Dolor and Shadow

by Angela Chrysler

  “Who is Ori?”

  Kallan sharpened her alertness. Her knuckles were white on the hilt.

  “You talk in your sleep,” Rune said. “Who is he?”

  Kallan shrugged again, passing off an urge to wield her Seidr and pull her dagger on him. The fire tickled the air. Pursing her lips, she gulped.

  “He was one of them,” she said, knowing her answer left Rune with a distinct feeling that there was more to the story than she told.

  “There was one in a cave,” Rune said. “Dead. From the looks of it, a Seidkona had stormed the place with all the ash, fire, and brimstone that forms in Muspellsheim.”

  A sudden sick settled, making Kallan regret eating her fill of grouse.

  “How did you get free?” Rune asked, not giving her the chance to deny she had.

  Kallan shook her head and pressed her mouth to her knees.

  “When I woke, my chains were gone,” she said, lifting her head and keeping her eyes on the fire.

  “Why did Motsognir kill your mother?” Runes asked.

  Calm caution drained from Kallan’s face.

  “We were at war,” she said. “I was six. I know very little.”

  A shadow fell over Rune, no longer masked in passive inattentiveness.

  “I am my father’s heir,” he said. “I was trained and groomed to inherit the kingdom my father left to me. I do not doubt your father did the same for you. He would not have hoarded Lorlenalin’s secrets. Not from its heir.”

  Kallan gave a small pshaw, abandoning her pleasantries. At last, she released the dagger’s handle and pulled the blanket closer, hugging her legs tighter into her chest.

  “And you think I would hand them over to you so freely?” she asked.

  Rune narrowed his eyes. “Who honed your Seidr skills?”

  “Gudrun.” Kallan was already snipping.

  “Who taught you the sword?” he asked.

  Kallan’s hands shook against her legs. She didn’t answer.

  “I’ve seen you in battle,” Rune said. “I know a skilled swordsman when I see it. “Who. Taught. You.”

  “Daggon.” She released the name reluctantly.

  Flames between them flicked their tips, whipping the air as the wind carried them.

  “The Dokkalfar you charged with diplomatic exchanges with Gunir, who was he?” Rune asked.

  Kallan’s knuckles were white, numbed from the death grip she had on her legs. She felt her cooperation waning.

  “Aaric.”

  “What station does he hold in your court?” he said.

  Kallan remained tight-lipped.

  “Indulge me,” he said. “Let’s assume for one moment that I did send a letter requesting peace. If I were to send such a letter, who would see to it that it reached your hands?” Rune asked.

  “My high marshal,” Kallan answered between her teeth.

  “Who is—?”

  “Why do you ask so much?”

  “How did you your father die?”

  Kallan’s eyes widened with memory. She parted her lips. Fear and madness swelled behind her eyes.

  “Months passed before I stopped seeing his blood on my hands,” Kallan said.

  “What did you see?” Rune said.

  “You should know. You were there.”

  Rune released a long sigh. “You’ve managed to expend the last of my patience with your vague answers and half lies. What did you see?”

  A guttural cry rolled from Kallan’s throat.

  “Through the back, he was stabbed, through the back without sword or honor. That,” she spat, “is what I saw.”

  Rune drew a deep breath.

  “On that day you fought at the Dokkalfar outpost,” Rune asked, “who rode with you? Whose face did you see as your father lay dying at your feet?”

  “Enough,” Kallan said, punching the ground. The fight had left her. The color drained from her face, and his words ripped down her wall. With choreographed precision, Kallan stood and stomped to Astrid. After snatching the reins, she hoisted herself into the saddle, and sent Astrid trotting along the river’s edge.

  In the light, Kallan’s eyes were clear and vibrant, responding to each shade and hue, which reassured Rune that the drug had finally passed through her system. Her complexion, no longer grayed with the decay of malnourishment and abuse, radiated beneath the sun.

  Rune stared after her, annoyed at her sudden flight. He had pushed her beyond the line of tolerance, risking her rage, but timing was everything. If he jumped too soon, he would lose her. A part of him knew she was not ready, but he had flouted an air of indifference and played his part too well.

  As long as she evaded, he would not get his answers. As long as she brooded, denying the abuse she had endured from the Dvergar, as long as she harbored her hatred and avoided the true core to her rage, she would not trust him to speak. If she insisted on burying her grief with avoidance, then anger would be just the thing to force the grief to the surface.

  Her anger just might save her yet.

  And, at long last, Rune knew what he would have to do.

  * * *

  Uneven tundra sliced Astrid’s hooves, forcing Kallan to dismount almost immediately while the camp was still in view. Kallan crossed her arms over her chest and watched as her warden stood, stretched, belched, and aimlessly strolled about the camp, collecting their possessions and extinguishing the fire at his leisure.

  After a long ten minutes, and a longer trip into the forest to relieve himself, Rune swaggered along the bank to Kallan. The sunlight caught the fire opal poised at the end of the hilt as he sauntered, holding the sword steady at his side.

  “You forgot this, princess,” he said, dumping the overcoat into her chest, considerably rougher than needed and holding it where she couldn’t shrug him off or drop the coat.

  “Don’t call me that,” she said. “And I don’t want it.”

  “You mistake me for someone who cares,” Rune said, releasing the coat unto Kallan. “Keep it or freeze, princess.” With a cold shoulder, he tied the bags to the saddle. “You could always bunk up with me at night.”

  An egotistical grin pulled the corner of his mouth taut and Kallan seethed while holding back a stream of Seidr.

  Their slow start cost them half a day’s light spent at the bank of the river, until the water veered east. Required to abandon their water supply and reliable fish stock for the journey north, Rune caught as much salmon as they could carry and refilled the bladders he found in Ori’s pack.

  The cold, harsh winds whipped mercilessly across the frozen plains, slicing their exposed skin. Grouse were abundant among the crimson carpet, the burnt browns, and mild mustards of the tundra grass. The change in the landscape was welcomed and allowed them to increase their pace, but only slightly. They finished the last of the purple saxifrage, nibbling it as they walked, and, much to Kallan’s delight, replaced it with the occasional batch of cloudberries where they could get them. By late afternoon, a deep thunder moved in, not from the clouds but the barren plains ahead.

  Reindeer, no fewer than eight hundred, speckled the land, blended with the white tufts of cotton grass. Their endless barks and grunts mingled with the constant clicks of their knees, enclosing the region in a deafening collection of sounds that mingled with the steady pound of their hooves.

  Forced to keep their distance from the danger of the rut, the Alfar watched from afar, stunned at the occasional skirmish between bulls. Nearly an hour had passed before the herd had moved on like a flowing river of brown and white through the valley.

  The once frequent white stones dwindled with the increase of trees as the sporadic clusters of birch continued to pepper the horizon. They moved through the trees, pushing past smaller rocks and thick, abundant mosses that pleasantly cushioned their feet.

  The sun threw oranges and reds across the sky, casting a golden glow overhead. As they walked, dusk added shadows of purple and blue to the landscape until the last of the day’s light v
anished behind the mountains. Beneath the barely waning moon, they walked until they stood at the brink of open ground cradled between far-reaching mountains on either side.

  Rune was the first to stop, his gaze fixed on the distance through the darkness where fire’s light beckoned to them like a beacon.

  “What’s wrong?” Kallan asked.

  “Stay back,” Rune said as he moved into a large cluster of shrubs.

  From behind the foliage, he looked to where the base of three mountains joined into a single valley.

  The path they had followed into the north, cut through the valley before them. Like a grand basin of green, the land expanded to the west and the east, continuing through the base of the mountains. There, the land leveled out, reaching like a hand that invited them.

  Rune kept his voice unusually low. “Years ago, this was a route used by merchants and traders. The glade was vacant then, with a single farm tucked to the corner of the valley.”

  Kallan said nothing as she peered through the valley of which he spoke. The spacious glen was gone, filled instead with an endless number of tents crammed into every opening as far as they could see. A myriad of campfires filled the valley in light.

  And in their midst, mingled with mead, laughter, and song, a king’s army sat exchanging swords, swapping food, and hoarding drink. Their numbers exceeded well over ten thousand. They had scattered their armaments about, leaning spears against tents, and splayed out bows and swords on dried hides. Carved into shields, molded into the hilts of their swords, and painted haphazardly onto tunics and tents, was a thin, sickly rune painted red on white.

  Behind him, the warmth of Kallan’s breath grazed his neck.

  “I told you to stay back,” Rune said in a hushed whisper. Her face was inches from his.

  “Naudr,” she whispered, eying each rune emblazoned by the fire’s light. “They need help.”

  “That is not a naudr,” Rune said, looking back to the camp.

  “But it is. They’ve written it there.” Kallan pointed. “Naudr means ‘need’. We must help them.”

  Kallan pushed herself past Rune, who managed to grab her by the waist before she plowed on into the encampment. He pulled her back harder than expected and she fell back into him.

  “They do not need help,” he whispered. “That is not the rune of our kin, nor are they born of this land.”

  “Then their mark is of Asgard and that is Mjolnir,” Kallan argued, pointing to the nearest soldier whose shield bore the mark. “They must be riders of Thor.”

  “No,” Rune said, shaking his head. “That is no hammer.”

  Kallan looked through the shrubs that hid them, clearly not entirely sure of the problem that presented itself.

  “That is the valley we need to cross if we are to continue this trail north,” Rune said.

  “So, we’ll go around,” Kallan said, determined to not linger over such petty things.

  “We are surrounded,” Rune said. “To the west, cliffs plunge to the sea. They are impassable without a ship. To the east, the mountains climb as high as Jotunheim.”

  “We’ll go south, then, back toward Viken,” she said.

  “Where the Dvergar hunt you?” Rune asked. “Our only path is here, away from the mountains and the cliffs that fall to the sea.”

  Kallan studied the nearest tent.

  “Then we go on,” she said and, with her mind apparently made up, she gave Rune a shove and tightened her grip on Astrid’s reins.

  “Be still, woman,” Rune said.

  “We can’t sit still and we can’t go back,” she whispered.

  “Do you see how many there are? There are thousands.” Rune shook his head and looked back to the tents. “We’ll wait. By morning, they should be gone and then we ca—Kallan.”

  Kallan stepped from the cover of the brush, leading Astrid into the camp as Gudrun’s words merged to the forefront of her thoughts.

  “The race of Men is different. Like the Ljosalfar, they know nothing of the Seidr that flows through the land. Their women, sickly and weak, are nothing at all like the slender grace of the Alfar whose long, hardened torsos, tapered ears, and strength match the gods. There are those who will stop at nothing to look upon the grace of the Alfar. Even those who would seek to take one as their own.”

  The first of the soldiers froze, captivated by the sheer wonder of the Alfr. Standing just a head higher than most, her skin, as luminescent and as pure as moonlight, radiated with a permanent youth that did not fade. Her eyes glowed clear with a brilliance unparalleled by any beauty beheld by the race of Man.

  Rune came to stand behind Kallan, with a look like he was holding in a lecture.

  Passing like a stifled breeze through the camp, Kallan, Rune, and Astrid walked on without a word. Silence followed them as they moved, taking with them a trail of bystanders. Soldiers dropped swords, lowered drinks, and stilled their tongues, all for a chance to gape at the Alfar. Most had heard the legends that tradesmen and raiders carried to the islands in the west. With awe they gathered, eager to steal a single look from the woman’s eye.

  They moved as if in a dream. Some pondered which side of sleep they were on. Though the Alfar heard the clang of dropped swords followed by the murmurs of onlookers, they saw only their end. The tents dispersed and the light from the camps grew dim as the crowd behind them grew.

  When the darkest black of the distant road was in sight, Rune dared to take his eyes from the goal and glanced at Kallan, who seemed entirely indifferent to the danger. With her head high, she displayed her regality through her confidence.

  Her stupid, arrogant confidence, Rune mused. Bergen will laugh himself mad over this.

  The tents finally vanished and the Alfar returned to the sanctuary of the forest, slipping into the darkness like white wraiths whose corporeal presence had materialized before human eyes for a moment’s breath.

  At the edge of the forest, eager for a second glimpse of the female, a group of soldiers peered into the shadows where the enthralling mystic had vanished with her horse and guardian. Among them, unable to ignore the diminishing doubt, Thorer focused his stare on the Dokkalfr.

  “Follow them.”

  CHAPTER 46

  The campfires burned like glowworms in the distance, leaving them in shadows and moonlight before Rune allowed his rage to take him. Shaking with a fury, he grabbed Kallan, bruising her arm as he pulled her back.

  “Are you trying to get us killed?” he said.

  Kallan shrugged, urging the twitch in Rune’s hand to fly off and strike her.

  “We survived.”

  Enraged that she cared so little about the risk, Rune snarled, pausing for the words to get through to her.

  “Flaunting our presence and taunting the enemy is not my idea of survival,” he said.

  With a twist of her arm, Kallan broke free from his grip and tugged Astrid’s reins, leaving Rune to seethe.

  “You’ll have saved us nothing if we don’t arrive at all,” Rune said, refusing to follow.

  Kallan gave a quiet nicker, encouraging Astrid along.

  “I didn’t just spend a fortnight tracking the Dvergar to get you back so you could risk my life and yours,” Rune said.

  Kallan stopped and Rune waited for her to turn, to spit, to scream, to argue…something…anything.

  She didn’t.

  “There are conflicts here in Midgard that will soon demand the attention of the Alfar,” he said, “In the meantime, the Alfar must lay low.”

  “Lorlenalin has no dealings with Midgard, the wars of Men, or Gunir,” Kallan said, turning on her heel and leaving Astrid to graze.

  Rune took a step closer.

  “You must understand the stakes at risk and the lives threatened.”

  “Is there something about this king that you have not told me?”

  Kallan waited for an answer while Rune stared blankly. Kallan scoffed and returned to Astrid.

  “The king who has come from Eire’s L
and,” Rune said, “who claims rights to these lands, is the great elder son of Harald Fairhair.”

  Kallan turned about, eyes wide as she stared with disbelief.

  “You do remember Fairhair, don’t you?” Rune said. “And the claim to our land he made when he killed Lodewuk?”

  Kallan frowned.

  “Lodewuk,” Kallan said. “News of Gunir’s high king, reached all four corners of the world when Fairhair slew him. But the wars that scoured the lands of Midgard two hundred winters ago have no bearings on us now. Besides, Lodewuk was your High King. Not mine, the Dokkalfar’s, nor Lorlenalin’s. Ownership of the land died with him.”

  She managed only a single step back to Astrid as Rune felt his control leaving him.

  “This king of Eire Land has revived them,” Rune said, desperate to reach her. “Already he has laid claim to the kingdoms his great grandfather united when he killed Lodewuk. He is moving through all of Midgard, taking what land he desires. What’s to say he won’t breech Alfheim next?” Kallan clenched her fists and the Beast within Rune awakened. It felt the Seidr pool in Kallan’s palm as if she ached to take aim and fire.

  “Dan’s Reach already contests our rights to Freyr’s land, our land,” Rune continued. “Too long, my vassal has guarded the southern borders of Alfheim ensuring that Forkbeard remains in Dan’s Reach. A third contester could push Gunir into a war with Men. What side will Lorlenalin take when Alfheim is overrun and Men unite against us?”

  “What concerns do I have if Gunir declares war on Midgard?” Kallan said.

  “This war will belong to us all,” Rune said.

  Kallan narrowed her eyes. “I have more than enough dealings with the stubborn, irascible, erroneous King of Gunir, without worrying about a rampaging king from Eire’s Land and the king from Dan’s Reach or the ki—”

  An arrow grazed Kallan’s arm. She clutched the cut and fell to one knee in the time that it took Rune to draw his bow, aim, and release an arrow into the shadows behind them. Blood seeped from between her fingers as five men bearing the naudr rune on their tunics emerged from the wood.