She didn’t answer, but studied the gentle eyes the others lacked. Only after her vision wandered did he speak again, this time in a hurried tone, quieter than before.
“Kallan.”
She returned her attention to him.
“I can not help you again,” he said. “They credit your escape to your skills. But a second attempt won’t wield such luck. They’ve abandoned your health to the generosity of Durin, whose brother you’ve killed, and are no longer making use of the drug. There is talk of letting Nordri…” Ori couldn’t finish the thought.
“If you make it alive to Svartálfaheim,” he said, “Motsognir plans to kill you there. If you die on the road to Svartálfaheim…” Ori shook his head again and gulped. “It’s all the same to him.”
“Why…tell.” The two words clawed their way through her throat and she stifled another cough.
Ori laid her back to the cave floor and took up his lantern before standing.
“Because,” he said. “Sometimes the dragons are real.”
The last of the lantern’s light faded, swaying with each step he took, and left her alone in the darkness.
Lost and broken, Kallan laid alone on the empty floor of the cave, abandoned to the mercy of a vengeful hate turned berserk that brewed inside of Durin. She saw the hatred with every inebriated fit of anger he exercised.
Ori had been right. There was no need for the drug anymore. The pain supplied by Durin’s rage was her new drug, and he was more than eager to administer it.
Shadows from their lanterns came and went, but the darkness was constant. Each cave she woke in looked like the last, unique only by the assortment of stalactites and stalagmites and stench that ate her skin. Pain and shadow remained her only companions, pushing her deeper into obscurity. And when the voice had long abandoned her, when Kallan decided to succumb to their wishes, she closed her eyes and surrendered to death.
It was there, in the darkest shadows of the deepest caverns, that his voice found her.
“What have they done to you, princess?”
CHAPTER 41
Blood caked Kallan’s hair, gluing chunks to her battered face. What little covered her body was as shredded and black as the rest of her. Fighting to keep his arm steady, Rune slid a hand behind her head and attempted to pull back a clump of hair that had dried to her shattered eye. She breathed, but barely, and moved, jerking as if too broken to utter the screams inside. Tenderly, he took her mangled hand in his and, although she turned her head to see, he doubt she saw anything at all.
Biting down on his finger, Rune held back a wave of screams, biting until he tasted blood. And the rage, it boiled, and the hate, it consumed. Gently, he laid Kallan back to the cave floor. Too near death to cry out, Kallan omitted a feeble breath he could only assume was a cry.
Rune moved a hand to his hilt, and raised his gaze from the shadows. The Beast was up and pacing within him despite no Seidr on which to feed. Three, he saw as he made his way into the cave.
Two by the fire. One by the exit.
With movement like water, he notched an arrow, inhaled, took aim. He released his breath and then the arrow.
In the time it took the larger of the two to fall back with an arrow secured in his skull, the second stood with a sick smile that fueled the Beast in Rune. Before the Sick One could take up his axe, Rune’s bow met his face, knocking him end over end.
From the exit, the largest, who Rune could only assume was the leader, shouted something that sent the Sick One scrambling from the fire toward the exit. Already, Rune had the next arrow notched. Inhale. Breathe. Release. The arrow pierced the thigh of the Sick One, who screamed while the Leader charged.
Unsheathing his sword, Rune raised the blade and met the axe, shattering his weapon in two. On the downswing, the Dvergr fell into the weight, and Rune brought up the broken stub, goring the Leader in the gut where he left it in time to notch another arrow. He took aim and released. This one speared the Sick One’s spine.
Howling, the Sick One arched against the shaft. Before Rune could ready another arrow, a hand fell to his shoulder and Rune met the Leader’s stare. The Beast bellowed as lines of Shadow siphoned through him. Like venom, it seeped into Rune’s flesh, ripped through his Seidr, and tethered itself to the light stored within the Beast.
The Shadow pulled from Rune’s core, drawing out the Seidr the Beast had devoured. With it, Rune felt his own strength ebb. He buckled beneath the Dvergr’s hand as if the Leader sucked the very life from him.
The bow slid from his fingers as Rune’s legs slowly gave out. Still, the Leader maintained his hold as the Shadow rose up and engulfed him.
Move.
The Beast roared and thrashed. The Shadow enclosed the fire and light, taking all life around it. Until, upon his knees, Rune found the hilt of the daggers he had picked off Bergen. Fighting back the Shadow, Rune lunged. With a dagger in each hand, he sank the blades into the Leader’s sides.
The Dvergr coughed. The stub of the sword still hung from his gut. Rune gave another shove, burying the daggers deeper into the Leader’s sides until the hand slid from his shoulder and the Shadow retracted, severing the ties to the Seidr.
Gasping, Rune fell to his knees.
Nausea accompanied the spinning room. The Beast within him lay, heaving on the ground as if drained its life. Rune forced a knee up and waited for the wave of sick to pass. The Sick One whimpered and Rune looked up. Still alive, the Dvergr dragged himself toward the door, his body too wounded to work.
With the back of his hand, Rune wiped the sweat from his brow and found his feet under him. The Sick One groaned.
The distant plink of dripping water carried through the cave as if counting down the steps to death’s door.
One. Two.
Rune pulled Kallan’s dagger from his belt.
Drip. The Sick One whimpered.
Rune’s boots crunched the cave floor.
With a hand fisted into the Dvergr’s hair, Rune slid the blade across the Sick One’s throat, leaving the sickly smile forever frozen in his eyes.
* * *
Distant roars of the giants merged with the howling winds as Rune’s breath punched the cold night air, forming puffs of clouds in the storm. Specks of snow obstructed his view.
He afforded a glance to Kallan. Unconscious, she hung limp in his arms as she swayed with each step that crunched through the thin slate of ice on the snow. Her swollen eyes and broken nose distorted her face. The rags she wore did little to cover most of her, leaving her dangerously exposed to the elements.
Over sheets of sleet and snow, the cold burned his lungs, adding a chill, he feared, that would stay with him for days. He attempted to alternate breathing from his nose to mouth, but the cold coated his insides, freezing his air passages as the snow swallowed his shins.
The winds sliced Rune’s arms as if the snowflakes were blades. Desperate to shield her from the storm, he hugged Kallan tighter. The wind screamed and, with a start, Rune stumbled, mistaking the shriek of the wind for memories he heard in his head.
The Sickly One crawling for the door who never made it. The blood still covered Rune’s hands. He hadn’t bothered wiping it off. There had been no time.
Rune tightened his hold on Kallan, hugging her closer to his own thin tunic in hopes of shielding her from the storm. She wouldn’t survive the cold. He narrowed his eyes against the sharp sting of the snow, but saw nothing for miles but black.
“Ljosalfr!”
The command cut through the wind, stopping Rune in the snow. Slowly, he turned back toward the cave where he had just emerged, carrying the Dokkalfar’s queen.
Tall and pale and buried beneath a mesh of beard, a lone Dvergr stood. His large, leather overcoat fell to his knees where it settled onto the surface of the snow. Rune’s heart pounded his chest, increasing the amount of breaths he drew as he calculated the distance between he and the Dvergr. Kallan’s dagger hung out of reach at his waist.
�
�I’m not here for you,” the Dvergr spoke over the screaming wind that forced him to push out every breath against the gale. “I’m here for her.”
Rune tightened his hold onto Kallan.
“I can kill you just as quic—” Rune said.
“She’ll die up here like that,” the Dvergr shouted over Rune’s threat.
“Based on her condition,” Rune said, “I doubt very much you care.”
The storm was worsening, but neither moved.
“Here,” the Dvergr said and extended a large bundle wrapped in leather.
The wind cut the air between them, filling that space with groans. Rune looked him over. The Dvergr could be hiding anything within the folds of the overcoat.
“If I was going to kill you,” the Dvergr said, “I would have done so when your back was turned.”
Without the luxury to stand in the cold and weigh his options, Rune decided to move. With long, cautious strides, he closed the space between them, stopping just out of a sword’s reach.
The bundle hit the snow with a muffled slump and the Dvergr shifted his arm, startling Rune into a retreat.
Cursing himself for being so foolish, Rune moved to run, but before he could take a step, the Dvergr pulled off his large, black overcoat lined with thick, black fur, and dropped it over Kallan’s near naked, frozen body.
With a second flourish, the Dvergr brandished a sword, sheath and all. Silver filigree and black opals, the largest of which was a pommel, encrusted a black elding steel hilt. The retracted light reflected off the snow, adding a magnificent shimmer, the likes of which Rune had never seen before.
“I’ll start them on the roads toward Vestfold,” the Dvergr said. The warning pulled Rune’s ear. “I’ll keep them there for as long as I can. That should clear the southern roads to Viken for you.”
Rune forced his gaze from the sword and studied the deep black of the Dvergr’s eyes.
So much like Bergen’s, he thought.
“Please,” the Dvergr said. “Keep her alive.”
Waves of relief and gratitude filled Rune, mingling with a hatred that boiled over at the sight of Kallan’s condition.
Before Rune could spit in his eye or thank him, the Dvergr placed the sword on Kallan and, without coat or weapon, the Dvergr backed away several paces then turned.
In silence, he vanished into the darkness, leaving the bundle where it lay in the mountain’s snow.
CHAPTER 42
Kallan stirred at the unmistakable hush of rain. The rancid stench of the Dvergar was gone. In its place, the soft, sweet scent of lightly chilled earth engulfed her senses. The fire popped and Kallan jerked awake, opening a single eye.
A dilapidated shack suspended the remains of a low ceiling that barely provided rudimentary shelter. One full wall and half of a second had rotted away, leaving much of the bowed ceiling suspended by derelict corner posts and weathered wall planks secured to the floorboards where she lay.
Kallan curled the tips of her fingers against the grains of a wooden, weathered plank. A fire in all its wonderful collection of smells of smoke, dry earth, and charred wood mingled with the delicious scent of roasted grouse.
Her belly tightened with hunger and a cool breeze hit the ground rolling. It swept up and over her body, sending a gentle chill through her. Light of the mid-day sun shone through the rains.
She had to work to focus her one eye on the clear, white rain that fell like sheets onto a variety of wild ferns peppered with hardened tundra. It rolled like the sea, blanketed in crimson, orange, and yellow. The foliage had grown, spreading wild into the shelter through the mostly missing walls. An arm’s length away, a single tundra flower grew and she stared, mesmerized by its simplicity.
The fire crackled, drawing Kallan’s attention to Rune, who sat studying her with eyes too dark to read. He didn’t falter when she glanced at him or when she looked back to the light, lost in thought to the caves.
The bitter tang that had dulled her senses and made her indifferent to the beatings was gone. She could feel everything now, and began to assess the damage. More ribs were cracked, fractured, and shattered than were whole. Her nose had been broken and recently reset. Crushed into powder, the smallest finger of her left hand distended into her signet ring. Swelling forced her right eye closed, significantly limiting her vision. She could hardly breathe, but, as much as it hurt to move, it hurt more to be still.
Attempting to stand, Kallan shifted her stiff legs, but something thick and heavy restricted her movement. She glanced down and hot anger devoured her insides. Splayed over her body, on top of a blanket, the leather overcoat lined with fur lay.
Ori.
Kallan twisted her face. Something between hate and rage grew and she bit the corner of her bottom lip as she fought back the urge to cry. Upon careful inspection, she discovered that her new warden had taken the liberty of stripping off the remnants of her chemise and replaced her clothes with a heavy, green woolen tunic that loosely hung from her shoulders to her knees. A pair of plain trousers, too large for any woman, extended well past her ankles and Rune had obviously washed the first layer of grime from her skin.
Despite her battered body, overall, she was comfortable and warm.
Kallan shifted again to stand, forcing Rune to emit a syllable that sounded too much like a botched protest. She stumbled and fell, breaking her fall on her crushed finger. Like a curtain, her hair fell, shielding her face from Rune.
Anger sent tremors through her.
Each bruise that covered her, each cut that burned, sent wave after wave of agony that seemed to start at the side of her hand. She bit her lip, quelling her anger and arousing the hate the Dvergar had seeded.
Memories clawed at her head, of the pain, of the darkness, of the nightmare she had endured for so long. Tears burned her eyes as a giant wave of hate washed over her, dragging her into the darkest-most fathoms of abhorrence where vengeance brewed.
Kallan’s body shook against the silent screams, making her aware of every ache the Dvergar had inflicted. A greater loathing settled as she ached to scream, to lash out, and cry, but no Dvergar sat before her. Only Rune who sat silently with her, oblivious of the desecration she endured.
Kallan waited to speak until she could slow her breath and ease her rage.
“Where am I?” she gasped, careful to keep her face hidden behind her hair.
Sound scraped her throat and she shook, coughing on the words. Worry enclosed her mind as she drew in long, deep breaths, forcing herself at ease.
“Where,” she growled again, and lifted her eyes to Rune. Tears burned the back of her throat.
“Upplond,” Rune said. “As of yesterday.”
His voice was like sweet honey and assured her the last of the caves were behind her, and she hated him for it.
Kallan gasped and her good eye widened at the rising sick.
“Midgard?”
Rune nodded. “Drink this,” he said shoving a tankard at her before she could speak further.
Too weak to object, Kallan accepted the tankard of hot tea that soothed while she drank. It flowed down her throat, coating the muscle with the familiar sweetness of black currant tea. She coughed.
“Where is Astrid?” she asked.
“Safe,” he answered. “Again.”
Kallan drank.
The liquid hit her belly, immediately flipping it in on itself. She fought back the rising nausea as Rune rotated the multiple skewers of roasted grouse over the fire and her stomach clenched for food.
“Before yesterday…” Her throat clamped shut against the words. “Where was I?”
The pause that followed confirmed Rune didn’t want to tell her.
“Jotunheim,” he replied.
The single word dowsed her back with a chill. Kallan shuddered and forced the next words out.
“You went to Gunir.” The words dripped with resentment. “Why did you come back?” she asked, lifting her eyes from her curtain of hair.
> “Bergen went to Gunir,” Rune corrected. “It was he the Dvergar followed.”
He removed a spear of meat and passed her the smallest one, which she devoured within moments, easing one cramp in her stomach as another, more prominent, cramp doubled in objection.
“By the time I caught up to you, they were preparing for their descent into Svartálfaheim,” Rune said through a mouthwatering slice of grouse. “You’ve been unconscious since.”
While she attempted to process his story, Rune took a moment to look over her condition.
“I reset your nose and bound your ribs,” he said. “Several of them are broken. Most are cracked. Your eye…” Rune trailed off. “I am no healer and Geirolf isn’t here. I did what I could.”
Kallan dabbed at the swollen flesh around her eye that felt strangely empty.
“Your finger was smashed,” he said. “I did my best to splint it, but found nothing in the bags or your pouch to help much.”
Kallan looked to the smallest finger of her left hand and raised the bandaged mess. After inspecting it, she knelt back on her makeshift bed. Her thoughts drifted and Rune gave her a moment of silence before beginning the plethora of questions he must have waited days to ask.
“Did they tell you what they wanted?” Rune asked.
“Repeatedly,” she whispered. “Where is my pouch?”
She could see the reservation stay his hand. After a moment, Rune turned to the leather bag behind him, exposing the hilt of an elding blade encrusted with fine jewels that drew her attention.
“Where did you get that?” Kallan said. Her voice was barely a breath.
Rune didn’t answer.
She tightened her jaw, repressing the countless questions that came as Rune pulled the pouch of amadou from the bag of supplies. With her good hand, Kallan snatched the pouch.
“I already emptied it of whatever herbs I could identify,” Rune said. “There wasn’t much.”
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