“Two guards stand outside,” Olaf said, scanning the platter of food and drink before him. “If anything happens in here, they have orders to kill your comrade out there.”
“What do you want?” Kallan said coldly.
Olaf took a trial sip from his drink.
“To wipe out every last Seidkona from this earth,” he said.
“Are you to kill me?”
Olaf leisurely trailed his eyes from her face down to her shoulders, following the slender gown to the hem at her shins.
“That has yet to be decided.”
“And its factor?” Kallan asked.
“On whether or not I need you,” he said, lifting his gaze to her hardened eyes. “For the moment, my curiosity is what stays my hand.”
Olaf polished off the mead and dropped the empty cup to the table.
“I was born to this land and raised on the stories merchants and pirates told of the Alfheim War and the Conflict…” An endless cold descended into his eyes as Olaf spoke. “How your father launched such few numbers against the thousands in Gunir and won.” Olaf picked at a small berry and popped it into his mouth. “That the armor and craft of your people has yet to be matched by any who wasn’t born to the mines of Svartálfaheim.”
Steering away from the food, Olaf sauntered to the map table where Kallan’s possessions lay with Rune’s. He picked up Blod Tonn and unsheathed the blade. “How King Tryggve massacred hundreds with such a cool, insatiable rage that the stories reached as far west as the Hag’s Head in Eire’s Land,” Olaf said.
Kallan clenched her jaw and the gash on her face pulsed.
“Yet here you stand the daughter of Eyolf, joined at the side of Tryggve’s son. And, what’s more…you seem to reserve a form of fondness for him.” Olaf grinned. “Oh, how children are fickle. But I must ask. Does he share in your affections?”
“What madness is this of yours that you would keep me imprisoned only to inquire of my girlish fantasies?” Kallan asked.
Olaf’s grin widened.
“It is not the reason for your imprisonment, but I can not deny that I am amused.”
“Amused?” A cold smile began to lift the corner of Kallan’s mouth. “Or interested?”
Olaf shrugged and something in his gaze softened.
“I will not deny the advantage of having a Seidkona’s foresight on my side,” Olaf said, “nor would I reject the hand of a queen of Alfheim to wife.”
Kallan’s face split into a gentle grin.
“And together we would vanquish our enemies,” she mused, catching the firelight in her eye, “starting with the bloodless whelps of Gunir, I suppose.”
“And on to the Dani,” Olaf said, and Kallan cocked her head. A lock of long hair spilled over her shoulder.
“While riding on the life granted by my golden apples,” Kallan lulled in wonder, smiling.
Olaf eyed the curve of her bosom and the slender lines of her neck.
“Together, we could do such extraordinary things,” he said.
Kallan turned her smile down and coldly stared across the fire.
“If you were to extend a dying hand to me in the deserts of the Nordic plains,” she said, “I would turn my back, leaving you to die at the mercy of the Fire Giants.” With every word, Kallan pulled the grin from Olaf’s face. “If you were cracked and bleeding, parched with want for drink, I would not so much as spit on you lest it quench your thirst. Nor will I sate your curiosity, that you may live in misery…perplexed and plagued by unanswered questions.”
In an instant, Olaf’s hand was on her neck, throwing her back against the table behind her. He bore his weight down, crushing her beneath his body.
There was a blast of cold and Olaf growled. “Get out!”
The guard blinked then scurried outside.
Olaf pushed his mouth to her ear.
“Don’t think I haven’t pondered the amount of silver a she-Alfr would fetch at market,” he said, his venom burning her with his hot breath. “There are corners of the world where even you have a marketed value, and there are those who would pay a fine price to add an Alfr to their collection. In the right market, it’s too easy to mistake an Alfr for a Slider.” Horror, masked only by her anger, filled her eyes. “I have half a mind to keep you with me and trade you at port if I didn’t fear your stubbornness wouldn’t cost me half of what you’re worth.”
With a kick of his leg, Olaf pushed harder against her, digging his hipbone into her leg. Kallan winced despite glaring with an adamant hate he could not break.
“Even now, will you not gleam a sliver of fear?” Olaf whispered.
“I would not give you such pleasure,” Kallan said.
“Other pleasures can be taken,” Olaf said, grinding harder.
“I would die by my own hand before allowing my enemy to decide such fate, and you’re wasting my time,” Kallan said.
“Your time?” Olaf grinned between short, sporadic bursts of laughter. “A prisoner dare speaks of wasted time?”
“What do you want?” Kallan said, her patience spent.
Olaf relaxed his weight and released her. Appeased, he watched as Kallan gasped for air and fought to stand.
“I want to know where the apples came from,” Olaf said as he walked the floor, granting her an arm’s length of space to lick her wounds.
“The apples,” Kallan whispered.
“They are one of the coveted treasures of Asgard,” Olaf said, getting down to business. “Grown and tended to by Idunn herself.”
Olaf folded his hands behind his back.
“The Bilrost is lost,” he said. “No one knows the way into Asgard these days. So how is it you came by one of her apples?”
“One of…” Kallan gasped. “It was a gift,” she said.
“A gift,” Olaf repeated. “And who gave it?”
“An old hag who earned Odinn’s favor,” Kallan said.
Olaf snorted and slammed his fist into her face. Grabbing her neck, he pulled her from the floor to his face.
“Don’t taunt me, witch. I’ve done worse things to women far more valuable than you. Where did you get the apple?”
Kallan stared, not budging as the black of her swollen eye filled in to match her cheek, split and bloodied.
“Go and serve your dues to Hel,” she spat.
Olaf’s grip tightened and he pulled her body against his.
“The moon is new tonight,” he said, “and I have only need for one of you. Do you think your comrade will be so willing to risk his life for yours? Do you wish to test him?”
Kallan remained unbending and cold.
With the back of his hand, Olaf struck her again and Kallan fell to the floor.
“Guard,” Olaf said to the door.
A cold blast of air grazed Kallan’s wounds.
“Take her to the lake,” Olaf said. “Let the depths have her.”
CHAPTER 63
Campfires lined Rune’s path in the dark as he fought the guard with every step through the camp. With a growl he couldn’t understand, the guard pulled back the hide flap and pushed Rune into Olaf’s quarters.
As the guard removed his shackles and took his leave, Rune examined the furs and armaments. Ignoring the dog, the man, and the buffet of fruits and meats splayed out on a table, a wave of discouragement settled itself as Rune realized Kallan wasn’t there.
Donned in a set of simple red frocks of the finest cloth, Olaf stood beside the large fire that burned in the center of the tent, casting shadows of orange and black about the room in a myriad of patterns. Rune eyed his host suspiciously, as they stood inspecting each other. With his hands folded behind his back, Olaf moved with a regal condescension that illuminated his composure.
The Dubh Linn prince untwisted his hands from behind his back never once lowering his bearded face from Rune. He studied his rival with a pensive curiosity that masked his innermost thoughts before addressing his guest.
“Far too long I’ve moved my army in
to position toward my one goal,” Olaf said. “Far too long I’ve spent my days fervently fixed on one man: to bring Forkbeard falling from his throne, scathed and defeated.” Olaf pulled himself from his ponderings and gazed upon a bored Rune. “Your lands could serve as a fine solution to the rule and fall of Dan’s Reach. For so long, I’ve desired to speak with you. I’ve started a number of letters requesting your council…letters I’ve thrown aside with less than satisfactory diction and suddenly here you are before me.
“Rune, son of Tryggve…” Veneration flowed from his words. “King and Lord of Gunir and Alfheim…descendant and last of Lodewuk’s line.” In awe Olaf beamed, admiring Rune’s station as he settled his weight down onto a table strewn with maps. “Too few hold claim to the title bestowed upon you by your fath—”
“What do you want?” Rune asked.
Olaf tightened his jaw and visibly forced a smile.
“You are not a prisoner here,” Olaf said. “Please, eat.”
He waved an open hand toward the feast that filled the tent with aromas of sweet meats and honey mead.
Rune glanced at the food with apathy. It was with a heavy, dispirited sigh that Rune spoke at all. “I’ve played host to many a monarch who danced graciously around the true matter at hand, wasting my time with court etiquette and hollow gestures. I have no interest in feigned hospitality that masks blatant betrayal.” Olaf’s false grin fell. “End your illusions of friendship and state your business plainly,” Rune commanded with the sternness of one looking down at a usurper bearing gifts.
The fire popped.
“My father lost rule to this land when it was taken from him fifty years ago,” Olaf said, visibly forcing aside his illusions of joviality and feigned friendship. “He was killed before he had a chance to reclaim his birthright.”
“I remember,” Rune said, stifling a yawn.
“My elder father led his campaign into these lands and left behind my father to reign in his stead.”
“My father had him fed to Solve Klove.” Rune maintained his regal rigidity as he spoke.
“You remember.” The words rolled from Olaf’s mouth with a gleam of admiration as he looked upon Rune with a fresh wave of envy. “How I pine for a fraction of the life only granted to you Alfar.”
Rune said nothing, but kept his patience while he entertained his own agenda. Olaf turned and poured himself a drink.
“Solve Klove and his kin were bent on ridding my father’s land of our bloodline,” Olaf said. “That Sea King would have given up the lives of his sons to avenge the death of his father and uncle.”
“Where’s Kallan?” Rune asked.
Olaf’s mouth curled into a smile.
“She is Dokkalfr,” he said. “Or have you forgotten that?”
“What do you want?” Rune asked, weary with being the subject of his host’s sport.
Olaf returned his untouched drink to the table.
“The throne of Danelaw proffers a constant threat waiting to make its move,” Olaf said. “Forkbeard grows stronger. You, of all others, must know of the constant threat to our lands.” His words were quick and smooth, and his voice dripped with certainty.
“You seek to make me your puppet king.”
“I seek to offer an alliance,” Olaf corrected.
Rune’s irritation slipped away as the surmounting opportunity spilled into his lap.
“With our combined forces, you can bring down the Dokkalfar,” Olaf said, “rend every stone of Lorlenalin that defaces the mountainside. With our strength, we can squash the festering rot that sulks in the mines of Svartálfaheim and as one, we can take back Northumbria…return her to the glory that answers to the realm of Dubh Linn.”
Rune’s attention filled with Olaf’s vision.
“Dubh Linn,” Rune said.
“We can wipe out the Dani.”
Rune stared beyond the flames, entranced by the world proposed by Olaf. The food and drink lay forgotten on the table.
“The use of that army would more than make up for the numbers lost to the Dokkalfar,” Rune muttered aloud in thought. He pulled his eyes from the fire. “You seek to hand Northumbria back to the Uí Ímair.”
Olaf smiled with a tip of his head.
Rune relaxed his shoulders and set the room at ease.
“And from there, I suppose, you would have us march north to Alba…Then on to take Dubh Linn for yourself?”
“The house of Amlaib Cuaran already answers to me,” Olaf said. “They have long since recognized me as the King of the North and have already sworn their allegiance. Upon my word, they will fight…and with their strength, we can defeat the insipid filth of Dan’s Reach.”
Rune lowered his eyes to the flames. Within the red of those flames, he saw the brave new world laid out to him. Three clans, three nations joined against the might of the Dokkalfar, led by the sons of Ivann the Boneless himself. A union that strong would prevail against the magnificence of the Empire. Regardless, his gut churned with unease.
“And when the last of Danelaw has been rid of this land…” Rune said, returning his gaze to Olaf. “When your people are victorious and look to reap the spoils of this war, will you still look to share this land with my people?”
Olaf smiled and returned his attention to the table laden with food and drink.
“We both desire a world that would deliver peace to our people.” He found his cup and took a sip. “I would give you all of the North if it meant the fall of Forkbeard.”
Olaf ended his soliloquy and waited with tension in the air for the answer that would unite their people in arms.
Rune stared back into the flames.
“Think of it,” Olaf said. “A world without the Dokkalfar…Without the Empire!”
“A world without war or fallen comrades.”
“I have seen the hand of Forkbeard and how far it reaches beyond that of Dan’s Reach,” Rune said. “I was there at the Battle of Hjorungavagr. Why, by the fires of Muspellsheim, would I ever subject my kin to a massacre like that again? Why would I risk the lives of my people to anger the greatest power since Otto’s Empire in the south, who serve the imperial god and senselessly slaughter my people?”
“We have so much to gain as their victor,” Olaf said.
“Forkbeard turns a blind eye, discouraged by the wars of my people,” Rune said. “A challenge would awaken his green-eyed interest in my land…one that my fathers and I have managed to avoid. We sit beyond the desires of Forkbeard’s throne, and I intend to keep it that way.”
Rune turned for the door. In a single step, Olaf desperately grabbed Rune’s arm.
“Why do you believe leaving that sleeping giant alone will keep his interests away from Alfheim?” Olaf asked, his patience clearly waning.
“I have the wars of my own people to put ahead of the greed of a dethroned king. Now…” Rune yanked his arm free from Olaf’s grasp. “If you won’t tell me where Kallan is, then we are done here.”
Olaf pursed his lips, seemingly readying himself to start again, but stopped at the sudden clamor raised outside. Both kings paused and listened. The silence that had fallen over the camp was gone, replaced with the muffled chaos of distant cries. Exchanging glances, they abandoned their argument and, as one, started for door.
A sudden series of tumultuous cries ended when the tent flap flew back and Egil fell to the floor of Olaf’s tent. Black blood seeped from his right side. His white hand trembled as he struggled to hold a gaping wound closed.
Dropping to one knee, Olaf pulled Egil’s hand away. Streams of blood pulsed from the wound, leaving Egil pale and waxen.
“An ambush, my lord,” Egil said. “We didn’t see them coming…thousands…from the shadows.”
“Forkbeard.” Olaf said.
“No…” Egil shook his head. “There is no mistaking the black of that hair…the death in those eyes staring back from white faces.”
Rune’s spine became rigid as he suddenly found himself starved for
a weapon.
“Dvergar,” Olaf said. His face had turned white as the last of life left Egil staring into the distance beyond what the living could see.
Taking up his servant’s sword, Olaf rose to his feet and joined Rune in the march to the door. The chill of the night air pierced their faces as they pulled back the hide and stepped into the night.
Swarms of Dvergar infiltrated every crevice of the camp, wielding axes against Olaf’s men, who raised steel swords against them. Burning tents peppered the darkness and drowned out the sounds of the fallen.
“It isn’t too late, Ljosalfr,” Olaf said, clearly eager to avenge his comrade. Egil’s sword rang out in declaration as he unsheathed the blade. “Take up arms alongside me this day. Fight with me.”
“Where is Kallan?” Rune called over the screams of the fallen and the fires that spread.
An elated grin was Olaf’s reply before he plunged into battle, impaling a Dvergr along the way, crying out to his men in encouragement. Rune turned his thoughts to his only goal and, dismissing the battle around him, skimmed the burning camp.
The fragile, steel blades crafted by the smiths of Dubh Linn were no match to the elding blades forged in the mines of Svartálfaheim. Men bearing the mark of naudr buckled beneath the Dvergar’s might.
After selecting the clearest path, Rune lunged into battle, skirting along the forest’s edge. The flames passed from tent to tent, lighting up the camp as Rune weaved in and out of the chaos. He stopped frequently to reassess his path before moving on to the next cover, twisting his way through tents and dashing behind barrels as he went.
“Kallan!” he cried over the chorus of clinks and screams of sword and shield. His sanity ebbed with every moment as the purr of the flames grew, drowning out the battle cries.
“Kallan!”
“Stand your ground,” Olaf called from across the battlefield above the clash of swords and the fire’s roar. Whipping around, Rune met the cold, hardened eyes of Olaf.
In that brief moment, the conversation they had started in Olaf’s tent ended along with temporary truce. With a single nod, Olaf revoked his offer and accepted Rune’s rejection as the battle raged on. Rune proceeded along the forest’s edge, leaving Olaf behind to fight the shadows and darkness.
Dolor and Shadow Page 49
