Dolor and Shadow

by Angela Chrysler

“I’ll pay you later,” Eyolf said, not bothering to hide his remark.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Kallan said as Daggon scrutinized Geir’s trousers that looked too much like a man’s tunic…his tunic.

  “Still looking for a fight, Kallan?” Eyolf said.

  She flashed him her best smile. “Always.”

  “Well, don’t,” he tried his best to scold her. “A woman of your age should be enjoying far more than just fighting.”

  “You taught me little else.” She beamed and the firelight caught a gleam of mischief in her eye.

  “You’re too old to care only for swords and battle,” Eyolf said.

  “I care for other things,” Kallan said.

  Eilif stifled a bout of uncontrolled chuckling.

  “And you.” Eyolf peered at the scribe. “You shouldn’t encourage her.”

  “He doesn’t encourage me, Father,” Kallan said, passing Rind to Eilif. “He enables me.”

  Eilif took the child and carried her to the basket of goods where he could escape the talk that was due between Kallan and the king.

  “I’ll ready the horses and leave you to your daughter,” Daggon said, evoking a scowl from Eyolf.

  “What was that about?” Kallan asked and her father shrugged.

  “Daggon wants me to marry you off to King Ethelred of Engla Land.”

  Kallan flashed her best unimpressed look and took up her cloak from the table as the door closed behind Daggon.

  “You must have something of importance to discuss to track me to the warrens,” she said.

  “I did,” Eyolf said, releasing her hands as he walked around the table to put distance between themselves and the children.

  “About?” Kallan asked.

  “I’m marrying you off to King Ethelred of Engla Land.”

  There was silence and the fire popped as Kallan felt the warmth drain from her face. Eyolf grinned. “I’m kidding.”

  Kallan released her breath and attempted a smile back.

  “We just received word that King Rune is preparing another attack.”

  “Again,” Kallan said. “When do we leave?”

  “We don’t.”

  Kallan opened her mouth to argue.

  “King Rune is growing more desperate,” her father said before Kallan could intervene. “The Norns have helped you this far—”

  “The Norns have nothing to do with it,” Kallan said. “I’m that good.”

  Eyolf shook his head. “I can’t let you go, Kallan.”

  “But I’m good,” Kallan said. “You know this. I’ve never been wounded.”

  “Because you’re not a target. Not yet anyway. Once they catch on that the Seidkona’s apprentice is the king’s daughter, the Dark One…that berserker will stop at nothing to get his hands on you. It’s too dangerous.”

  Kallan’s shoulders fell with her spirits and mood, and she gazed at the children huddled about the basket.

  “They’ve lost so much,” she said. “The least I could do is avenge their fathers for them.”

  “By taking their hate on for them, you hope to ease their suffering, is that it?” Eyolf asked and brushed Kallan’s chin.

  She looked up at his old gray eyes, weathered from stress and war.

  “I can’t have you fighting alongside me anymore,” he said. “Don’t follow. Not this time.”

  Kallan nodded and lowered her eyes, but Eyolf caught her chin.

  “Promise,” he said.

  “I promise.”

  Eyolf kissed Kallan’s brow and wrapped her in a warm hug.

  “How long will you be at the keep?” she asked into the furs.

  “Most of the day,” Eyolf said. “I’ll be back in time for sup.”

  Kallan nodded.

  “This is just a routine inspection. I need to make sure Thorold has the troops ready. They’ll be our first defense when the attack comes. Besides…” Eyolf peered down at Kallan, who looked up from the furs that tickled her nose. “Don’t you have a lesson today?”

  Kallan’s eyes widened. “The forge. I forgot!” With a hurried kiss to his cheek, she turned for the door, then stopped at the basket of food and the huddle of children.

  “Hey, Geir,” she called.

  Geir poked his head up just as Kallan flicked her finger. As before, a speck of gold Seidr flew through the air and harmlessly smacked Geir on the other cheek.

  “Hey,” Geir shouted and was on his feet, running for his sword.

  With a grin and a flourish, Kallan wrapped her cloak around her shoulders and glided toward the door in a sweeping display.

  The door closed with an impertinent click behind her.

  “Hey! Come back here,” Geir called and threw back the door. In short order, he followed behind her with his stick.

  “Hel’s gates,” Eyolf muttered.

  From the floor, Eilif smiled. “Kallan is who she is, Your Majesty.”

  Eyolf watched the scribe tear apart a loaf of bread for Rind.

  “You’re not children anymore, Eilif,” he said. “If Kallan doesn’t learn to expand her interests beyond orphans and swords and spells, I may just have to force the issue through marriage.”

  Eilif respectfully nodded and passed Kri her own helping of bread.

  “You have Kallan’s respect more than any of us,” Eyolf said. “Perhaps you should do your part to encourage her proper behavior before I am forced to find her a husband who will.”

  Eilif looked up from the children.

  “For her sake, Eilif. Please.”

  Eilif nodded to the king. “Yes, my lord,” he said, leaving Eyolf to his silent contemplations.

  CHAPTER 10

  The forge glowed white from the constant heat of Kallan’s flame. Beads of sweat poured down her brow as she steadied the endless stream of Seidr flowing from her hands. The smith gave another gust from the bellows, forcing air into the small pipe that fed the heat and Kallan’s flames.

  “Keep it up, lass,” Uthbert said and gave the bellows another squeeze. “Almost there.”

  “How are you holding up?” Eilif asked through the heat. The young scribe maintained his distance, ensuring that Latha and Geir kept theirs. The boys sat pressing their faces into the fenced barrier, peeking hungrily between the spokes. For the moment, they seemed far more interested in Kallan’s Seidr fire than the forge itself. Despite having to squint against the blinding yellows and whites mirrored on the white stone that made up Lorlenalin, the boys had sustained their audience well for the past three hours.

  “I’ll make it,” Kallan said, battling through the exhaustion that endlessly sapped her strength. Her neck had stiffened, but it was nothing compared to the burning ache in her arms and shoulders from standing at Uthbert’s forge for more than half a day.

  “We’re almost there,” Uthbert said, sending another blast of air into the fire. “A few more degrees and we’ll have an elding ingot on our hands.”

  The status encouraged Kallan to bear in, sending a refreshed surge of Seidr flame into the forge.

  “Lady Gudrun, couldn’t you just use your Seidr?” Geir asked, unable to look away from Kallan’s flame.

  The old woman seated in the chair behind Kallan snorted at the suggestion.

  “I could,” she said. “But if she ever wants to improve her own Seidr, then there’s no better teacher than endurance. And so, Kallan…” Gudrun leaned closer. “…endure it!”

  “You’re almost there, Kallan,” Eilif said over the fire’s roar. “You can do it.”

  “Of course she can,” Gudrun scolded. “I’m a damn good teacher, if I do say so myself.”

  “Come on, Kallan,” Uthbert said. “One more should do the trick.”

  Kallan bore down, focusing the last of her energy into the forge, and Uthbert grinned.

  “There we are,” he said. “Alright, Kallan. You’re done.”

  On cue, Kallan extinguished her flame and dropped her stiff arms. She swayed, taking in the extent of her exhaust
ion.

  “Easy now,” Gudrun said, standing up from the chair. “Here.”

  Gudrun withdrew a small apple from her pouch. “Get this down…now.” Sunlight struck the fruit as Gudrun handed it to Kallan. A thin layer of purest gold seemed to make up the apple’s skin, but when Kallan sank her teeth into the flesh, the fruit snapped like any ordinary apple would.

  At once, the ache from her arms and back dissipated. The severe weakness gave way to renewed strength. With every bite, her strained muscles re-wove themselves, leaving her feeling as if she hadn’t just spent fourteen hours heating Uthbert’s forge.

  Kallan wiped the sweat from her forehead, leaving a streak of soot smudged across her brow.

  “How does it look, Uthbert?” Kallan asked as the smith used his hammer and tongs to pry off the bricks and baked mud from the forge that encompassed the mold within. The boys were at their limit. After sitting for so long, they leapt up and scrambled around the forge and Uthbert, barely keeping a safe distance.

  “Geir! Latha!” Eilif warned and followed the boys, ready to enforce their boundaries.

  From the forge’s belly, Uthbert pulled a single white crucible from the furnace. He furrowed his brow as he rested the crucible on the edge of the forge.

  “Did it get hot enough?” Latha said as Uthbert smashed the ash and clay crucible away to reveal a bright yellow ingot that glowed like the sun.

  “Well…” Uthbert said and shifted the ingot to an anvil beside the forge. He struck the ingot hard. Almost no slag jumped from the hot metal. He struck it again then proceeded to hammer the ingot, forcing it to conform and stretch to his design. “Looks that way,” Uthbert said. “In a couple of days, Kallan, you’ll have an elding war dagger on your hands. What’ll you name it?”

  “Blod Tonn,” Kallan said, unable to hold back a grin.

  “Blood Tooth,” Uthbert translated and smiled at his work. Already the ingot looked elongated. “Is that your father’s sense of humor in you?” he asked, shoving the metal back into the furnace.

  Kallan raised her hands and gave the furnace another brief blast until Uthbert grunted, “Good.” He returned the metal to the anvil.

  “It’s only fitting,” Kallan said, resisting the urge to bounce on the balls of her feet. “His sword is Blod Hjerte. Mine should be Blod Tonn.”

  “Where is your father anyway?” Eilif asked over Uthbert’s hammering. “I’m surprised he isn’t here to see this.”

  Kallan watched the ingot clamped in Uthbert’s tongs.

  “He went with Daggon and Aaric,” she said. “They’re making a run to the keep.”

  “What for?” Gudrun asked. “An inspection isn’t due for another moon.”

  Uthbert struck the ingot, stretching the hot metal into what started to resemble a flat strip.

  “With the constant threat from King Rune, Father wanted to be sure the keep is armed and ready.”

  “And you’re not with them?” Eilif asked.

  Kallan shrugged.

  “It’s not a fight. It’s just a standard troop check.”

  “Besides, you needed the training,” Gudrun grumped. The twinkle in her eye assured Kallan she was in for a fight.

  “I’m not half bad,” she said to her grandmother.

  “You can also do better,” Gudrun replied, goading the argument from Kallan.

  Kallan’s mouth was agape, ready to rebut, when the sudden stomp of a horse’s hooves pounded the white stone of the courtyard.

  Kallan and Eilif jumped and looked to the worn rider, the forge forgotten. From atop Astrid, the king’s horse, Aaric stared down with troubled eyes. A fresh cut seeped blood down his tattooed left arm.

  “Aaric?” Kallan asked, perplexed at the large figure and his unprecedented arrival.

  “It’s your father,” Aaric said. “There’s been an ambush.”

  * * *

  The high summer sun beat down as the wind burned Kallan’s ears. Astrid’s hooves struck the ground and she snapped the reins, urging the horse on through the barren fields to the outpost at the edge of the forest.

  Within minutes, the Dokkalfar keep was in sight, and with it, the swarm of Ljosalfar surrounding Daggon, who battled them alone. At his feet lay dead the two dozen that had accompanied Daggon and King Eyolf that morning. Pulling Astrid to a stop, Kallan slid from the dark, reddish-brown horse and strode to the raid ahead. Only a handful remained. The ring of her blade announced her arrival and attracted the first of her enemy.

  Tightening her grip on the hilt, Kallan raised her elding sword and pivoted as a Ljosalfr brought down his blade. She blocked and sunk her blade into the soldier. Kallan caught a flash of steel. With a heavy thud, he dropped to the ground. She had no time to study the frozen fear that peered up from the lifeless young face before another charged her, as eager as the last to boast a Seidkona’s death.

  With careful calculation that allowed her to predict their actions, she dodged each swing.

  Kallan plunged her sword into another warrior, who fell to the ground. She scanned the field, assessing the number left standing as she raised her sword and charged.

  “Daggon,” Kallan called to the redheaded mammoth. “Where’s Father?”

  With his sword raised for the blow, a Ljosalfr charged Daggon.

  “I saw him go into the keep,” the captain shouted back over the clang of Ljosalfr iron against Dokkalfr elding steel.

  Kallan gave her blade a final thrust as the life withered from a Ljosalfr. Withdrawing her sword, she turned and sank the blade into a Ljosalfar preparing to throw his spear. Over-eager pride blanketed his face as the spearman slumped to the ground. Another Ljosalfr charged as the salt from Kallan’s sweat burned her lips. With axe raised, he set his interests on the Seidkona whose sword remained buried in the soldier’s chest.

  Turning up her wrist, Kallan pulled from the energy produced in her core. Seidr flame burst to life in her hand and she fired, catching the Ljosalfr in a torrent of flame, all before his blade could cleave her head in two.

  His screams lasted as long as his stubborn refusal to relinquish his weapon. She held him there until he released the axe. Kallan extinguished her Seidr as the scent of roasting flesh churned her stomach, and the charred body slumped to the ground. The final wave of soldiers charged with weapons raised.

  Leaving the blade to rest in the spearman, and with both palms ablaze, Kallan brandished her arms and unleashed her Seidr. Like dual whips, her fire cut the air, searing a spearman to the far right, while, behind him, another advanced. Ceasing her fire, Kallan reclaimed her sword and turned in time to plunge the blade into an advancing warrior.

  “There,” Kallan cried as a Ljosalfar lunged, but Daggon had already seen the last of them, who had taken off on horseback. His armband bearing her father’s crest glistened in the sun’s light as the captain mounted Kallan’s horse, intent on pursuing the rider into the forests bordering Midgard.

  Kallan’s broken breath unsettled the silence that stretched over the dead as she took in the carnage. Systematically, she assessed the many faces lying in pools of their own blood.

  “Father?”

  The rustling wind rolling over the bodies was the only answer, confirming the onslaught of troops had ended.

  Kallan studied the tall stone tower beside her.

  “Father,” she called again, remembering Aaric’s report.

  “It was just a routine inspection. We weren’t ready. We didn’t even see them coming.”

  Aaric had rushed through the update as Kallan mounted her father’s horse. “Daggon and your father were holding them off well enough on their own, but there’s no telling if more are right behind them!”

  “Go on ahead. I’ll gather the war-men. We’ll be right behind you.”

  But there were no war-men.

  Pushed haphazardly by the wind, the door of the keep clanked against the stone and, flexing her grip on the hilt, Kallan brandished her sword and vanished into the darkness.

  CHA
PTER 11

  A thick, heavy cold enclosed within the keep added to the stagnant dampness that enveloped Kallan. Light fought to invade the darkness, casting splashes of sun onto the stone. Lines of water were visible where moisture had collected down the gray walls.

  Kallan raised her sword and relaxed her shoulders, despite the gnawing suspicion that she was very much alone. Keeping her senses sharp, she made her way up each step, straining to hear the slightest sound. The warm summer air billowed up the stairs, catching her skirts in the breeze.

  At the top of the stairs, slivers of light spilled over the top step onto a platform where a door swung ajar. Kallan flexed her fingers around the hilt, assuring herself that her sword was ready. She stepped onto the platform. As gently as a gust of wind would rustle the needles of a pine, Kallan pushed against the door and entered the room.

  An upturned chair lay on its side next to a small table pushed awkwardly into a corner. Droplets of red spattered the floor and mingled with vellum maps ruined with blood. The only movement was the dust visible in the stream of sunlight pouring in through a window and streaking the stone floor.

  Dropping her arms with a sigh, Kallan sheathed her sword and moved to the window where she hoped for a better view in which to find her father. A breeze swept across her face as she looked down where the dead littered the ground. She breathed easier once she saw that her father was not one of them. In the west, beyond the hills of Alfheim, pines reached to the clear sky where the edge of the wood became Midgard. Across the extensive plain, grass rippled like the sea beneath the low winds.

  Centuries had passed since she had wandered beyond the West Wood where the thin air burned the skin with winds too cold to breathe. From the trees, Kallan looked to the south. Towering mountain peaks guarded Lorlenalin. Her eyes trailed down from the fields streaked with green, to the plains of Alfheim. It was there, in the distance, over meandering lakes and streams, that she saw them: four Ljosalfar, riding for Gunir in the east. She didn’t have to meet the elusive King Rune to know it was him. Her stomach churned as heat climbed to her throat.