Dolor and Shadow (7 page)

* * *

“I’ve never seen him like this,” Torunn whispered as Bergen and Rune entered the corridor behind her. “He came in, mumbling such madness. It’s like he’s gone. I can’t get him to talk to me. He won’t speak to Geirolf.”

“Where is he, Torunn?” Rune asked as she wrung her hands together.

Torunn stopped before their mother’s bower. The door was open just enough to make out the endless babble that accompanied the uttering of a mad man.

Rune pushed on the door and entered with Bergen following close behind. The candles were unlit. The hearth was cold. The queen’s bower was dark save for the streak of bedroom light that spilled into the sitting room.

The smell of death grew stronger as they drew closer to their mother’s bedchamber. The inane ramblings became clearer until they approached the threshold where they could hear the words.

“Please forgive me…Caoilinn? Please…I didn’t mean to—I didn’t mean…”

Rune pushed open the door. On the bed, his mother lay. And on the floor, by her side, sat his father. Weeping, Tryggve clutched his wife’s cold hand.

“Swann…Sweet Swann,” he muttered, smiling at Caoilinn’s lifeless eyes. “With silver eyes…” he said. “So like yours. They glisten like pearls. Can you see them, Caoilinn? See them.” His lips quivered and his face turned down with anger. “Won’t you look at me? Look at me. Please look at me, Caoilinn. Please? It’s because I killed them, isn’t it? That you won’t talk to me?”

Bergen stopped at the door beside Rune and both brothers watched, unable to speak.

“I killed them…” Tryggve said. He stroked her golden hair. “I killed them all…every child…every mother…every soldier…I killed them all. I had to. They killed our Swann…our precious…” Tryggve pursed his lips. “Please talk to me, Caoilinn. Talk to me...Won’t you speak to me? You’re mad at me. Because I couldn’t…Forgive me? You must forgive me. Please forgive…”

Bergen turned without a word and stomped back through the sitting room to the corridor. Down the steps into the Great Hall, he ran, not bothering a glance to the empty throne seated between the High Seat pillars engraved with wolves.

His hands struck the great oak doors and Bergen ran down the steps, past the stream of mead into the courtyard to the stables around the west tower.

“Bergen!”

Bergen paid his brother no mind.

“Bergen!” Rune was already closing in on his heels, but Bergen kept running. “Where are you going?”

“To the mountains, Brother.”

Rune stopped at the stable door as Bergen began saddling his horse.

“The Dvergar,” Rune said. “Bergen. You can’t go. They’ll kill you.”

“Their enemy is my enemy,” Bergen said. “They will help us.”

“They will kill you!”

Bergen stepped in so that he stood face to face with his brother.

The soft sob at the stable door quelled the argument and drew their attention to Torunn. A beam of moonlight flooded her reddened face enough that they could see the fresh wave of tears. He knew that shadow that clung so desperately behind her eyes.

“The king…” she spoke between sobs. “Your father…he…”

Shaking her head, Torunn turned. Hugging her arms, she wandered back to the keep alone.

“No!” Bergen screamed and lunged right into Rune’s fist. Bergen fell back, shook the initial shock off and returned a punch to Rune’s jaw. Before Rune could recover, Bergen slammed himself into Rune, who dropped his hands hard onto Bergen’s shoulders and held him there.

“He isn’t!” Bergen growled and Rune dropped his brow to his brother’s. “Not Father! Not…” Bergen’s breath punched the air as his head spun as if desperate to find something to cling to.

Zabbai.

His chest throbbed with that pain that twisted his insides.

Swann.

Rage burned his skin from the inside out.

Mother.

“Breathe, Bergen,” Rune said.

Now Father.

“No!” Bergen shouted and shoved Rune back. “I will go to the mountains!”

“Bergen, they will kill you,” Rune said.

“I have no choice!”

“You always have a choice.”

Bergen shoved his hand through his hair again and again, each time he saw Zabbai then Swann then Caoilinn…

“Do I?” Bergen gasped. “What choice is there? To stand here and watch you die? Do you call that a choice?”

“It’s a risk I must take as king,” Rune said.

Bergen studied the silver-blue eyes so like his. Apathy was taking his brother, the king. Bergen knew the signs well. Rune, who spent his youth training for this day. His brother, Rune, King of Gunir. Choice and risk were two things Rune would never have the luxury to exercise.

“I am not king,” Bergen said. “I don’t have to risk.”

“There is another way,” Rune said. “War isn’t our only option.”

“Isn’t it?” Bergen said. “And will you be here when the Dokkalfar find their dead and come to tear down our walls? Will you stand by, idle and ready to negotiate while they carve open your back and tear out your ribs?” Bergen shook his head. “No, Brother. I will not be one who stands and fights to die. You said yourself that their weapons are too great and they have a Seidkona.”

“The Dokkalfar will come and we will defend ourselves,” Rune said.

“They started this!” Bergen shouted. “When they took Swann’s life from her, they took the very spirit from this city. Just like Zabbai!”

A familiar cold plunged itself through Bergen’s rage as he realized what he had just said.

“Bergen,” Rune said.

Bergen’s throat clamped shut and he turned his attention to his hate and the saddle.

“Bergen, what happened in Râ-Kedet?”

“I’m going,” Bergen grumbled.

“Bergen.”

Bergen raised his eyes to his brother and shook his head. “I can’t stay here.” He pulled himself into the saddle and pulled back the reins, steering the horse from the stall. “I’m going for help.”

“Bergen.”

“Goodbye, Brother.” And snapping the reins, Bergen sent his horse cantering out of the stables.

“Bergen!”

* * *

Rune fell to the courtyard of stone.

My sister. My mother. My father. My brother.

His back hunched as a shadow crept in. He felt it like fingers twisting its darkness through him, cutting off his air. A cold chill, a dark pain remained in its wake like a wraith.

Rune gasped against the pain, insurmountable pain that made it hurt to breathe.  His body shook as he battled back the shadow that threatened to take him.

And why shouldn’t it?

He stared at the stone. He wanted to die, to rise up and kill, to avenge.

This shadow.

He watched it twist its ugly darkness into his mother in a matter of moments until she succumbed to its plague, its vile filth. He watched it consume his father, who rose up and slaughtered the children. And now it took Bergen.

“Rune?”

Rune ignored Geirolf’s quaking voice.

“Rune.”

This is how it will be: the shadow and me.

“Your Majesty.”

The title pulled Rune’s attention back to Gunir. “What is it, Geirolf?”

No answer.

Rune pulled himself up from his knees while wrestling back the shadow that had beaten him down to subservience.

“Geirolf. What is it?” Rune said and looked to Geirolf.

As white as his hair, Geirolf stood sick with fear, his attention not on the west where Bergen had fled or on the new king beside him, but the Dokkalfar army that filled the horizon to the south.

Eyolf.

At the bottommost depths of Rune’s being, a fire sparked to life and he raised his eyes to the horizon. The shadow within swelled, urging him to fight, to avenge, and to spill the blood of those who killed his sister. That was what the shadow wanted.

Rune focused all his energy on the flame that churned his insides.

The shadow did this. The shadow did all of this.

“Your Highness?” Geirolf asked.

Rune looked at Geirolf and raised his head with the command taught to him by his father. “To war,” Rune said as the Dokkalfar war horn sounded.

PART TWO

CHAPTER 8

995
th
year after Baldr

Olaf listened to the sweet voice flowing down the limestone cave lit with torches. The usual stench of bat feces, ammonia, and dampness was strangely absent, just as it had been a moon ago when he had last visited the Seidkona's domicile. Nevertheless, he pulled his fur and hide coat tighter around broad shoulders made wide from three decades of swordplay. His long, blond beard protruded from the fur lapels of his coat as his blue eyes scanned the darkness.

He proceeded as cautiously now as he had then, each step landing him in the small stream that trickled its way deeper into the cave. A misplaced step caused him to favor his left leg. The wound that nearly cost him his life a month ago had not yet fully healed. When the faint glow of firelight reached him from around a sharp turn, relief relaxed him.

The scent of stew teased Olaf’s appetite when he turned the corner and ducked to enter the small, shallow room. Accessories, furniture, and décor dressed the limestone cave, making it into a proper home.

In the center of the room, a small fire crackled beneath a large soapstone pot fixed on an iron tri-stand. The Seidkona had shoved a table and chair against the cave wall along with barrels of food. Herbs and spices hung on a rack she positioned in place from the ceiling, although he couldn’t quite see how. Tapestries and hides dressed the walls to hide the jagged façade and warmed the feel of the room. The Seidkona had a handful of candles burning on the table between two empty wooden bowls.

A large hide hanging from the cave wall served as a door to what Olaf could only imagine was a second room as comfortable as the first. It was there he could hear her voice glide almost like a spell that fogged his mind and threatened to leave him senseless. He found himself fighting it to preserve his angst. He didn’t have to wait long for her voluptuous frame to emerge from that passage.

“You came back.” A pleased smile pulled the corner of her red lips. The firelight danced in her round, gold eyes and, for a moment, he forgot to answer.

“I did.”

She tilted her head and Olaf watched her long, black hair fall down her curves where his eyes lingered. He wasn’t sure if her song had stopped, but still found it hard to focus. The air was heavy with spell.

“Now you believe?” she asked.

Her question jogged his memory.

“You said my men would betray me…that I would be near death.”

A pleased smirk pulled the corner of her red lips.

“And you were,” she replied.

Olaf nodded. “I was.”

He recalled the raid a moon ago soon after he had challenged her skill. He still felt the laugh in his throat when she had warned him that his men would betray him. Not a day later, they turned on him and he barely escaped with a wounded leg. He almost lost the leg. An arrow had nicked the artery. That laugh now felt like bile stuck in his throat. He also recalled her other words of prophesy.

“You said that I would be a great king,” Olaf said.

“I said you would be renowned. Not great,” she answered, walking to the fire where the stew bubbled.

Olaf stepped closer and felt the spell-air thicken as he watched her bring the ladle to her lips.

“My father…”

She sipped.

“I know who your father was.” She sipped again, then stirred the stew. “And his father before him.” She hung the ladle on the lip of the cauldron and looked to Olaf’s blue eyes and long blond hair, so much like his father’s father. She looked at him as if she was seeing far more than a usurped king on a broken throne.

“I know who you are, son of Trygg, son of Olaf, son of Fairhair.”

Olaf stiffened and she smiled.

“Yes, I know about Fairhair and how he killed the great High King of Alfheim and Viken.”

Lodewuk.
That elf had done well to ensure Alfheim remained under the rule of his kin, the Ljosalfar in Gunir.

“And now you wish to reclaim what once was yours,” the woman said.

“I wish to reclaim my father’s throne,” Olaf answered.

She grinned. “Liar.”

The spell-air thickened as she moved around the cauldron to stand closer to Olaf. Her head reached his shoulders. “You wish to know about your beloved. Your Geira.”

Olaf’s back straightened at the sound of his wife’s name.

“You wish to know what killed her,” the Seidkona said.

“She was young,” Olaf said, sharper than he had intended. He couldn’t afford to anger the witch, and forced his voice steady. “And healthy…”

The Seidkona tipped her head in thought as if delighted with unearthed knowledge in which to savor. “And with child it would seem.”

Olaf tried to shake his head. No one had known about the child. “My Geira didn’t just die.”

“No. It would seem she didn’t.”

She turned her back and circled the fire, taking the spell-air with her. He felt his tension return.

“Tell me what to do,” he said.

The Seidkona stared. He felt her eyes on him as if she had undressed him and had seen every flaw, every scar, every secret he harbored. He remained unmoved, unbroken as she gazed long and hard. When she spoke at last, it was with careful precision.

“Seidkona have unearthed the secrets to a forgotten power that sleeps. It is best for everyone if this power remains…” She pensively sucked on her bottom lip. “Forgotten. One of them carries a pouch.”

Olaf furrowed his brow. “All Seidkona carry a pouch.”

The witch grinned.

“This Seidkona carries a pouch that holds an endless supply of Idunn’s apples.”

Olaf’s mouth fell open.

Here in Midgard. Idunn’s apples.

“Idunn…” His mouth watered with greed. If he had had those apples, his leg would have healed weeks ago. Not just healed, but completely restored as if there had been no wound at all.

“You know what those apples can do,” she said.

Olaf nodded, swallowed the mouthful of saliva and answered, “I do.”

“Kill every last Seidkona in the lands to the east. Find that Seidkona and bring her pouch to me. That is my price.”

“Seidkona are rare and hard to find,” Olaf answered.

“So they are.” She took up the ladle again and stirred.

“Consider it done,” Olaf said. He almost turned to leave.

“Son of Trygg,” she said and gazed at him with golden eyes that made Olaf want to take her. “If you eat of the apple, I will kill you.”

Olaf watched her blow onto the stew in the ladle.

“To eat of those apples is to gain immortal life,” he argued and felt her spell-air thicken.

“There are ways to end an immortal life.” She grinned and gazed up at him. “If you eat of those apples, I will kill you.”

He nodded. “I understand.”

Eager to get gone and leave the witch to her brew, Olaf turned for the door.

“There are others who knew of Geira’s child.”

Her words slammed the air from his lungs and he looked back.

“Word travelled from Eire’s Land and reached the King of Dan’s Reach,” she said.

“Blatonn,” Olaf whispered.

The Seidkona shook her head. “Not King Blatonn. His son.”

“Forkbeard.” He remembered the stern gaze of that spoiled prince born to the son of Gorm.

“Geira’s grave is not yet cold, yet Forkbeard has inherited your wife’s land and the crown of Dan’s Reach,” she said. “Forkbeard, the king’s son who knew your wife was with child.” The Seidkona stirred the stew again. “If you wish to take back your throne and avenge your wife’s death, assemble an army. Start with Forkbeard’s vassal, Hakon. He resides in your father’s land west of the Northern Way in Nidaros. There, he plays puppet king to your people.”

Would she have me march to my death?

“Forkbeard is strong,” Olaf said. “His armies are great.”

“So they are.”

“I can not take him alone,” he said. “Not with all the aid of Eire’s Land.”

“You can when you kill all who worship Forkbeard’s gods.”

Olaf’s thoughts wandered to the kingdom of Asgard and the gods seated there in halls of gold.

“The Vanir,” he whispered. “You would have me target Odinn, Thor, and Idunn?”

The woman shrugged and slurped more stew. “Baldr has fallen,” she said. “There are greater kings with greater powers who look to bring new gods.”

“Destroy the old for the new,” Olaf said.

The woman grinned.

“Very well,” Olaf said and made his way back to the passage. At the edge of the room, he gazed at the witch. Her black hair rippled in the firelight. “How will I know her when I find her?”

She stirred the stew so long that Olaf thought she hadn’t heard and opened his mouth to ask again.

“She’s the Seidkona without gold eyes.”

Olaf flinched, taken aback by such a concept. All Seidkona had gold eyes. Everyone knew that. Their bodies consumed by so much Seidr…For a Seidkona to not have golden eyes…

Olaf grunted, unsure of what to think of such things. “What do I do with the Seidkona once I have her pouch?”

The Seidkona shrugged and peered up from her brew with a grin. “Whatever you wish.”