Dolor and Shadow

by Angela Chrysler

  And Emma fell into Olga’s arms and sobbed, quietly at first, then louder, giving voice to the grief of Nidaros.

  CHAPTER 50

  Earth-green fabric trimmed with gold fell from Kallan’s shoulders. Gold cords laced the dress beneath Kallan’s arms, allowing the fabric to yield where needed and exposing more of her bosom than she was accustomed to. Aside from the skirts stopping mid-shin and the dress being snug in places, it fit perfectly.

  “I’m sorry we don’t have anything longer.” Emma flushed as she poured a bucket of the bath water outside the Throendalog bathhouse on the down slope toward the sea.

  “It’ll keep the hem out of the mud,” Kallan said as she admired the fine leather boots that hugged her delicate, raw feet and shins.

  Preening every which way, Kallan studied the fine embroidery of the fabric and exhaled.

  “We don’t usually make much use of the bath house between Laugardagr,” Olga said as she threw Kallan’s old clothes into the fire. “I don’t care what day Halvard says it is. Nothing refreshes a weary traveler more than a hot bath.” She watched the black smoke billow through the ceiling then looked to Kallan. “How do you feel?” she asked as Kallan twisted and turned before the glass, catching the fire and candle light with the gold cords.

  Kallan smiled.

  “Better,” she said. “I prefer the trousers and tunics for sparring, and avoid the gowns Gudrun insists I wear.” She pulled at a handful of waist-length hair, curled into ringlets over her shoulders, and began positioning them strategically over her front. “But the stench of the Dvergar is embedded into that set and besides…” Kallan sighed, still fussing with her final results. “…it’s nice to look like a woman again.”

  “I bet Rune will approve,” Olga said, repositioning the clothes in the fire with a stick.

  Kallan’s blood stilled and her face drained before flushing red. Without a word, Kallan looked back to the glass, turning her profile to chance a glance at her rear while she mumbled something akin to ‘not caring what Rune thinks.’

  Olga released a bark of laughter that startled Kallan.

  “That’s the boldest lie I’ve ever heard.” She shook as she chuckled and tore her eyes away from the fire. “Fool yourself all you like, my dear. I know what I see when I see it, and you have no need to fret. You look as stunning from behind as you do in the front. He’ll approve if he’s not dead or without package.”

  Blushing, Kallan ran her hands over her stomach, unnecessarily smoothing the fabric, and repositioning her ringlets one more time.

  * * *

  Buried in the dark corner of the mead hall, Halvard dropped the tankard carved of cattle horn onto the table in front of Rune. With a nod of thanks, Rune took up the tankard and examined the lopsided horn that generously filled his grip. The end of the horn had been cut and discarded, leaving two spans in height, which had been hollowed out and fastened with a plate of soapstone, allowing it to stand upright on the table. Brimming with black mead, its contents smelled strongly of honey, mulled spices, and currants.

  “Why the second mead hall?” Rune asked with a nod toward the door as Halvard settled himself into a chair across the table from him. His own drinking horn carved mug clutched in his hand.

  “It’s a house for Olaf’s gods,” Halvard said, peering into his mead. “Olaf invaded this land barely a fortnight ago and demanded Hakon’s head for reward. His thrall obliged. He found him cowering in a fallout shelter south of here in Odinssalr.”

  Rune found Halvard’s eyes in the dark. The wrought iron circlet suspended over the hall’s center and a fire tucked away into a small hearth provided the only light.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Rune said, shaking his head. “Hakon shared Olaf’s disdain toward the Dani and posed no threat for his throne. He could have used him,” Rune said. “Why would Olaf want Hakon’s head?”

  Halvard gulped down a mouthful of mead.

  “Long questions deserve long answers,” he said and tipped his tankard to his mouth again.

  “Where is Olaf now?” Rune asked, his face hardened with thought.

  Halvard returned his tankard to the table.

  “After declaring himself king and throwing Hakon’s head to the sea,” Halvard said, “he started work on that house of his. There was talk of them heading south to Aeslo. The market there in Viken has drawn his eye.” Halvard washed down a large mouthful then dropped the weight of the mug back to the table before he continued. “But what of you, Rune Tryggveson? What brings the Alfar to Midgard?”

  Rune smiled.

  “Long questions deserve long answers,” Rune said and took his first gulp of Throendalog honey mead. The sweet and smooth mingled with a full body that enchanted his pallet with a myriad of spices.

  “I’ve never heard of a king traveling alone without a guard before,” Halvard said. “There is the occasion where a man seeks to roam free from the constant eyes of his peers and the burdens of responsibility known only to a man. I understand the need for a man’s solitude. Hel, even a romp with a wench is needed once in a while, but you’ve selected the monarch of your enemy.” Halvard grinned across the table. “A situation like yours demands answers.”

  Rune took another swig.

  “I took her.”

  “Took her?”

  “Yes.” Rune folded his arms across the table. “I saved her from herself. I took her from Lorlenalin to save her from a traitor, who seeks to kill her. While on the road to Gunir, the Dvergar intercepted her and I tracked them to the mountains of Jotunheim.”

  Mead dripped from Halvard’s black beard. Too stunned to drink, Halvard slowly lowered his tankard.

  “I managed to get her out of there before their descent into Svartálfaheim,” Rune said. “With the Dvergar scouring the obvious routes back to Viken, we had no choice but to head north from Jotunheim.”

  Halvard gasped.

  “You traveled by way of the Dofrarfjell?”

  Rune nodded.

  “Across the Dofrarfjell,” Rune said.

  “Are you mad?”

  Sitting back in his chair, Rune released the mug. There would be no more drinking until he had concluded his business.

  “I came here expecting to call upon a favor from Hakon Jarl owed to my brother and I,” Rune said. “We are grateful for the lodgings, food, and drink you’ve provided us. It is with a heavy heart that I must ask for more.”

  Halvard peered from behind his tankard with brown eyes that matched the golden glow of the mead hall.

  The sharp clank of soapstone plates dropped to the floor accompanied a bellow of laughter from an inebriate nearby. Rune and Halvard examined a neighboring fool, who had stumbled to the floor and taken half the table with him. The uproar settled and his comrades helped him to his feet as the men returned to their conversation.

  “We need a ship,” Rune said. “Our cities are at war. Bergen holds the throne in my absence, and a rogue hides too close to Lorlenalin’s throne.”

  “Your fair maiden, she—” Halvard stammered. “Does she know?”

  Rune shook his head.

  “She suspects nothing.”

  “Tell me, Ljosalfr,” Halvard rasped. “How did a king of Gunir come by this information?”

  Rune shifted his gaze to the table of comrades as the cold, blue eyes of one Dokkalfr blazed in the forefront of his memory. After much contemplation, he decided to disclose his findings.

  “Nearly a moon ago,” Rune said, “I was captured by the Dokkalfar. Upon my imprisonment, I was approached by one of Kallan’s men, who offered my freedom and an alliance with Gunir.”

  Halvard tightened his lips.

  “That’s a hefty offer,” he admired. “What did he ask in return?”

  Rune shook his head.

  “Nothing,” Rune said, “but my word that, when I rode from Lorlenalin a free man, I would take Kallan with me…and kill her.”

  A rise of laughter carried through the hall, briefly diverting their att
ention.

  Halvard leaned closer, lowering his voice.

  “Does she know?” Halvard asked.

  Rune grinned as he turned the tankard over in his hands.

  “That girl would slit my throat if she ever learned I made that deal.”

  “Will you go through with it?” Halvard asked. “Will you kill her?”

  Rune shrugged.

  “Too often I’ve asked myself that question.” A memory of Kallan’s knee landing his manhood came to mind. “I can’t deny that the thought has tempted me once or twice.” He shook his head. “But no. A dead queen would produce more questions than it would answer.”

  Halvard threw his head back and took a long swig.

  “The problem is,” Rune said after Halvard returned the tankard to the table, “if she returns to Lorlenalin, that Dokkalfr will see that the job that I didn’t do is done. I’ve no idea how long he’ll sit quietly in Kallan’s absence. For all I know, he believes I’ve upheld my end and has set his own workings in motion. As you can see, it’s imperative that we get back to Alfheim immediately.”

  Halvard frowned, clearly realizing the full scale of Rune’s problem. He clutched the mug in front of him as his large frame slumped over the table.

  “Olaf won’t make the journey easy for you,” he said. “He seeks to drag Alfheim into it.”

  “This isn’t our war,” Rune said. “We have our own in Alfheim. We can’t be dealing with the troubles of Men when we lack the ability to settle our own differences.”

  Halvard peered down into his mead with a bit of admiration.

  “The troubles of Men may be coming for you sooner than you think,” Halvard said as he took a drink.

  Rune eased back into his chair.

  “You Alfar have always been void of our rule.” Halvard looked up from his drink. “You are content to remain ignored by our Thing. With your own politics and your own laws, you—for the most part—stay to your business while we stay to ours.”

  “You’re saying it may not be long before even we are forced to adhere to the rule of your king?” Rune’s accusation raised Halvard’s attention from the table.

  Halvard grunted.

  “Not my king,” he said. “But there are few who share my hatred for a king who doesn’t look to protect his people, and abandons them to the mercy of one who seeks to usurp him.”

  Exasperated, Halvard lowered his eyes and took another gulp before continuing.

  “I can spare no ships,” he said. “But it is not for a lack of want. Olaf claimed every water vessel in port and burned what he had no use for, or what he deemed too weathered to repair. We have nothing left beyond a feraeringr and four oars is too small to transport a horse or take out to sea. It’ll be another two moons before a ship can be built that is sea-ready. Another three before one is scheduled to dock. You’re welcome to stay until then, but from what you’ve told me, you don’t have the time to sit around here in Nidaros.”

  Rune shook his head.

  “Olaf knows we’re here,” Rune said. Halvard was mid-drink again when he stopped and lowered his mug to the table. “He’s been tailing us for three days now. His troops swarm the Dofrarfjell. We can’t go back the way we came.”

  Nodding, Halvard fixed his eyes on a blackened knot in the table. With pursed lips, he answered, “If you came over the Dofrarfjell, you must have crossed the Gaulelfr.”

  Rune nodded.

  “You’ll need to follow the Nid south to the lake in Selabu,” Halvard said. “That lake feeds the Nid. Stay to the shores and head east. When the lake veers south, follow it until you come to a river. That river will lead you more than half way to Aursund.”

  Halvard leaned back in his chair.

  “Follow the Nid to the lake,” Rune repeated, committing the directions to memory. “Then follow the shores to the river.”

  “And on to Aursund and the lake there where the Raumelfr flows,” Halvard said.

  Rune jerked to attention.

  “The Raumelfr,” he said. “She marks the western borders of Alfheim.”

  Halvard nodded. “She starts there, giving you a straight road away from the mountains through the valleys to Viken.”

  “The Dvergar aren’t likely to follow so far east,” Rune said aloud.

  “And with good reason,” Halvard warned. “Too far east will land you in the Wetlands. The land there is bog-plagued and stretches far beyond what the eye can see. It will add several days to your journey if you don’t stay to the Raumelfr.”

  The light glistened in Halvard’s eye.

  “Of course, if you look to challenge yourself,” Halvard said, “you’re welcome to leave that prized stallion here. I assure you, he’ll be kept in good care.”

  Rune smiled at the offer.

  “I want to reach Alfheim alive. If I propose leaving that horse, I won’t make it out of Nidaros.”

  “The lady loves her horse, huh,” Halvard said with a grin.

  “Suspiciously so,” Rune said, logging another slew of questions aside for Kallan when next he had an inkling to prod her temper.

  Halvard shrugged, indifferent to the will of an Alfr, and surrendered with a swig of his mead. With the clunk of his tankard and a heavy sigh, he returned his attention to his guest.

  “If you’re determined to take your horse,” Halvard said, “we have a mare we can spare for your journey.”

  In thought, Rune bit the tip of his thumb as he plotted the new road home. A sick churned his stomach at the thought of telling Kallan there were no boats, and he held back a groan.

  “Thank you,” Rune said to Halvard, who was in-between gulps. “And Halvard,” he added. The Throendr paused mid-drink. “You can count Gunir among your allies.”

  All hint of humor was gone from Rune’s face, replaced by genuine sincerity.

  “Careful,” Halvard said with droplets of mead tracing his beard. “With the way things are going, we’ll call upon that favor sooner than you think. Now…” Halvard stretched, pulling his arms up over his head. “A favor granted requires payment.”

  Rune shook his head, holding his expression blank.

  “I have nothing with me.”

  “It isn’t silver I seek,” Halvard said, hunched over his tankard.

  Rune furrowed his brow.

  “What is it you desire?”

  With two final gulps, Halvard slammed the empty mug to the table.

  “Kallan.”

  Rune shook his head.

  “She’s not available.”

  “Oh, she’s yours then?” Halvard said, grinning with his crooked mouth.

  “Not mine,” Rune recovered, peering down into his mead. “She’s just…not…have-able.” Rune raised the tankard to his mouth and added, “Or logical or reasonable.”

  Halvard bit his bottom lip as Rune avoided eye contact.

  “This war of yours in Alfheim is infamous throughout Midgard,” Halvard said. “You’ve been at war since before Raum ruled as king over these lands. We don’t ask why, we don’t know why, we don’t care why. It isn’t our problem to ponder, and a war like yours is enough to ensure your business stays your business.”

  Halvard washed back another mouthful of mead

  “In turn,” he continued, “we ask nothing of the Alfar. You speak of rogues and the masked fjándinn in Lorlenalin’s bowels. You speak of the Dvergar who hunt her, who steal her, and the blood money paid by a mercenary. But one thing still eludes me, Rune Tryggveson. One thing you still have not answered.”

  Rune stared with furrowed brow across the table.

  “That is my payment.”

  “All right, old man,” Rune said. “Ask your question already.”

  Halvard widened his grin, delighted at his upper hand.

  “Why would the Ljosalfar king care at all about a Dokkalfr, let alone their queen? One would think it would be in your favor to let the traitor kill her. Why save her from this rogue? Why follow her into Midgard to save her from the Dvergar when they wo
uld have neatly, nicely, cleaned up this mess for you?”

  The blood ran cold down Rune’s neck. He knew the question asked of him. He shrugged, pretending indifference.

  “This war is our fathers’ war,” Rune said without missing a beat. “Not ours. I seek to end this.”

  Halvard snorted, dismissing Rune’s tidy answer.

  “So quick to reply,” he said, shaking his head, “as if you had expected this question and had the answer tucked away for when it would be asked of you. No. Don’t feed me the dribble you’ve stored away for your mother or fishwife back home. That isn’t the answer I seek.”

  Rune watched as the inebriate at the neighboring table chugged back another mead. His comrades gave him a jovial shove. Each had a smile stretched across his face as they raised a drink and threw back their heads, downing another round.

  The fire light flickered, casting red and black shadows across Halvard’s old face as he waited for Rune’s answer.

  “The Dokkalfar were not born to Alfheim as the Ljosalfar,” Rune said. “They came from Svartálfaheim. They were once part of the Svartálfar, who they left in the city neighboring Nidavellir.”

  Halvard’s eyes widened with horror.

  “Nidavellir. The Dvergar city?”

  Rune nodded.

  “The Dokkalfar arrived as one great wave. Though great were their numbers, they didn’t compare to the legions of Gunir.” Rune shook his head, lost to the memories he summoned. “Gunir made their masses seem like a harmless flock of elk birds. Their culture was so unlike ours. Their language and clothes…even their skin…” Rune’s voice trailed off. “…as white and as cold as the mid-winter moon. The king’s Seidkona evoked a curiosity among the Ljosalfar that soon became fear.”

  Rune pulled his attention from his mental wanderings and continued. “Their close friendship with the Dvergar allowed them to inherit secrets of forging that Gunir’s own smiths still can’t fathom,” Rune said. “But what we lacked in metallurgy, we made up for in our vast numbers.”

  A sudden sorrow washed over Rune’s eyes as he recalled the lives all lost to war.