Dolor and Shadow

by Angela Chrysler

  “Then wher—”

  A gust of wind and Daggon roared. Kallan looked back to her first commander.

  An arrow protruded from his left shoulder. He wrapped his hand around the wood and, wincing, broke off the shaft. A single stream of blood trickled down his bicep where the arrow’s head had embedded into the thick of his shoulder and Kallan turned her face to the sky.

  “Shields,” she cried and, thrusting her blade into the earth, she slammed her hands to the sky, and with it, her Seidr.

  From her body an iridescent glow erupted, encasing her in energy. Facing the rain of arrows, the Dokkalfar raised their shields in a wave that started with Kallan’s cry.

  The arrows shattered against the Seidr, unable to penetrate the shield Kallan formed. She looked to the north where countless Ljosalfar archers unleashed a second volley among the pines.

  Releasing her spell, Kallan refocused her energy into her palms and swept her arms, whipping her red flames through the archers. From the cleft, Gudrun uttered a charm. Lightning surged from her palms as she directed her Seidr into the archers, who scattered in a vain attempt to escape. From behind them, Rune’s army rose up and charged the clearing where the Dokkalfar met the attack.

  Axe cleaved bone and spearmen impaled foes, spilling Alfar blood. In one hand, Kallan wielded her flame while she swung her sword with the other. Securing a wide perimeter around her, she slaughtered any who dared approach her for a chance at the killing and the glory.

  Almost immediately, she lost sight of Daggon amid the chaos. Warriors of two, three then five came at her, each group failing to slay her as the red sun rose.

  * * *

  Desperate to take the Seidkona down, Rune fought his way through the battle. He slowed as he approached her, waiting and watching for the chance to move in. Only Bergen had ever made it this close to her. Armed with flame and sword, she left no opening. He assessed her skills, deciding she was equivalent to ten of his best men. She shifted. A warrior lunged and she threw him back. She repeated the process until the rare chance came when one of his soldiers stepped from behind the Seidkona and closed his arm around her neck. Believing the soldier had her, Rune raised his sword.

  The Seidkona released a blast of energy, throwing the grappler onto his back and, as she poured her fire onto her assailant, Rune closed in, his sword raised. A flash of iridescent lapis blue caught his eye and, within that time, she knew him, and the Seidkona paused. Her delay was all the time Rune needed. Blade clipped the iron and dislodged her helmet, throwing her to the ground unconscious.

  Holding his breath, Rune drew back his sword, prepared to thrust the tip through her heart, and froze. At once, he understood the Seidkona’s hesitation. Chestnut hair spilled across the red-soaked earth. Pearlescent skin was splattered with blood seeping from a gash above her tapered ear, and Rune recalled the grief-laden eyes of the maiden.

  The mass of his sword weighed down his arm, but he kept the blade suspended. He had sought this Seidkona for years. She needed to die. He tried to convince himself. She had to die, and yet his arm would not obey.

  His eyes swept over her, examining the wound he had inflicted. She was losing too much blood. She would die from that wound within minutes if he did nothing. A stab of hate swallowed his guilt. He could not suffer her to die a slow death. His conclusion silenced his conscience, but not soon enough.

  A shallow pierce to his neck stayed his hand, and Rune stiffened.

  “Give me a reason to cut off your head so that I may hand it to her.” The words, laden with the Dokkalfar’s brogue, hissed. “Stand down.”

  Rune held his stance as the warrior’s sword cut deeper into his throat. He stole a glance to the armband of silver and elding and Rune knew the queen’s captain before meeting his amber eyes. The stream of blood still poured from the arrowhead lodged in his flesh. Three inches to the right and Rune could have saved himself this trouble. He glanced at the woman. She was growing paler.

  “Stand down.” The captain’s voice was colder this time.

  Rune’s stomach tightened as he eyed the body before him.

  I should stab her, he thought.

  But the glory of a Seidkona’s death no longer carried the pride it had moments ago and death for him was certain.

  Unless…

  Rune lowered his sword to his side.

  Only a few feet in front of him, a Ljosalfr warrior took his last breath, doubled over the Dokkalfar blade that speared his stomach. With that warrior’s death, a great wave rippled through the battlefield that would turn the tide of the war. Around him, Rune’s men fell, overwhelmed against the odds.

  They fought in vain to win the honor awaiting them in Odinn’s hall. They fought until the last Ljosalfr of Rune’s army perished, and two Dokkalfar seized Rune by the arms. A third took his sword and stripped his weapons, removing them as they found them. Swann Dalr grew quiet. Screams replaced the victor’s cry.

  The captain held his fiery glare, the tip of his blade still nestled in Rune’s throat. More guards raised their swords while others stripped the king’s armor. All the while, Rune gazed upon the Seidkona.

  She was growing paler by the minute. He wasn’t the only one who had noticed. Rune watched as the warrior, battling remorse, fell broken to the Seidkona’s side. Gently, the captain lifted her head and brushed back a long, bloodstained lock of hair. His large hands trembled as he slipped an arm behind her back and, as if he cradled a precious jewel, pulled her into him.

  A twinge of envy pricked Rune’s chest.

  “Where’s the Dark One?” a Dokkalfr soldier grunted.

  Rune made no movement to show that he heard as his thoughts filled with Bergen riding with Joren to the desecrated remnants that would be left of Swann Dalr. He thought of the vengeful eye Bergen would turn to Lorlenalin.

  The battlefield had a new sound as the Dokkalfar slaughtered the last of the Ljosalfar. Only the fire continued the battle, consuming the tents.

  “Where is he?” the Dokkalfr asked again.

  Too clearly, Rune envisioned Bergen’s head rolling about in the white courtyard. Blood would streak the stone while he, Rune Tryggveson, the elder son of the great Lodewuk, looked on helpless as his father’s kingdom fell, its memory left to the mercy of Dokkalfar bards and scribes.

  “Dead,” Rune said. Shackles clamped his wrists.

  The captain cradled his maiden, taking great care not to jostle the dying woman. He shifted to stand as Rune watched the Seidkona held adoringly by the Dokkalfr. He knew her as either a daughter or a lover, perhaps. Surely, if anyone knew who she was, he would.

  “Who is she?”

  The captain raised his head. Cold hatred emanated from the Dokkalfr. The silence stretched as Rune waited.

  “You don’t know,” the captain said.

  It wasn’t a question, but a calm observation chilled and made rigid by the Seidkona’s imminent death. The pain in Rune’s chest tightened as the captain turned his back to him.

  “Dokkalfr,” Rune said, drawing his adversary’s attention once more. “Her name.”

  The captain glared and, without an answer, he left Rune to his captors.

  CHAPTER 17

  The last relenting flames burned with seemingly less ferocity than they had moments ago. Smoke billowed into the sky above Swann Dalr, casting the early day into dusk-like shadows that mingled with steam from the bodies. Daggon no longer saw where the smoke ended and clouds began through the haze. Behind him, the clink of shackles broke the silence as the Dokkalfar detained the handful of prisoners they had selected to slaughter on ceremony.

  The pain from his wounded shoulder had dulled to a steady pulse as he stumbled over the bodies through the morning mist. He no longer tasted the blood and sweat on his dried lips. Kallan was beyond medicine now. If he could save her at all, he would need Gudrun.

  “Gudrun!” Daggon’s voice shook over the silenced battlefield.

  Kallan’s limp body swayed with every misjudged step o
ver the dead. He afforded himself a quick glance at the queen in his arms. A single stream of blood flowed across her brow, draining her life with every drop. She was too pale.

  Daggon doubled his pace. Catching his foot on a broken shield, he fell to one knee and grunted in pain. His breath punched the air. Gasping, his senses reeled and he shifted Kallan’s weight with his as he studied the battlefield for a more definitive path. He pushed himself back to his feet, and took a step, lost his footing, found it again, and continued through the mutilated flesh and broken corpses, abandoning all interest in where his feet landed.

  The memory of an infant eclipsed his rising panic.

  “You won’t break her,” Eyolf had barked amid laughter he didn’t bother to hide. Desperate to engage his king with political matters, Daggon had pressed the issue.

  “I didn’t come to pass my congratulations, Eyolf. The Dvergar King—”

  “Can wait. Motsognir will do well to learn some patience anyway,” Eyolf had said. “Here.”

  Before Daggon could object, the proud king had shoved the fussing infant into his arms.

  A hearty laugh mocked his awkwardness, but Daggon had been too busy trying to balance the fragile princess away from his armor to notice. His face had flushed with surprise as he tried to shift the child without dropping her. His tunic had started to stick to his back.

  “It’s rare that a captain earns the privilege of humility,” Eyolf had chortled. “Usually that virtue is reserved for a soldier of lesser rank.”

  But humility had been far from his mind as the infant ceased her wailing. With her iridescent lapis eyes so much like her mother’s, she stared at his large face buried beneath the mass of wild, red hair. He had never held a child before in his life.

  Daggon glanced down at Kallan’s face. She was white as death.

  “Gudrun!”

  His voice pierced the chill in the air. Worry gave way to panic as he pondered the chance of Gudrun’s death and, at once, started looking among the dead, searching the thousands for a familiar streak of silver hair or ancient, empty eyes no longer glistening with gold.

  A distant shape formed within the fog. Daggon strained to see through the steam, the smoke, and the haze. His panting started to regulate into steady breaths when he recognized the minute frame hobbling with a hurried step and a familiar madness. From the edge of the valley where the mist had cleared, Gudrun scurried over the corpses.

  His blood raced with relief and he again doubled his pace, tripping as he ran to meet her.

  “Out of the way, out of the way,” she said as she drew near.

  Daggon had no time to explain, nor did he need to. With her hands already upon Kallan’s brow, Gudrun dropped to her knees, pulling Daggon and Kallan to the ground with her.

  Daggon watched Gudrun’s ageless eyes shift about, studying Kallan’s waning complexion as she shuffled around the contents of her pouch. With a hand she kept steady, she pulled a golden apple from a pouch secured to her side and sliced into the fruit.

  “Can you—”

  “Sh. Sh,” Gudrun hushed, keeping her attention on the spell.

  From the fruit’s flesh, golden juice flowed, gleaming with glistening specks of Seidr. Under her breath, Gudrun muttered a series of words Daggon couldn’t decipher. The liquid flowed between Kallan’s lips as he watched, wringing his fingers.

  Time seemed to slow as the color returned to Kallan, bringing her life back with it until she gasped, arched her back, and opened her eyes.

  “Kallan. Kallan, can you hear me? Will she be alright?”

  Kallan’s gaze focused on Daggon, who released a long breath as a single tear escaped his eye. Grinning, he clamped her palm to his lips.

  “Daggon?” she said, wrinkling her brow.

  Daggon nodded. “Kallan.”

  Alertness gave way to confusion as Kallan gazed about the silent battlefield.

  “They knew,” she whispered, playing back her last memory as the exhaustion melted from her bones, leaving a surge of strength that urged her to her feet. She pushed off the ground, motivating Daggon and Gudrun to take an arm and help her to her feet. The Seidr supplied by Idunn’s apple surged through her and Kallan breathed the chilled air with the scent of fire that mingled with the stench of burning dead.

  In silence, Daggon and Gudrun waited as Kallan scanned the wasteland and assessed the damage. Pockets of orange light in the distance had barely started to fade through the fog. The land was unnaturally quiet, as if Hel had reached up and stilled even the Seidr in the earth. Mid-day had passed, but the haze was too thick for the sun’s light to break through. The Dokkalfar had begun piling up the dead. A few pyres already filled the valley with their light.

  “The Ljosalfar were ready,” Kallan said, looking to Gudrun and Daggon.

  With her head high, she resumed her command undeterred, as if she had never fallen.

  “Where is my army?” she asked. “Where are my war-men?”

  “Your Majesty.” Daggon’s boot crunched the ground as he stepped forward. “We have apprehended Rune Tryggveson, Ljosalfr and King of Gunir. The men are preparing him for transport as we speak.”

  A knot formed in Kallan’s throat and tightened her insides uncomfortably. Despite her captain awaiting her exclamation of glee, she clenched her teeth and nodded somberly.

  “Kallan?” Gudrun asked.

  Kallan forced a smile that did little to convince either Daggon or Gudrun of her feigned jubilation and the awkwardness hung suspended in the air, encouraging Kallan to move. With renewed strength, she waded through the dead to Astrid waiting in the trees. Behind her, Daggon and Gudrun followed.

  “We ride for Lorlenalin immediately,” Kallan said with unusual stiffness. “I want to waste no time in finishing this. Find Aaric. Have him start the preparations for the execution. See to it the Coward King has provisions and any wounds are treated. I want him alive and healthy when we perform the Blood Eagle.”

  “Kallan,” Daggon said. “With the Dark One and his army riding this way…”

  Kallan looked at him.

  “It’s the perfect chance to move in,” he said. “Wipe them out while we have the chance.”

  A sharp stab twisted its way into Kallan’s chest. Anxiety settled to the bottom of her stomach and she closed her hand into a fist.

  “The Dark One dead would end this,” Kallan said. “We’ll let him come to us.”

  She continued toward Astrid. “We’ll break camp and prepare for transport,” she said, not bothering to turn back. “I want the living and the dead counted. No doubt Odinn will be claiming many of our best tonight.”

  “Will you come see him before we’re off?” Daggon asked.

  “Odinn?” Kallan asked.

  “The king,” Daggon said. “You’ve never seen him.”

  Kallan forced down the lump in her throat.

  “No,” she said. “I have not.”

  Panic swelled in place of the excitement she had expected and, with it, a realization she wasn’t ready to name. “So long I’ve dreamed of this day,” she muttered, staring back at the dead and the pyres, “when I might look into the eyes of the man who killed my father.” A foreboding lurked in Kallan’s words. “To look down upon him victorious…”

  “It would confirm the end of the war,” Daggon said.

  But I have known nothing else. Kallan’s throat was dry as she felt a piece of her slipping away.

  “Not yet,” she replied, forcing the words out. “There is plenty of time and too much to do. I’ll see him later.”

  Kallan could feel Gudrun’s golden gaze scrutinize her, while Daggon nodded and took his leave, eager to carry out her orders.

  If the war ends…if Rune dies, what else would there be, but the Dark One? And when he is gone, whose blood then shall I spill to avenge my father’s?

  Her insides twisted uncomfortably. There was much more at stake. Something beyond the vengeance, which Kallan didn’t dare name. Tightening her jaw against th
e deepening urge to scream, she turned on her heel, careful to avoid Gudrun’s eye, and made her way to the trees. Her stride was strong and purposeful. Panic was settling in, and a realization that weighted her down was coming whether she wanted it to or not.

  Desperate to escape the end that was closing in, she hoisted herself onto Astrid and sent him into a light canter through the trees to where no one could find her.

  * * *

  Too broken to fight, Rune gazed upon what little remained of Swann Dalr. The only living left among the dead were those too injured to save. The countless corpses made his defeat more real to him than anything he could have prepared for. The last of his hope dwindled, pulling him into despair.

  “Leave them,” a Dokkalfr called to the queen’s men. “Odinn can have his pick of the dead.”

  All other conversations were too far away to decipher, making it easy for Rune to merge his thoughts until he remembered the chestnut hair that spilled over the blood-soaked earth.

  Saved the maiden from the boar to kill the Seidkona whose death took what little victory I had. Rune lacked the nerve to chuckle at the irony. The queen will be sure my death is a slow one.

  The fire burned to the ground as the Seidr flames consuming the tents started to dwindle. The fog muted the light from the flames. It pained him to breathe. In a senseless hope that he may see a single captain carrying a maiden with iridescent blue eyes over the dead, Rune kept his gaze fixed on the valley.

  “You look as if you’ve lost something.”

  The voice jarred him from his thoughts. Rune shifted his attention to a Dokkalfr, a warrior.

  Soiled and bloodied by battle, the Dokkalfr stood away from his comrades, stiff and cold before the Ljosalfar king. War braids framed a gruff face that cloaked all emotion.

  “Haven’t I lost everything?” Rune asked, dulled by the shock of his loss.

  The Dokkalfr shrugged.