Rune caught himself on one knee, and unsheathing his sword, he swung Gramm through his fragmented vision blurred with darkness. Somewhere behind him, Kallan’s Seidr light blazed.
“Ori,” Rune called to the darkness, but a heavy boot caught his face and, just before the world went black, he spotted Kallan unconscious on the ground, her Seidr lines riddled with poison.
* * *
The fire’s light splashed streaks of orange across Olaf’s face as he threw back another large gulp of spiced mead. The thick, sweet beverage was quickly gaining his favor. From the chair positioned beside the map table, Olaf scratched the underside of Vige’s ear. The dog leaned into him then dropped his chin onto Olaf’s thigh, evoking a warm smile from his master.
With the creak of leather and the clink of a sword, a chill swept the room, with it the scent of pine.
“Your Highness,” Warrior Egil said.
“News.”
“We anticipate our arrival in Vestfold within the fortnight. Arrangements have been made for Thorer to meet us there.”
Olaf shook his head and released Vige.
“Tell him not to bother,” Olaf said, downing another gulp. “At this pace, we’ll have joined Thorer’s army before he finds us.”
With a satisfied sigh, Olaf stared at the tarnished flask. He threw back his head and polished off the last of the mead.
“Is the witch talking yet?” Olaf asked.
“No,” Egil said. “Havelock is with them now.”
Olaf gazed at the warrior. Tall, burly, and almost thirty, the scar on his forehead exemplified his valor.
“Cut every last finger from her hand if you have to,” Olaf said. “She’ll show me how those apples work before the night is out.”
Placing the empty tankard on the table, Olaf picked up a pile of letters, attempted to be interested, failed, and tossed them aside again.
“Did you collect their possessions?” Olaf asked, as the dog pulled his head from Olaf’s lap.
“Havelock is,” Egil answered as the dog circled the rug several times then settled itself down beside the fire. “There’s something you—”
A second blast of cold threw their attention to a guard at the door.
“What is it, Havelock?” Olaf asked, irate at the interruption.
“My lord,” Havelock panted. “We have a problem with one of them.”
“So gut him,” Olaf said. “We don’t need him anyway.”
“It’s not him, sire.”
Olaf looked to the soldier and waited in earnest for an explanation.
“It’s the woman. We can’t get near her, sir.”
Before Havelock could say more, Olaf was up and out the door.
* * *
With blue flames alight in both palms, Kallan stood, poised for battle. A wall of Seidr glowed, securing a perimeter around her, shielding her. From warrior to warrior to Havelock, who clutched Rune’s sword and her pouch, Kallan assessed her escape, clear and inviting, behind her.
With her back to the forest, a barricade of swords blocked her passage to the only thing that seemed to keep her there. Rune, forced to the ground, kneeled subdued by a pair of guards, who twisted his arms back and locked his elbows at the joints, ensuring the slightest pressure would break them.
Curious, Olaf studied the Seidkona whose escape was available should she abandon her companion. Olaf threw a careless hand toward Rune.
“What’s the problem here, Havelock?” he asked. “Clearly we have leverage.”
“Let him go,” Kallan said, uninterested with the man who had joined them.
“Hold your positions,” Olaf shouted over Kallan’s command.
Kallan gazed at Olaf donned in fine fur robes, and recognized him as the one who had the power to free Rune, or to break him.
“Release him!”
“I am this land’s high king,” Olaf said. “And you stand in my realm. I alone order my men, witch.”
Kallan’s face tightened as she forced herself calm. Prepared to lunge, Kallan dug her feet into the soil.
“Havelock. Pouch,” Olaf said.
Without hesitation, Havelock tossed Kallan’s pouch to Olaf, who snatched it midair, then threw back the flap and pulled an apple from its contents.
Torchlight glistened off the golden skin reflected in Olaf’s eyes as he turned Idunn’s apple over.
“Show me,” Olaf said, glaring at Kallan.
She clenched her jaw to seal her lips.
Coldly, Olaf threw the apple to the ground. It came to land at Rune’s side.
“Show us,” he said.
Undaunted by his empty promises, Kallan stayed steadfast.
“Apparently, you need to be motivated.” Olaf came to stand beside Rune. “Show us how these work, or…” Olaf buried his fist into Rune’s ribs and his guards released the Ljosalfr.
A flash of silver caught Kallan’s eye as Olaf pulled his fist away, and Rune fell to the ground clutching his chest. Blood pooled in the dirt and Rune’s face fell white.
A sudden burst of Seidr radiated from Kallan’s hands as panic and rage pulsed through her. Streams of flame engulfed the barricade of men and they scattered, fled, or attacked. With a second stream, Kallan broke through the barricade, throwing a ball of flame toward Olaf while maintaining the Seidr-shield around her.
For a moment, her Seidr glowed white from her hands and formed a corporeal sword she grasped at the hilt. Kallan poured her blue flame from the white, and slashed the air with her Seidr-sword as she battled her way to Rune.
Dispelling the sword, Kallan fell to her knees and expanded her shield over Rune. Blood and dirt caked her hands and she pushed him onto his back. She snatched the fruit from the ground before panic could block her senses, and dug her nails into the apple’s flesh. She was muttering the incantation before the apple surrendered its juices.
“Please,” she whispered, angling the apple’s nectar to flow into his mouth, Rune battled to keep his breath. Sweat poured from her pallid brow and, with trembling palms, Kallan called on the only thing she knew could save him. Her mind cleared, the Seidr swelled, and, placing a palm onto his wound, she pulled from her core, guiding her Seidr into him and through him, all the while muttering under her breath.
In silence, Olaf and his men stared at the golden light that seeped from the Dokkalfr, out and through the prisoner. With each word, the spell drained Kallan’s Seidr, weakening her shield until it faded then vanished.
Rune eased his breath and the color returned to his face as his flesh sewed itself together, erasing all evidence of the wound. Only then did Kallan cease her muttering.
“You should have let me die, princess,” Rune whispered darkly.
Olaf purred with a grin, his own pensive gaze fixed on Kallan.
“Egil. Their possessions.”
Obediently, Egil picked up a small bag and Kallan’s dagger from the pile of satchels and blankets that had been stripped from the horses. “There is also this,” Egil said, extending the elding handle of Blod Tonn to Olaf.
Olaf eyed the black detail before shifting his attention to the pouch. With fluid movement, he dumped its contents into his hand. Kallan’s pendant fell into his hand alongside a pair of rings. With acute interest, Olaf’s eyes widened as he pushed the rings over with his thumb.
The fire light revealed the detailing of a silver signet ring engraved with the figure of a boar’s head encircled with runes.
“A silver ring with the head of a boar,” Olaf said. “How did you come by the mark of Gunir?” He narrowed his eyes. “Unless…” Olaf turned the ring over in thought, eyeing the runes encircling the boar.
“You are Rune Tryggveson,” he said, restoring his gaze to Rune. “The blood of Lodewuk flows in you.”
Olaf turned his eyes to Kallan.
“Which makes you…” He looked the Dokkalfr over, clearly assessing the tattered gown, iridescent eyes, and the Seidr that flowed from her hands.
“A hired bodyguard, per
haps?” he asked. “One of the Varingjar?”
Kallan’s hands twitched with desire to kill.
“But the Ljosalfar don’t dabble in the Seidr arts and would never hire a woman to fight for them.” Olaf turned over the second ring.
“Elding,” he thought aloud, eyeing the three eternal triangles crossed with a hammer.
Olaf raised his eyes to Kallan’s as understanding clicked into place faster than words could form.
“What is your name?” His dark stare dared her to lie.
“Emma of West Seaxna,” she said.
Olaf closed his hand over the jewelry.
“Your lying tongue betrays you,” Olaf said, “for I have lived on the shores of West Seaxna, witch.” Olaf shook his head. “You are not born of Alfheim.”
He looked at her as if pondering the accent, the lucid shade of her pale skin, and the tapered points of her ears.
“You are of Svartálfaheim…though you lack the rancid stench of Dvergar filth. No…” Olaf shook his head and met Kallan’s gaze. “You were born to the White Opal. You are Dokkalfar.”
With a wave of Olaf’s hands, the guards were on them, swords poised at the Alfar’s throats.
“An elding signet ring,” Olaf said, pouring the treasures back into the bag and exchanging the bag for Blod Tonn. “An elding blade…” He unsheathed Kallan’s dagger. “And a pendant marked with the knot of Eire’s Land.”
Kallan watched the Northern king with elusive eyes.
“You are Seidkona.” Olaf eyed her knowingly. “You are Eyolf’s daughter.”
Kallan’s shoulders stiffened at the mention of her father’s name. Her shock didn’t escape Olaf and he lifted his face with smug victory that glowed with regal arrogance.
“Kallan, daughter of Eyolf…Lady of the White Opal…which makes you…” He looked to Kallan as the final pieces slipped into place. “Queen of Lorlenalin.”
Kallan held her head high with contempt, refusing to confirm, refusing to deny his conclusions.
Olaf swiped her blade, slashing Kallan’s face with her dagger.
A guard dropped his hand to Rune’s shoulder as he shifted to leap, keeping Rune in place on the ground. As hot blood flowed down Kallan’s face, a smile stretched across Olaf’s.
“Both monarchs of the divided Alfheim,” Olaf mused. “The only stretch of land that has managed to escape Danelaw this side of the Kattegat.”
Olaf couldn’t hold down the grin that stretched his square chin.
“What would the King of Gunir and Lorlenalin’s queen be doing in the middle of Midgard?” He directed the question to Kallan, who allowed her hate to flow, refusing to satisfy his game with an answer of any kind.
“Bring them both!” Olaf spun on his heel and marched back to his tent. “Alive!”
CHAPTER 62
Olaf’s troops were on the move before the morning sun had a chance to awaken the wildlife. Rune panted through the thick, stagnant air left for him within the bag shoved over his head. He had no doubt that they had marched until the sun was high and hot.
The rustling clinks of mail and sword accompanied the dulled clop of the caravan’s footfall as they forced their way through the forests of Raumariki, every step taking them farther from the river’s edge. Conversations peppered with foreign tongue surrounded him like one continuous, garbled hum. The day wore on as Rune caught occasional mention of Vestfold.
The early evening sunset confirmed the fast approaching winter. Rune’s shackles weighed him down until the darkest hours of the day when Olaf’s army stopped for the night.
A hurried bustle engulfed the camp and Rune listened as soldiers built their fires and prepared their beds beneath the stars.
Within minutes, a pair of hands dragged him to a tent and secured him to the center pole. Before the last guard finished securing Rune’s bonds, a rush of cold and light struck his face as the bag that blinded him was ripped away.
Rune scanned his surroundings, taking in every crack and crevice of the tent. There were no pleasantries, save for that of a single lantern and the stale company of a lone guard, his sentinel. Clad in armor with a large scar across his temple, he stood, glaring down at Rune with his beefy arms folded over his chest.
Just outside the tent, a familiar ruckus disrupted the silence and the tent flaps were thrown back as a pair of warriors hauled Kallan into the tent squirming, kicking, and cursing.
“Kallan,” Rune said.
“Rune?” Kallan asked amid her squabble from within the bag tied around her head.
“I’m here,” he said, already fixed on wriggling out of his bonds.
With her hands and feet still bound and harder than necessary, the two warriors dumped her to the ground then took their leave, paying no mind to Rune, who had begun fidgeting with his bonds.
“Can you see where we are?” Kallan asked.
Rune peered at the silent sentinel standing beside the exit.
“I don’t know,” Rune said. Bowing his head, he focused on his fingers, blindly working the intricate knots. “There is talk of Vestfold.”
“Vestfold will delay us a full fortnight,” she said.
“I know.” He seemed indifferent to her objection, choosing instead to focus on the ropes that bound his wrists.
The tent fell silent, the lone guard sulked, and Kallan squirmed until she exhausted herself.
“Rune?” her gentle voice did little to ease his tension.
“Hm.”
“How did you know?”
Silence filled the tent again as she waited for his answer. An occasional grunt and the strain of the rope’s fibers were his only response.
“Know?” he said finally.
“You said Olaf was tracking us.” She attempted to refresh his memory.
Rune gave an extra yank against his bonds before giving up for the moment and relaxing his shoulders with a sigh. He stared again at their silent sentinel. He seemed uninterested in their conversation for the moment.
“I must not have known much seeing as how we’re here, in a tent that reeks of island rats and ale.”
“You said he was an hour behind us,” Kallan said. She had gone limp on the floor.
The tension in the tent thickened as Rune listened to the settling commotion outside that ensured Olaf’s men were bedding down for the night. Kallan continued, paying no mind to the sudden silence.
“Which means the information you had was not your own, or you would have seen he was right behind us and we never would have stopped.”
With a huff, Rune dropped his head against the pole.
“How did I not see them?” Rune muttered.
“You assumed he was a day off because someone told you he was,” Kallan said as if uninterested with Rune’s question.
Silence.
“Who misinformed you?” she asked when it was apparent Rune wasn’t going to speak.
“Kallan,” Rune said. “Can you reach the ropes with your hands?”
Kallan stiffened against the question, seemingly waiting for the sudden bark of a guard, but nothing came.
“He doesn’t understand us,” Rune said. A proud lilt stuck to his voice and Kallan relaxed enough to hunt for the ropes at the end of her hands.
After a few more attempts at loosening their bonds, Rune decided to answer.
“Ori has been trailing us since Jotunheim.”
“Ori,” she whispered.
The name stabbed her memory like a smith’s poker that brought back every vivid stench of Dvergar filth and she remembered her dreams in the mist of corridors and dragons. Her fingers fell limp with a sickness that weakened her nerves and loosened her grip as the darkness enveloped her once more.
Beyond the world of dreams, Ori had found her there in the deepest chasms of a prison she once believed had no end, but that which death would bring. She struggled to see anything beyond the bag blindfold that left her alone in the dark.
“He approached me last night and warned me of Olaf’s p
rogress,” Rune said.
There was silence.
“How do you know of Ori?” Kallan asked. Rune could hear the rage stifled behind her teeth.
“He lent us aid after I freed you in Jotunheim,” Rune said.
“And you accepted?”
“You were wounded, dying, and bare to your skin in the middle of Jotunheim,” Rune said. “You would not have lived without it.”
“You accepted help from a Dvergr?”
“He came to me,” Rune said.
“After knowing what they did to me, you accepted his aid,” she shrieked.
“I had no choice,” Rune said as a second guard entered the tent. Rune watched as the two guards exchanged words in their native tongue.
“Guard!” Kallan shouted. “Untie me! Untie me!”
The silent sentinel moved toward Kallan.
“Leave her! Leave her!” Rune cried.
“You, filth,” Kallan said, tugging at her bound wrists, visibly desperate to stand and fire. “You—” She stopped with a gasp when a blade pressed to her neck and the sentinel cut the ropes from her ankles.
“Swige, witch,” the sentinel said, his speech punctuated with a foreign blend of syllables unfamiliar to the Alfar.
Pulling Kallan to her feet, the guard gave a violent shove that sent Kallan stumbling across the tent and into the second guard, who pushed her through the door.
* * *
Kallan squinted against the sudden white light that burned her eyes. The scent of venison and stuffy tent air engulfed her like a warm blanket as the light faded to a softened yellow-orange emitted by firelight and lantern. Tossing aside her blindfold, the guard released her, leaving her arm bruised from his grip.
The large build and wide shoulders of Olaf seemed to fill the entire tent riddled with spears, furs, and maps. A large elkhound, lost in the wonders of dreaming, slept on the floor at the foot of a bed and kicked the air with a hind leg.
“Leave us,” Olaf ordered of the guard, who bowed before taking his leave. Cautiously, Kallan eyed Olaf, who poured himself a glass of mead, disinterested with her company. His lowered guard flaunted his confidence and her urge to slap him intensified.
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