Dolor and Shadow

by Angela Chrysler

  “The children,” she answered.

  Rune raised his brow when a series of sudden, sharp snaps averted his attention to Emma. Gripping a stick too tightly, Emma whacked away at the trunk of a defenseless, lone birch, forced to take her beatings.

  Staring blankly at the skies, Kallan paid the human little mind. Her thoughts filled instead with white stone halls and cloudberry jams served with warm breads from Lorlenalin’s kitchens.

  Rune picked himself up from the ground.

  “Here,” he said, pulling the Dvergar sword from his waist.

  Curious, Emma lowered her stick and blushed at the attention drawn from the Alfr king, who offered her the hilt of his blade.

  “Like this,” Rune said, coming to stand behind her.

  The weight of the sword pulled Emma’s body forward and her arm dropped to the ground with the blade. Long strands of golden hair fell like a shimmering curtain, catching the sun as the sword pulled her off balance.

  Rune relinquished a huff that drew Kallan’s eyes just as he stepped in closer behind Emma to help her lift the sword with both hands. Kallan’s nostrils flared at the sudden awareness of how petite and pretty the peasant was.

  “It’s meant for two hands,” Rune said, guiding her delicate left hand to the hilt. She dropped the sword again, forcing him to hold the unsupported weight with her. “Raise it up and draw it down, against the edge on an angle.”

  He followed through with a set of strokes, left then right then left, before leaving her to her own. Almost at once, Emma lost her balance again and fell forward, digging the fine point of the blade into the earth.

  Kallan cringed.

  Unable to watch any more, the Dokkalfr emitted a grunt and jumped to her feet. “Oh, here,” Kallan said, making her way to Emma.

  The girl blushed again, uncertain of the concealed rage of the Dokkalfar queen swaddled in woolen rags two sizes too big for her frame.

  With a rigid flick of her wrist, Kallan yanked her dagger from her waist and tossed it to Rune, forcing him to catch the blade mid-air before it struck him in the face.

  “I want it back,” she said, extending a finger to Rune and relieving Emma of the sword.

  Its jewels and black blade caught the sunlight and encouraged Kallan to twist her wrist around, gaining a solid feel for the sword as the Englian skipped out of the way, clearing the area for Kallan.

  The sword’s balance was perfect, too perfect. It was dead on. A twinge of jealousy pricked her chest. Intricate gem work featuring black opals, black hematite, and silver filigree adorned the elding hilt. The pommel itself flashed in the sun with the reds, black, blues, and greens of a black fire opal. But the runes, the elegant, lavish runes, caught her eye and Kallan read aloud.

  “Gramm.”

  Her palms grew moist as she recalled the stories Daggon told from an age nearly forgotten. She raised a widened gaze to Rune.

  “This is Gramm.”

  Grinning proudly, as if he himself had forged it, Rune extended a hand for the blade.

  “Give it back,” he said, still smiling.

  With another turn of her wrist, Kallan spun the blade, poised at the ready for battle.

  “Take it back,” she dared, with the slightest hint of a grin.

  Rune glanced at the eighteen-inch blade in his hand and then to the thirty-five inch blade pointed at him as if inadequacy suddenly weighed heavily on his consciousness.

  “You could at least loan me one of the man-made swords,” Rune said.

  Kallan shook her head.

  “They’re iron,” she said. “An elding blade would break them.” Kallan raised Gramm at the ready.

  “How convenient.” He thrust the blade to test its balance. “No Seidr.”

  Kallan grinned, adding a malicious ambience to the air.

  “No…whatever it is you have in you.”

  Flicking Blod Tonn at the ready, Rune waited and Kallan lunged. The sword collided with the dagger and Rune pushed back, parting their blades. Again, Kallan channeled her energy, bringing the sword into Rune. He swung the dagger around, catching Kallan on the upswing, recovered, and swung again, forcing the Dokkalfr to dodge.

  Mirroring Kallan’s footwork, Rune parried and provoked, guiding her next offense to his liking. He shifted opposite Kallan, brushing alongside her as he guided her dagger into each block, but Kallan was somewhere else, lost to the swordplay.

  Spellbound in musings, she relived the sparring she once rehearsed with her father. Up again, Kallan spun, pacing her breath and balancing her footwork as her father talked her through the motions.

  And again, she heard her father say as she swept the blade, bringing it down onto Blod Tonn.

  First and foremost, hold your balance. You’ll never win a fight with poor balance. But she was unbalanced and losing her footing there with Rune. Too quickly, Kallan felt herself slipping. She spun, bringing Gramm back around as she had done with her own sword so many times before.

  Use your weight to anchor the swing. Let the sword do the work for you, her father had coached.

  Guiding Gramm’s blade up, Kallan swung the sword to her shoulder, following through with her father’s advice, but she was reaching and falling.

  Reach with the blade, not with your arms. Never overextend. Remember, the blade is an extension of you.

  The sun had caught the pride in Eyolf’s gentle eyes as he had looked down at his daughter. Desperate to hear his praise once more, Kallan lunged, forgetting it was Rune standing in front of her. Gramm slammed down into Blod Tonn, sending waves through her. Her voice faded, his smile vanished, and her father was gone all over again.

  “Kallan?”

  The sunlight flashed and the leaves whispered in the wind. Astrid snorted nearby, nuzzling the grass beside Emma.

  Beads of sweat poured down Kallan’s face as her minute gasps of breath hit the air. A memory flashed of black blood covering her hands and she flinched, her hatred rebounding. From between the blades, Rune watched with a concerned look that baffled Kallan. She recalled Rune riding in the distance from the Dokkalfar keep, leaving his men to do his bidding. A dark desire to pull back the blade and summon her Seidr surged through her, but she would be lost without him, here in Midgard.

  “I don’t know the way,” Kallan whispered between their locked hilts.

  Forced to ignore the hate that stirred her rage, Kallan lowered Gramm and passed the sword to Rune. She accepted Blod Tonn without a word. Alone, Kallan returned to her place on the stones beside the trees where she resumed her silent brood.

  * * *

  Through forest and valleys, they continued their march, stopping to water the horse when the opportunity presented itself and doing their best to keep a steady pace. Within hours, they found their progress lagging, and frequent breaks at streams did little to lift their spirits. At last, as day’s light succumbed to the void of night’s darkness, Kallan, Rune, and Emma settled down around a fire and roasted game, happy to see most of their journey behind them.

  Locked joints and shredded muscles numbed them to a dull, constant ache they could not ignore. Without a word, they ate their share, and, when Rune moved to goad Kallan’s temper, she coldly dismissed herself for the night. It was with a heavy mind that his plans of rumpling her emotions came to an abrupt end.

  Miffed with a mood, Rune bid Emma good night and begrudgingly sent himself to bed.

  The early night made for an early morning blanketed in gray. Low clouds lingered, suggesting a constant drizzle that never came. They headed out through a heavy, morning mist that thickened as the day dragged on.

  Ignoring every pass and short-handed comment Rune made, Kallan kept her tongue stilled and her eyes set on the path encircling the base of the mountains. Streams and rivers flowed together around the land, leading them on through the forests of Midgard.

  For long stretches at a time, the forest remained thin, allowing them a glimpse ahead to the next mountain. Other times, they walked, unaware of the w
orld outside the trees enclosing them. By late day, their steady pace came to a sudden halt at the banks of a wide, thunderous river that obstructed their path.

  Emma slid from Astrid’s high back, hitting the ground hard before joining Kallan and Rune on the river banks. They stared upstream and down then out across the torrents flowing north through the trees.

  After a moment, Rune nodded downstream.

  “We’ll have to cross there,” he shouted, pointing toward a wide region. “It should be shallow enough that we can wade through without too much trouble.”

  “Couldn’t we follow it?” Kallan asked as Rune took up Astrid’s reins.

  Rune shook his head.

  “We need to get to the Nid.” He looked to the southeast. “The river is too wide and the current too swift. Its end will take us to the sea and there is no telling how far back it starts.”

  “How do you know this isn’t the Nid?” Kallan asked as Rune pulled Astrid along the edge.

  “Because,” he said after finding a reasonable place to cross and easing his feet into the icy water. “We haven’t crossed the Gaulelfr yet.”

  He was too busy watching his footing to look her way.

  “When will we cross the Gaulelfr?” she asked as he eased further into the waters.

  “Now.”

  Together, Kallan and Emma scanned the banks where rocks clustered along the edge. Pulling Astrid onto the shoals, Rune signaled to Emma, who obediently followed.

  By the second step, she misplaced her footing and slipped, forcing Rune to catch her mid-fall. Up and around, he flung her onto Astrid’s back as Kallan inched her way into the water behind them. Already the relentless roar of the deafening rapids needled its way into their nerves.

  “Is it deep?” Kallan asked.

  Rune looked out, examining the disrupted grays and white of the current.

  “We won’t have to swim,” he said.

  The further they walked, the more the surface rose until it stopped at the top of their thighs where the cold bit the most. They made their way over large, white rocks that had washed downstream.

  Half way, Rune stopped, forcing Kallan to call from behind.

  “What is it?” she asked over the roaring rapids.

  “Salmon.” Rune eyed the multiple streaks of silver that swam past. “Big ones.” He felt one brush his leg. It was so close that he contemplated reaching down and grabbing it. A smile burst across his face. “We’ll have to come back here for a few days with a net or some line. It’ll make for a—”

  A flash of fire grazed his leg and a large, steel colored salmon, nearly three stones in weight, floated to the surface and swept into Rune’s thigh. With her palm raised, Kallan cradled a tiny flame. Her eyes seared the air.

  “Move!”

  Stunned, Rune lifted the fish by the base of its tail. His smile didn’t falter as he slogged on, leading the way through the current to the other side with horse and fish in tow.

  Sharp splatters of water slapped the ground as Kallan and Rune took turns wringing out their clothes. After fastening the fish to the saddlebag, they continued through the forests of pine.

  For hours they trekked through the thick foliage of Throendalog where the yellows dissipated, leaving behind the last lush green of summer. At the mountains’ end, the forest cleared and, for the first time since arriving in Midgard, they could see on ahead to a clear horizon and the sea.

  “There.” Rune pointed ahead to where a river twisted with the land. “That is the Nid and there…” He shifted his finger out to the inlet. “…is where she bends to the east.”

  For a brief moment, they studied the end of their road, entirely too aware of their throbbing joints and stiff muscles.

  “Come along,” Rune said. “We’ll continue north, and follow the Nid to the sea. From there, we follow the beach to the village.”

  Down into the valley they continued, plodding on as the foliage thickened. Pines gave way to large clusters of white birch speckled with the occasional ash and pine.

  By early afternoon, they joined with the Nid, whose wide, calm waters cut into the land, carving a path they followed through the trees. As the last of the forest cleared, the land sloped down to the shores where the gulls cried and the river veered east.

  “Nidaros is named for the Nid that flows around it,” Rune said. “There is only one road into Nidaros and that is the land bridge here.”

  A mere three hundred paces of land spanned the area between Nid and the sea. So close to their end, they walked along the beach, weary and ready to rest. In the distance, across the water inlet, rows of rounded mountains blended with hills that lined the fjord, seeming like one continuous mountain.

  “The Throendir have established a fishing settlement that flourishes on trade,” Rune continued. “Already they have secured routes to Bjorgvin and the Faer Islands.”

  The waves lapped the sands as they made their way down the gray shore.

  “And the Throendir themselves?” Kallan asked, sounding worried.

  “Eager to help,” Rune assured her, flashing his grin. “Mostly because it will annoy Forkbeard.”

  The last of the trees thinned, revealing a barren plain barely visible through a thick fog that had rolled in from the sea.

  “I thought Forkbeard was their king,” Kallan said as Emma, too tired to comment, listened atop Astrid.

  “Forkbeard thinks he is,” Rune said. “The Throendir prefer the rule of their own people and the Jarls of Lade Northeast of here. When last I was here with my brother, Hakon was complaining about the tribute Forkbeard forces him to pay to keep his ships at bay. Nothing a king hates more than having to pay tribute.”

  The first of the homes appeared through the haze.

  “Why?” Emma asked.

  “How much can you drain a kingdom’s economy all to secure your throne and buy peace for your people?” Rune asked and watched Emma flush. “At that time, when last I was here, Hakon Jarl was talking about putting an end to his levy. In fact, that was the reason for our visit.”

  Rune remembered the ornery, old man mulling over a mead. “He called upon Gunir for aid in hopes that we would form an alliance based on our mutual tension with Dan’s Reach.”

  They drummed along to the rhythmic clomps of Astrid’s hooves, allowing the silence to rise up between them before Kallan spoke again.

  “Did it work?”

  Rune held his face unchanged as he looked on to the village ahead. It was a long wait before he answered.

  “Gunir accepted the alliance, but…” Rune glanced at Kallan, unsure if this was the time or place to test her temper. “…without assistance against Lorlenalin, we could not lend resources against Forkbeard.”

  Visibly taken aback, Kallan flushed as they neared the village.

  The fog mingled with a lackadaisical dreariness over Nidaros. The distant plink of a blacksmith’s hammer coldly welcomed them. A dog barked. A lone child cried. The happy buzz that usually accompanied a trader’s port had fizzled to a low drum that dropped every merchant’s spirits to a drudge set to the rhythm of the smithy’s hammer.

  Upon closer inspection, a number of the houses, blackened from fire, had fallen in on themselves, and the infamous ports of Nidaros, always stocked with the grandest of ships, were barren. Only a number of smaller vessels lay in the harbor, their keels broken like the back of a once grand berserker. And in the town’s center, amidst the lingering gloom and despair, the main posts had been placed and the floors laid for the makings of what, it could be assumed, would be a mead hall grander than the one behind it.

  It was a moment before the Alfar realized they had drawn more than a few inquisitive glances as the crowd around them grew. Emma slid down from the horse, hitting the ground hard as the mutterings of countless faces kept their safe distance.

  Stepping closer to Rune, Kallan gripped her dagger unseen. He too shifted his eyes to each blank stare all marked with the distinct, deadened look everyone wears following
a catastrophe.

  “Who are you?” The gruff voice of an old woman carried over the anxious compilation of curious on-lookers, commanding a hush that the Throendir heeded. Pushing her way through the crowd, a short, stout woman emerged. A ring of keys rattled at her side.

  “What business do you have here?” she barked, undaunted by their grand appearances that glistened and gleamed in contrast to the drab, gray village. Anger lined her face. A bit of leather held her long, silver-streaked, blond hair, accenting her thin cheekbones.

  Though clearly exhausted, Rune flashed a smile at the woman.

  “Hello, Olga.”

  The gentleness of his voice seemed to soothe the lines of rage from her face and relaxed her shoulders. Gasping, her entire physique warmed.

  “Rune.”

  “This is Kallan Eyolfdottir of the Dokkalfar, Queen of Lorlenalin,” Rune said slipping a hand behind the small of Kallan’s back, encouraging her to give a warm smile. “Kallan, this is Olga, wife of Halvard. She runs the place.” When he spoke again, he returned his full attention to the stout woman before him. “We need to see Hakon. Is he here?”

  The name seemed to pierce Olga like a twisted blade and she dropped her shoulders, swallowing a visible lump in her throat as her clear, blue eyes swelled.

  “I’m afraid you’ve come for nothing,” she said. “Hakon Jarl is dead.”

  The heavy burden carried from Jotunheim, doubled as Rune’s head spun for answers.

  “Olga?” Emma’s small voice cut through the crowd. As she pushed her way to the forefront, Rune watched the color drain from the old woman and her eyes met Emma’s.

  Olga gasped.

  “Emma.” With eyes filling with tears, Olga met Rune’s gaze then looked to Kallan. Worry filled her eyes as if she scanned their small group for another. “Dofrar,” she muttered and the tears fell. “Olaf said…he would send troops to Dofrar…”

  Her thin bottom lip quivered as Emma spoke.

  “Olaf came…we didn’t have a chance. There was no warning. The blood…the rivers were red. Piles of children’ hands...Ivann didn’t make it...Ivann didn’t…And then one of his men…they…he was still in me when his head hit the ground.”