Dolor and Shadow (54 page)

CHAPTER 63

Campfires lined Rune’s path in the dark as he fought the guard with every step through the camp. With a growl he couldn’t understand, the guard pulled back the hide flap and pushed Rune into Olaf’s quarters.

As the guard removed his shackles and took his leave, Rune examined the furs and armaments. Ignoring the dog, the man, and the buffet of fruits and meats splayed out on a table, a wave of discouragement settled itself as Rune realized Kallan wasn’t there.

Donned in a set of simple red frocks of the finest cloth, Olaf stood beside the large fire that burned in the center of the tent, casting shadows of orange and black about the room in a myriad of patterns. Rune eyed his host suspiciously, as they stood inspecting each other. With his hands folded behind his back, Olaf moved with a regal condescension that illuminated his composure.

The Dubh Linn prince untwisted his hands from behind his back never once lowering his bearded face from Rune. He studied his rival with a pensive curiosity that masked his innermost thoughts before addressing his guest.

“Far too long I’ve moved my army into position toward my one goal,” Olaf said. “Far too long I’ve spent my days fervently fixed on one man: to bring Forkbeard falling from his throne, scathed and defeated.” Olaf pulled himself from his ponderings and gazed upon a bored Rune. “Your lands could serve as a fine solution to the rule and fall of Dan’s Reach. For so long, I’ve desired to speak with you. I’ve started a number of letters requesting your council…letters I’ve thrown aside with less than satisfactory diction and suddenly here you are before me.

“Rune, son of Tryggve…” Veneration flowed from his words. “King and Lord of Gunir and Alfheim…descendant and last of Lodewuk’s line.” In awe Olaf beamed, admiring Rune’s station as he settled his weight down onto a table strewn with maps. “Too few hold claim to the title bestowed upon you by your fath—”

“What do you want?” Rune asked.

Olaf tightened his jaw and visibly forced a smile.

“You are not a prisoner here,” Olaf said. “Please, eat.”

He waved an open hand toward the feast that filled the tent with aromas of sweet meats and honey mead.

Rune glanced at the food with apathy. It was with a heavy, dispirited sigh that Rune spoke at all. “I’ve played host to many a monarch who danced graciously around the true matter at hand, wasting my time with court etiquette and hollow gestures. I have no interest in feigned hospitality that masks blatant betrayal.” Olaf’s false grin fell. “End your illusions of friendship and state your business plainly,” Rune commanded with the sternness of one looking down at a usurper bearing gifts.

The fire popped.

“My father lost rule to this land when it was taken from him fifty years ago,” Olaf said, visibly forcing aside his illusions of joviality and feigned friendship. “He was killed before he had a chance to reclaim his birthright.”

“I remember,” Rune said, stifling a yawn.

“My elder father led his campaign into these lands and left behind my father to reign in his stead.”

“My father had him fed to Solve Klove.” Rune maintained his regal rigidity as he spoke.

“You remember.” The words rolled from Olaf’s mouth with a gleam of admiration as he looked upon Rune with a fresh wave of envy. “How I pine for a fraction of the life only granted to you Alfar.”

Rune said nothing, but kept his patience while he entertained his own agenda. Olaf turned and poured himself a drink.

“Solve Klove and his kin were bent on ridding my father’s land of our bloodline,” Olaf said. “That Sea King would have given up the lives of his sons to avenge the death of his father and uncle.”

“Where’s Kallan?” Rune asked.

Olaf’s mouth curled into a smile.

“She is Dokkalfr,” he said. “Or have you forgotten that?”

“What do you want?” Rune asked, weary with being the subject of his host’s sport.

Olaf returned his untouched drink to the table.

“The throne of Danelaw proffers a constant threat waiting to make its move,” Olaf said. “
Forkbeard
grows stronger. You, of all others, must know of the constant threat to our lands.” His words were quick and smooth, and his voice dripped with certainty.

“You seek to make me your puppet king.”

“I seek to offer an alliance,” Olaf corrected.

Rune’s irritation slipped away as the surmounting opportunity spilled into his lap.

“With our combined forces, you can bring down the Dokkalfar,” Olaf said, “rend every stone of Lorlenalin that defaces the mountainside. With our strength, we can squash the festering rot that sulks in the mines of Svartálfaheim and as one, we can take back Northumbria…return her to the glory that answers to the realm of Dubh Linn.”

Rune’s attention filled with Olaf’s vision.

“Dubh Linn,” Rune said.

“We can wipe out the Dani.”

Rune stared beyond the flames, entranced by the world proposed by Olaf. The food and drink lay forgotten on the table.

“The use of that army would more than make up for the numbers lost to the Dokkalfar,” Rune muttered aloud in thought. He pulled his eyes from the fire. “You seek to hand Northumbria back to the Uí Ímair.”

Olaf smiled with a tip of his head.

Rune relaxed his shoulders and set the room at ease.

“And from there, I suppose, you would have us march north to Alba…Then on to take Dubh Linn for yourself?”

“The house of Amlaib Cuaran already answers to me,” Olaf said. “They have long since recognized me as the King of the North and have already sworn their allegiance. Upon my word, they will fight…and with their strength, we can defeat the insipid filth of Dan’s Reach.”

Rune lowered his eyes to the flames. Within the red of those flames, he saw the brave new world laid out to him. Three clans, three nations joined against the might of the Dokkalfar, led by the sons of Ivann the Boneless himself. A union that strong would prevail against the magnificence of the Empire. Regardless, his gut churned with unease.

“And when the last of Danelaw has been rid of this land…” Rune said, returning his gaze to Olaf. “When your people are victorious and look to reap the spoils of this war, will you still look to share this land with my people?”

Olaf smiled and returned his attention to the table laden with food and drink.

“We both desire a world that would deliver peace to our people.” He found his cup and took a sip. “I would give you all of the North if it meant the fall of Forkbeard.”

Olaf ended his soliloquy and waited with tension in the air for the answer that would unite their people in arms.

Rune stared back into the flames.

“Think of it,” Olaf said. “A world without the Dokkalfar…Without the Empire!”

“A world without war or fallen comrades.”

“I have seen the hand of Forkbeard and how far it reaches beyond that of Dan’s Reach,” Rune said. “I was there at the Battle of Hjorungavagr. Why, by the fires of Muspellsheim, would I ever subject my kin to a massacre like that again? Why would I risk the lives of my people to anger the greatest power since Otto’s Empire in the south, who serve the imperial god and senselessly slaughter my people?”

“We have so much to gain as their victor,” Olaf said.

“Forkbeard turns a blind eye, discouraged by the wars of my people,” Rune said. “A challenge would awaken his green-eyed interest in my land…one that my fathers and I have managed to avoid. We sit beyond the desires of Forkbeard’s throne, and I intend to keep it that way.”

Rune turned for the door. In a single step, Olaf desperately grabbed Rune’s arm.

“Why do you believe leaving that sleeping giant alone will keep his interests away from Alfheim?” Olaf asked, his patience clearly waning.

“I have the wars of my own people to put ahead of the greed of a dethroned king. Now…” Rune yanked his arm free from Olaf’s grasp. “If you won’t tell me where Kallan is, then we are done here.”

Olaf pursed his lips, seemingly readying himself to start again, but stopped at the sudden clamor raised outside. Both kings paused and listened. The silence that had fallen over the camp was gone, replaced with the muffled chaos of distant cries. Exchanging glances, they abandoned their argument and, as one, started for door.

A sudden series of tumultuous cries ended when the tent flap flew back and Egil fell to the floor of Olaf’s tent. Black blood seeped from his right side. His white hand trembled as he struggled to hold a gaping wound closed.

Dropping to one knee, Olaf pulled Egil’s hand away. Streams of blood pulsed from the wound, leaving Egil pale and waxen.

“An ambush, my lord,” Egil said. “We didn’t see them coming…thousands…from the shadows.”

“Forkbeard.” Olaf said.

“No…” Egil shook his head. “There is no mistaking the black of that hair…the death in those eyes staring back from white faces.”

Rune’s spine became rigid as he suddenly found himself starved for a weapon.

“Dvergar,” Olaf said. His face had turned white as the last of life left Egil staring into the distance beyond what the living could see.

Taking up his servant’s sword, Olaf rose to his feet and joined Rune in the march to the door. The chill of the night air pierced their faces as they pulled back the hide and stepped into the night.

Swarms of Dvergar infiltrated every crevice of the camp, wielding axes against Olaf’s men, who raised steel swords against them. Burning tents peppered the darkness and drowned out the sounds of the fallen.

“It isn’t too late, Ljosalfr,” Olaf said, clearly eager to avenge his comrade. Egil’s sword rang out in declaration as he unsheathed the blade. “Take up arms alongside me this day. Fight with me.”

“Where is Kallan?” Rune called over the screams of the fallen and the fires that spread.

An elated grin was Olaf’s reply before he plunged into battle, impaling a Dvergr along the way, crying out to his men in encouragement. Rune turned his thoughts to his only goal and, dismissing the battle around him, skimmed the burning camp.

The fragile, steel blades crafted by the smiths of Dubh Linn were no match to the elding blades forged in the mines of Svartálfaheim. Men bearing the mark of naudr buckled beneath the Dvergar’s might.

After selecting the clearest path, Rune lunged into battle, skirting along the forest’s edge. The flames passed from tent to tent, lighting up the camp as Rune weaved in and out of the chaos. He stopped frequently to reassess his path before moving on to the next cover, twisting his way through tents and dashing behind barrels as he went.

“Kallan!” he cried over the chorus of clinks and screams of sword and shield. His sanity ebbed with every moment as the purr of the flames grew, drowning out the battle cries.

“Kallan!”

“Stand your ground,” Olaf called from across the battlefield above the clash of swords and the fire’s roar. Whipping around, Rune met the cold, hardened eyes of Olaf.

In that brief moment, the conversation they had started in Olaf’s tent ended along with temporary truce. With a single nod, Olaf revoked his offer and accepted Rune’s rejection as the battle raged on. Rune proceeded along the forest’s edge, leaving Olaf behind to fight the shadows and darkness.

Behind a wagon filled with barrels, Rune stopped and assessed his next move. A flash of silver half-buried beneath the body of a slain soldier caught his attention. Rune glanced about to confirm there was no immediate threat and emerged from behind the wagon. With a grunt, he pushed the corpse off the blade and took up the dulled iron sword.

“Kallan!” he called with a flood of panic on the rise.

His desperation caught the attention of a Dvergr, who charged at him, his axe raised at the ready. With a pivot, Rune dodged the blow and countered with a thrust through the heart. With a kick, Rune shoved the body off his blade and peered through the smoke and the dying strewn about on the ground.

“Kallan!” he cried, not bothering to wipe the blood from his blade.

Something grabbed his ankles and pulled him down, slamming his shoulder into the ground. Before he could find his bearings, the something dragged him into the forest behind him.

With a wide swing of his blade, Rune rolled onto his back, freeing his ankles. The wild, black mane and flash of clear ebony was enough to mandate a second swing of his sword.