Branches stretched like brittle fingers across the black-blue sky as if the rustle in the wind was the only life left in Lorlenalin’s forest. Bergen stared into the hollowed darkness, glad to be free of the merciless sun’s light. The scar above his right brow reflected the moonlight.
His large, black pupils, once silver-blue, now consumed the whole of his eyes. He looked with ease beyond the obscurity that stretched from his seat in the dark wood to the highest visible peak of Lorlenalin.
He had seen the Mountain City only once before. In a fit of adventure seeking, he had ignored his father’s laws and hiked across the forests of Alfheim. His journey came to a sour end at the base of Livsvann’s falls where his father had been waiting.
Bergen could rarely recall a more rigid beating.
The Dark One stared at the thundering water. From a crevice buried above the lowest cloud, the water emerged. Under common conditions, like tonight, Livsvann appeared to flow directly from the puffs of haze as if the clouds themselves were forever emptying their contents into the pool below.
A twinge of annoyance pricked his chest. He still had not climbed to the summit.
Despite the long blade forged of Seidr-stone sheathed on his back, Bergen’s dark armor, heavily bristled chin, and black, waist-length hair did well to hide him within the shadows. On his belt, next to a small pouch that contained his favorite pipe leaf, he sported a collection of blades, herbs, and medicinal leaves he found to be rather useful in a pinch.
The solid clomp of Joren’s boot came from behind and, as alert as a sparrow hawk, Bergen looked about. Exhaustion pulled on the scout’s face. If Bergen hadn’t seen Joren a thousand times like this, wraith-like from the thick dusting that covered him after a long ride, he would not have recognized him. He was as ragged and rent as his men hidden in the forest where they waited for his signal.
Always eager to skip the formalities, Bergen jumped to the only question that mattered. “Is Rune alive?”
“For now,” Joren said between breaths. The thin air must have left him battling for breath all day. “The queen signed his execution yesterday. He dies under tomorrow’s moon.”
“That doesn’t give us much time,” Bergen said. He shifted his gaze to the clouds then looked again to Joren. “What of Borg? What has he decided?”
“We’re waiting on him now. If he can deliver an opening into the city, he’ll hang a light at Livsvann’s pool.” Joren stretched a finger to the base of the falls where the waters collected at the river’s head. “We’ll meet him there and enter through the stables behind the falls.”
Bergen had been hunting for a speck of light when he looked back to the scout. “Behind Livsvann?”
Joren nodded, catching the moonlight on his brow.
“There are only two ways into the city: the stables and the main gate,” Joren said.
“I supposed the main gate is out of the question,” Bergen said, looking out to Lorlenalin’s high walls with a bemused look as if considering the possibility.
The wind picked up, and Bergen breathed deeply, taking in the salty-sweet sea air.
“The water conceals a cave that’s been converted into the palace stables,” Joren said. “A worn trail leads behind the falls. If you don’t know to look for it, you won’t see it. Once inside, you’ll have one path to follow, a corridor that will take you to the barracks, the Great Hall, and the courtyard. You’ll need to enter the prison through the barracks.”
Bergen nodded, taking in every word and gazing at the sea through the trees.
“And what of the army?” Bergen said.
“Most have gathered in the Great Hall. They eat and drink to the end of the war.” Joren shook his head. “They have no idea.”
“And the Seidkona. Where is she?” Bergen said, staring at the Kattegat stretching to the horizon.
Joren’s prolonged silence forced Bergen’s attention.
“I asked Borg about the queen,” Joren said, uncertain how to proceed. “If she had her Seidkona with her…” Joren sighed, bringing himself to finish. “The queen is the Seidkona, Bergen.”
Bergen dropped his brow.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“The queen doesn’t have a Seidkona,” Joren said. “The Seidkona…the one who gave you that scar…is the queen.”
The Dark One shook his head, refusing to accept Joren’s claim. Too much didn’t make sense.
“The princess was home,” Bergen said. “Always home…she stayed in the city while the Old Seidkona from Eire’s Land fought alongside Eyolf.”
Joren was already shaking his head.
“Kallan never stayed home. It was she that King Eyolf sent after us.”
“But…his own daughter?” Bergen sputtered.
“Wasn’t exactly helpless, if you recall,” Joren said with a subtle point to the scar branded on Bergen’s brow.
Bergen stood, his mouth agape, as he tried to piece Joren’s words together.
Everyone had remembered the wide-eyed child in Lorlenalin’s courts peeking between Eyolf’s high seat pillars, and it was true, no one had actually seen the princess since King Tryggve first extended a hand for peace before…
Bergen shook his head.
Regardless, the memory of a sweet little thing, too delicate to be troubled with, pacified everyone’s curiosity. When news reached Gunir that she had taken the throne, everyone had imagined a frail girl, barely strong enough to lift her father’s sword, sitting in a throne so large it swallowed her whole.
A vivid image of an oversized crown sinking to the shoulders of an adolescent came to everyone’s mind and they had all laughed. When Queen Kallan called in her father’s troops as his burial ship still burned, she had only reaffirmed their suspicions. No one had seen these attacks coming.
Bergen recalled the Seidr flame that had grazed his brow, leaving him with a permanent mark that seemed to ignite his bloodlust. Her adamant, scornful look remained forever fixed in his head. Wielding a sword in one hand and a spell in the other, a wild ambition had blazed in her lapis blue eyes. The Seidkona had sparked a curiosity in him that dangerously toggled between his interests in ripened sexuality and his fear of feminine madness.
“You’re telling me that that war maiden,” Bergen said, “…that…that Seidr-wielding war wench is the queen?”
“She is.”
Trees bowed beneath the wind.
“That softened little princess, who sat unscathed in her daddy’s citadel—” Bergen said.
“Gave you that scar,” Joren finished for him. “Always there, always looking back now and then to send a bolt of fire up our asses.”
“Why didn’t Borg tell us of this sooner?” Bergen forced himself from crying out.
“I asked him the same thing,” Joren said.
Bergen waited for a response.
“Have we ever once asked about the queen before?” Joren asked. “On the battlefront, we assumed the Seidkona was there fighting while the princess slept soundly in her bed at home. If we found the Seidkona, she would be alone without her queen, we thought.”
“No one had ever seen her majesty,” Bergen said.
“Save for King Tryggve when Kallan was but a child,” Joren said. “Back when you were in Râ-Kedet.”
The wind blew cold and Bergen shook off the chill.
“Do you think Rune knows?” Joren asked after a moment.
“We can ask him when this is over,” Bergen said, forcing his composure back in place and gearing up for the task ahead.
Looking back to the dark pool of water, they paused. The winds had settled for the moment, leaving the forest unusually silent. Clouds shifted, letting in a streak of moonlight that vanished before the winds picked up again.
Bergen released a long sigh, keeping his eye on Livsvann’s pool. Still, no lantern swayed in the dark.
“Joren.”
The scout looked to his commander.
“If we are found and a skirmish breaks out, it will
be the fight that ends this.” Joren stared at Bergen, listening to every word. “Should both monarchs fight, only one will live.” Bergen walked along the forest’s edge to look better upon the pool.
Joren nodded in understanding of the weight of the situation. Bergen exhaled, giving his attention to an elm tree bowed beneath the wind as he counted the odds against the unknowns.
“And if we succeed?” Joren asked. “What then?”
The wind settled, easing off the trees and leaving behind the most subtle of sounds in the darkness.
“We find our own way in,” Bergen said.
Together, they stared into the shadows, both heads spinning with worry. Neither spoke, leaving each to his own while they waited.
Sensing the light before he saw it, Bergen shifted his gaze north.
“There.” He pointed to the speck of light that glowed like a star from the water. With a fresh wave of restored hope, he glanced to Joren, who took up his sword. Already the blood violently pumped through Bergen’s veins.
“Before the sun rises?” Bergen asked, grinning with a mischievous twinkle in his black eyes.
Joren nodded.
“Before the sun rises.”
CHAPTER 27
From the shadows, Aaric watched the stables. He expected the traitor before he saw him: the warrior whose face he didn’t know. The falls thundered, filling the air with a steady hum while the horses grazed in their stalls. The army waited where he had assigned them at the front gate, cutting the evening’s festivities short, but leaving the path clear from the stables to the prisons. He expected the Dark One to suspect a trap. What Aaric couldn’t determine was what the Dark One would do with it. And for that, he needed to be ready to act. Whether they wanted to or not, the Ljosalfar were taking Kallan prisoner this night.
When the warrior entered the stables, Aaric hardly expected him to be the traitor he had been waiting for. He knew him when he watched the soldier sink a blade into the back of the stable master and dump the body out of sight, indifferent to the act as if he had been changing out weapons. Aaric held his place, knowing there was more for him to see.
The warrior took up a light hanging from one of the support beams and studied the area one last time before following the small path leading out to the forest and Livsvann. While Aaric debated on whether he should go or stay, the warrior returned and Aaric threw his hand to the hilt of his sword at the face he saw next coming up behind the traitor with three additional men.
“They know you’re here,” the traitor said and the Dark One held out a hand, stopping the handful of men behind him. “Report came in that you’re here with an army so all the troops have been pulled to the front. They anticipate battle.”
“But there is no army,” the Dark One said.
The traitor watched the Dark One. Waiting to take orders or waiting to give them, Aaric couldn’t tell.
“They know you’re here,” the traitor said.
The men behind the Dark One shifted slightly. Their unease was apparent only to a trained soldier, but there was unease without question and, for a moment, Aaric worried that they would withdraw.
“It’s a trap,” the Dark One said. “Borg, do you know who ordered this? What their reasoning was?”
Borg. So the traitor has a name after all.
An order to move the entire army could only come from the queen or the high marshal. No one else had that authority.
“Do we turn back, Captain?” one of the soldiers asked and the Dark One shook his head. “No. Rune is scheduled to die tomorrow. And I’m not leaving without him.” His decisions asserted their determination and the air within the group changed. Their confidence re-established.
“The way is clear, you say?” the Dark One asked Borg, who nodded.
“Down the passage, the first door you come to on the left, that is the barracks. I just came from there. The only guard on duty has been taken care of.”
“And of the prisons?”
“Empty,” Borg said. “Everyone has been called to the front.”
“We move on as planned,” the Dark One said. “Assume we’re walking into a trap and there’s a good chance we’ll be caught in it. Keep your guard up more than ever. Borg. If we can further count you as our ally, can you report to Joren? Let him know of the situation?”
“I can,” Borg said. The Dark One nodded his thanks and led his troops into the passage leaving Borg alone with Aaric.
The stables were silent. Aaric watched as Borg turned toward the path back to the forest and Joren, Aaric didn’t doubt.
With a flick of his wrist, Aaric released a spark of Seidr that struck one of the iron lanterns hanging on a beam.
Streaks of orange swayed across the stables in a display that changed dark for light. Aaric watched Borg study the shadows through the kaleidoscope of color and his hand went to his hilt. Before Borg could doubt his imagination, Aaric fired off another spark that struck the same light. It swayed aggressively now and Aaric grinned, delighted at the beads of sweat that formed on Borg’s brow as he shifted his gaze about as if on the edge of madness.
Borg withdrew his sword and poised himself to strike as soon as he determined the target.
Another spark, this one fired at the lantern at the far end of the stables. And with the angle of the second swinging lantern…
Borg turned to the shadows that concealed Aaric.
Another spark to the first lantern. Borg tightened his poise and then made his way toward Aaric. The thunder of the Livsvann pounded the air between them as the lights swayed, slower now. Aaric fired off another two sparks to the first, then the second lantern.
That’s right. See me.
And Borg did. Aaric watched the traitor twist his grip, adjust the angle of his blade, and lunge. With an agility only possessed by a Seidr user, Aaric shifted and positioned himself behind Borg before Borg could recover from the missed attack. In a matter of breaths, Aaric clamped his hand to Borg’s shoulder and pulled his Seidr from him, leaving only enough to keep him alive.
Borg fell to the floor immobile, with the clank of his sword.
Grimacing, Aaric stepped over the unconscious lump and strode to Astrid in his stall. Mechanically, he shifted the furs to the horse’s back along with the saddle he fastened in place, then secured the bit and bridle on his head and the bit in his mouth. With a hearty pat to the horse’s neck, Aaric returned to the heap that was Borg.
After kicking the blade into the shadows where he could come back for it later, he hefted Borg over his soldier and carried him from the stables, leaving them empty and cleared for Kallan.
* * *
Kallan stared blankly at the stone ceiling above her bed. Mindlessly, she turned over her mother’s pendant, tracing each strip of metal with her fingers. Four floors below her, Rune sat in the filth of her prisons.
“Where he belongs,” she huffed and threw herself onto her side.
Kallan sighed for what must have been the hundredth time that night.
Or was it morning already?
She glanced at the black of night. Not even the moon’s crescent was visible through the heavy cloud coverage. It was barely early morning. She growled, decided not to care, and dropped her head back to the pillow. Days had been melting into each other so much now that she was losing more time than she was able to track.
Kallan looked to her pouch and dagger resting on the table beside her.
Within ten minutes, I could be cloaked and in the prison. No one would ever know.
She shook her head, shoving away the plan, and made an effort to ignore the violent tantrum her stomach was throwing. She had skipped dinner completely, save for the bowl of cloudberries she had finished off. Her abdomen rumbled.
The kitchens are always empty this time of night. There’s nothing wrong with a little midnight raid, she decided, and started to play out an innocent trip to the pantry. Cook always has barrels of fruit lying about. Rune would be hungry. A spell would allow easy access to
the prisons. I could slip him something to eat and perhaps—
Kallan growled again and flopped onto her back. Blankly, she spun the signet ring around on her finger, studying the hammer engraved within the ring with the tri-corner knot that matched her mother’s pendant. No matter how she tried to justify a raid to the kitchens, she knew it would end in the prisons.
Pulling the furs over her nose with another sigh, she flipped onto her side, stared at the doors, and crossed her arms over her chest. Just as she settled into the silence, her chamber doors flew open, hitting the wall with a pair of bangs. Icy air engulfed her room and the light blackened. Wide-eyed, Kallan sat up from the bed.
Aaric looked as if he had just stumbled awake. Donned only in trousers, Kallan could make out every rune etched onto his torso. From his arms, to his shoulders, and down his spine, she followed the pre-ancient Ogham runes she had learned as a child. A handful of blacker, newer images she could not decipher appeared to be a variant of the Glagolitic runes used by the Sklavinians.
The sword at his side, unsheathed and reddened with fresh blood, told her everything she needed to know. With fluid movement, she snatched her dagger and the pouch from her bedside table and followed him out of her chambers, leaving her boots, her cloak, and her clothes behind.
* * *
“The Ljosalfar are attacking the front gate,” Aaric lied as he led Kallan down the hall. “Most of the men are there now.”
“So it is to the front we must go,” Kallan said, securing her pouch and dagger to her waist and falling in step beside him.
“Not yet,” he said. “There are reports that the enemy slipped in through the stables.”
“That passage is unknown,” she said. “How did they—”
“The Dark One is with them.”
Aaric watched the blood drain from her face and he doubled his pace. She was taking the news as he had hoped: with a cool head pushing and, as expected, she followed with a surge of excitement that sharpened her focus. With renewed determination, she descended the stairs, taking the steps two at a time alongside him.
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