew that. Motsognir had supplied the metal forged by Volundr himself, but the snake…
Loptr studied the specimen once more. If there was a way to use the snake, then maybe he had a chance, and for that, he would need Surtr.
The fire crackled in time to the snoring of Olaf’s elkhound. On the rug, Vige slept, sprawled out by the fire. Pouring over the map splayed out on the table in front of him, Olaf stared at the minute speck that was Nidaros. His gaze followed the Raumelfr that trailed down from Throendalog through Heidmork to Viken where his eyes rested on one word. Vestfold. There his men waited. There he would make his next move.
A blast of cold forced Vige to emit a groan from the rug, confirming Thorer’s return. Digging the tips of his fingers into the table, Olaf forced his eyes steady on the map.
“We found them,” the captain said, pride dripping in his voice.
Olaf straightened his back while his eyes lingered on Vestfold. After a time, Olaf snatched the mead that had been resting at the corner of the map and poured himself a drink.
“Where?” Olaf asked once he returned the tankard to the table.
“The border of Heidmork,” Thorer said. “They will enter Raumariki in two days.”
A crooked grin stretched over Olaf’s face, easing the captain’s tension enough to continue.
“Do you want us to bring them in?”
Olaf shook his head.
“No,” he said into his drink and sipped. “Why bind and blind them to carry them along the road they walk willingly to Viken? We’ll wait until they’re almost through Raumariki. Then we’ll move in to redirect their path to Vestfold.”
Releasing the table, Olaf stood, straightening his back as he helped himself to the ale.
“Keep an eye on them for now. Notify me of any changes.”
With a nod, the captain pulled back the pelt flap to leave.
“And, Thorer,” Olaf said.
Thorer stopped at the door.
“Send word to Vestfold,” Olaf ordered. “Advise the men to be ready to take up arms. I expect no less than a blood bath from the Seidkona.”
“What of her companion?” Thorer asked, clutching the pelt over the door.
“He is useless,” Olaf said, taking another thoughtful sip. “Kill him.”
Another nod confirmed his understanding and Thorer closed the flap behind him.