Fire and Lies

by Angela Chrysler

  Within the hour, the land formations dwindled and they welcomed the calm waters. With the strength of sixty men, they pulled the ship upstream against the current. Rarely did they meet a strong wind that allowed them to raise sail. The ships curved around the land, making their way up and around the occasional island until they entered the Gautelfr where the current doubled.

  The strakes creaked beneath the pressure until the boards buckled and the ships took on water. In massive groups that left no one immobile, they took up buckets and set to work prying up floorboards and bailing the excess water from within the hull. Only then did Kallan move.

  Gathering up her skirts, she assisted the Ljosalfar as they bailed the water over the gunwale. Desperate to escape the flood, a pair of ship cats clambered, mewing, onto the mast fish, where blankets and chests and been hastily heaped as the deckhands proceeded to clear out water. The sudden clatter startled the ravens within their cage, adding a series of splintering squawks to the bustle and noise.

  Steering closer to land where the current was milder, Bergen pulled the tiller against the bank until he ran the risk of running aground. The waters bombarded the ships, increasing their flow the farther upstream they rowed. There, the white waters of the ruthless rapids forced their course to end.

  After ordering the ships to land, Bergen and Rune led their men to shore. A new energy encompassed the warriors as they moved to drop their oars and took up the collection of roller logs that had laid stationary for most of the voyage home.

  Before Kallan could ask, two Ljosalfar hoisted a log from the trestles and passed it overhead to the next pair, who passed it along to those waiting on land. There, they positioned one log in place for the next log. With rehearsed precision, they laid the logs in rows before the ships while a handful of others lowered the yardarm then the masts and secured the rigging around the fore stern. Awed, Kallan watched as they synchronized their steps in time to Bergen, who barked his orders to haul as he took up a rope himself.

  The logs rolled freely beneath the boat as they pulled their ships from the water to land. Water drained from the hull and the rigging clanked and clamored in time to the occasional cat mew while ship rats scurried freely. As soon as the last log rolled out from beneath the ship’s stern, a pair of men took up the log and raced it to the front of the ship, laying it down in position with barely enough time to run back to the stern where the next log lay waiting.

  The next ship followed suit, and the next, until all six ships had been brought ashore, pulled by the rigging as they pushed their way along the river’s bank where a makeshift path had been worn with use.

  “You do this often?” Kallan asked, unnaturally rigid as another pair of warriors ran to the fore stern with a log.

  Rune walked along beside her as the caravan of beached ships creaked and complained beneath the weight of their waterless passage.

  “Often enough,” he answered simply, batting a low hanging branch from his path. “The ships were built on land. When they are finished we roll them to the river. This is the first of seven trails between here and Gunir.”

  Kallan shifted her attention just enough to catch Rune’s eye as he walked several steps behind their ship.

  “Surely you can sail the rapids,” Kallan said, urging him on with a smirk. Even her jovial mood felt chafed and cold.

  “The rapids, yes.” Rune stepped over a small boulder in his path. “The falls nearly three fathom high? No,” he said. “This landing is the last clearing before we’d be forced to turn back.”

  Without further question, she followed quietly, turning to glance over her shoulder in time to spot Gunnar leading Astrid and Freyja alongside the black mare and two soldiers he had recruited to help with the horses. Kallan turned back to her ship, joining Rune in pulling back the low hanging branches as they made their way through the forest.

  Slowly, the caravan pushed over the land, filling the wood with the whines of six longships as if in protest of their land-locked state. The late hours of the afternoon sun burned away and, in the early evening, when the men had grown deaf to the incessant creaking of keels, sudden, riotous cheers exploded at the sight of the quiet calm of a glassy lake. Lake Wanern was so wide that the horizon made up other side.

  The Ljosalfar rolled the ships back into the water and heaved the logs into the trestles. All evidence of the river was gone. Gunnar returned the horses to the boats and the six groups of Ljosalfar climbed aboard once more. As Ottar took the tiller, Kallan nestled into her cluster of furs and blankets. The subtle sounds of water slapping against the strakes returned and the longships settled as if content to be in the water again.

  The breeze welcomed them and they raised the masts and hoisted the yardarm, allowing their sails to billow against the wind. They sailed on through the wide waters of Lake Wanern over the black blue surface. And as the sun settled beyond the forests, they returned to shore, rolled out their beds, pitched their tents, and erected their soapstone kettles over the fire. In short time, the scent of elk wafted from the kettles and Bergen’s war-men, content to ignore the Dokkalfr who welcomed the solitude of a tent, bustled and laughed while exchanging mead and story over bowls of stew.

  Inside the tent among the furs and bedrolls, Kallan hugged her legs to her stomach as it churned with hunger. Despite sitting hunched before the small fire she had quickly built in the tent’s center, Kallan shivered. She pulled her overcoat closer and brooded as her thoughts drifted to the night before when Rune had taken her face in his hands and kis—

  “Hi.”

  Kallan whipped around to Rune, who grinned. Kallan’s face and neck flushed red. She hugged her legs tighter and Rune settled himself beside her. With a bowl of stew in hand, he stretched his legs out in front of him and handed her his bowl.

  “Slowly,” he eased as she gulped down the food. “You’ll vomit.”

  With a final gulp, she handed the bowl back to Rune and hugged herself against the cold while staring into the fire.

  “Thank you,” she said, sending a warm surge through Rune that relaxed him as he set the bowl down beside the fire.

  In silence, they stared at the flames. Almost enjoying each other’s company.

  “The temperature is dropping fast,” Rune said.

  Kallan kept hugging her legs as Rune looked away, feigning interest in the tent’s wall. He inhaled deeply, held his breath, and braced for impact before speaking again.

  “We’ll be sharing packs tonight.”

  Kallan stiffened as her face burned three shades of red.

  “Everyone,” Rune said, “to keep warm.”

  Before she could begin her protests, Rune was up and making his way to his bedroll.

  “I will not!” she exclaimed.

  “It’ll be cold,” Rune warned, dropping himself onto his claimed bed and unlacing his boots.

  Kallan frowned. “I survived Jotunheim. I can survive this.”

  With a hearty chuckle, Rune kicked his boots aside and slid in between his pile of furs and blankets. Still chuckling, he relaxed onto his back and laid his arm nonchalantly over his eyes in mock sleep.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked.

  Rune grinned.

  “You survived Jotunheim because I had you bunking with me.”

  With bulging eyes, Kallan dropped her jaw.

  “You—”

  “You told her, huh?” Bergen interjected, pulling back the tent’s flap. Wearing just his trousers and boots, he made his way through the collection of beds. The humored lilt in his voice encouraged Kallan to tighten the grip around her legs and pull her overcoat closer as she grimaced miserably at Bergen.

  Happily, Bergen flashed his widest grin. Dropping himself beside Kallan, he unlaced his boots and tossed them aside before crawling beneath the blankets, paying no mind to the rage that twisted her face.

  Bergen grinned.

  “She didn’t take to the idea then,” he said, shuffling down between his furs and stretching out to face
Rune.

  “Not exactly,” Rune said from beneath his arm.

  Bergen widened his smile.

  Kallan sneered.

  “Why are you smiling? Why is he smiling?” Kallan asked, but Rune only grinned. “Why are you smiling?”

  With a sigh, Rune afforded himself a moment to prepare for the torrent that would follow his answer.

  “Because,” he said, ensuring his arm remained over his eyes. “We agreed that if you don’t double with me, you’d be doubling with him.”

  A sickly pale coated Kallan’s complexion. Her silence confirmed her protest as she turned four shades of white.

  “Me, personally,” Bergen said, propping himself onto his elbow to better face Kallan, “I don’t care if you freeze to death, but my brother—”

  “You sleep with him then!” Kallan said, grasping desperately to her legs and pulling them deeper into her chest as Bergen burst into a fit of laughter.

  “Fair enough,” Bergen agreed, sitting up. He threw back the blankets. “I’ll leave this bed to you and Ottar, then.”

  Kallan’s eyes widened with horror. “No!”

  As Bergen resettled himself into his bed, Rune exhaled.

  “The temperature is dropping, Kallan. Set aside your pride or freeze.”

  “Perhaps it’s your company she abhors, Rune,” Bergen suggested, propping himself up onto his elbow. A bit of bare chest caught Kallan’s eye. With a grin, Bergen gently caressed the vacant spot beside him. “Come along, Kallan. I’ve had worse. I can forget you’re a Dokkalfr for one night.”

  Kallan sank deeper into Ori’s overcoat.

  “When the snoring gets to you, just kick him,” Rune said.

  Kallan settled her chin back to her knees and she rocked against a sudden rush of cold.

  “What about him?” Kallan asked as the camp outside quieted, leaving Bergen without a partner.

  “Bergen doesn’t bunk,” Rune said.

  Kallan scowled. “Why not?”

  As soon as she asked, Bergen was back up propped on an elbow.

  “I once angered a goddess by denying her my manly pleasures.” Disgust crunched Kallan’s face. “She put a spell on me so I always burn.”

  “Still telling that lie, Bergen?” Rune asked and, with his grin still splayed on his face, Bergen settled back down on his bed.

  Quiet settled too quickly over the camp as one by one the men paired off and claimed a bedroll, desperate for the added warmth an additional body would provide. The tent flap opened again, followed by the drag of Ottar’s footfall, snapping Kallan to attention. Her temper flared and she clenched her teeth, forcing her tongue still.

  “Which of you two idiots am I sharing heat with tonight?” he grumbled.

  His apparent exhaustion from the day weighed heavily on him. Bergen snapped his attention to Rune. Rune afforded a peek from beneath his arm in Kallan’s direction. Both awaited her decision.

  “Fine!” Kallan said, slapping the ground and unfurling her body.

  She threw back the hides of Rune’s bed, purposefully blasting him with the cold night air. Too angry to notice the smirk that pulled at the corner of Rune’s mouth, Kallan shifted herself down beside him, violently yanking the hides over herself.

  Indifferent to the decision, Ottar dropped himself beside Bergen and pulled the blankets up over his wide chest, forcing Bergen to shuffle into the empty spot he had offered to Kallan.

  “Darling,” Bergen exploded, rubbing a hand over Ottar’s chest.

  “Ger’ off,” Ottar said, adding a back handed punch to Bergen’s shoulder.

  With a chuckle, Bergen laid back, the usual grin stretching his mouth. Kallan scowled as she shifted herself into a more comfortable position.

  Eager to welcome the sudden warmth that enveloped her, Kallan eased onto her back and, despite her mental flourish of protests, she fell into a sound sleep.

  * * *

  The wind rattled the forest leaves with a gentleness that coaxed Bergen awake. He sighed and watched his breath billow into a ball before as it dispersed into the cold air. Ottar snored quietly beside him, unconscious to the world around them.

  Shifting his weight, Bergen flipped onto his side and tucked his arm beneath his head, then stopped.

  Stretched across Rune’s chest, Kallan lay fast asleep under Rune’s arm where it was wrapped protectively around her. Her hand fell with elegance down Rune’s side and Bergen watched, stupefied, as she rose and fell peaceably in time to Rune’s breath.

  Bergen moved to settle himself back to sleep, but paused mid-shift as Rune slid his hand into Kallan’s hair. Bergen watched Kallan release a deep sigh as she nuzzled Rune’s chest, confirming his suspicions.

  Laying his head onto his arm, Bergen stared at the tent’s ceiling. He spent the next hour sorting through what little he knew about the night his brother took off to Midgard and the weeks that followed.

  After sending his mind through a maze of dead ends, he forced himself to sleep comforted with the plan to extract every answer out of Rune by tomorrow’s end.

  Sigyn rode without rest, aware of each day lost at Loptr’s side, as Svadilfari carried her without sleep. The flames of Muspellsheim burned her flesh from the impervious heat as she came to face the grand, steel gates alive with the inferno that forever burned as constant and as consumed in flame as the sun. The ground was hardened, black stone, steaming with the constant heat that fed the realm. Frequent pockets of bright, golden reds pushed their way through the black ground alongside pillars of flames that rose from the rock. There was no life save only what the fire gave.

  Sigyn stopped briefly at the pair of giant, ebony fire wyrms that flanked the steps of Surtr’s hall. Their long, slender bodies twisted and curled then tapered to the tips of their tails like snakes until they seemed to entangle themselves in their own spine. Both wyrms tightly tucked their grand, willowy wings to their sides.

  They slept as Sigyn approached, paying no mind as one raised its snake-like head to glance curiously at her with its one good eye, round and black and red, as black as a fire opal. With a snort, it deemed her harmless and nestled its untethered head back beside its four-toed paw, giving her a glimpse at a scar that sealed its right eye. The fire wyrm returned to sleep.

  Undaunted by their vast presence, Sigyn urged Svadilfari through the burning gates, unconsumed with undying flames that licked the red sky. She came to the doors of Surtr’s hall and dismounted, leaving Svadilfari alone at the bottom of the yellow steps encrusted in brimstone.

  Gathering her skirts in her sweating palm, and through a sharp stench that pierced her nose, Sigyn ascended the steps to the open doors, her head high, charged by the need to hope.

  “Surtr!” Sigyn cried with an undeterred stance as she walked down the length of Surt’s hall. “My Lord!”

  “Sigyn!”

  The boom of Surtr’s voice rumbled the halls and rattled Sigyn’s heart. She gritted her teeth and held to her strength as she neared the steps of his throne.

  “You come with a request,” Surtr stated plainly, knowing her purpose before she spoke. “Ask it then. Be brief,” he commanded as Sigyn came to stop at the feet of his throne flanked by the set of wide, high seat pillars where the grand Fire Giant sat, his own body fueled by the flame formed the flesh of his being. To his side, his sword, as long as Sigyn was tall, flickered lively with the flame that enveloped it. On the other side, his wife Sinmara sat.

  With long, shimmering locks of the purist gold, Sinmara curiously peered down, as intrigued by Sigyn’s arrival as Surtr.

  “I come to give voice to the needs of my husband, who lays bound by the bonds of Odinn!” Sigyn declared in as grand a voice as Surtr. “He bids you come! I ask you, free him!” she begged, desperate for the Fire Giant to accept. The tears holding in her eyes, always so gentle, hardened.

  “The bonds made from the bones of your sons were molded by the fires of Svartálfaheim’s forges,” Surtr reminded her as he mulled the situation over in hi
s thoughts. Pensively, he shook his giant head, heavy with regret.

  “No.” Surtr sighed deeply, looking on, almost, with pity. “Nothing can break those bonds. Only those with the proficiency to forge them have the strength enough to make them yield.” He shook his head again and leaned upon his knee. “You know I have no skill to rival the Dvergar, no secret spear to rend those chains, and yet you come. For a key, then, you hope.”

  Sigyn quelled the sorrow that bit her nose and forced her chin high.

  “I’ve come to give voice to Loptr’s cry,” she pressed on.

  Pensive, Surtr studied her stance, knowing she came with the utmost sincerity. He heaved a deep sigh and growled.

  “Loptr’s words have reached me, but I can not lend my aid without attracting the eye of Odinn.”

  Desperation she could not hide clouded her eyes.

  “He begs for your aid,” she tried again, “and requests your support in rending the stones of Odinn’s throne!”

  Surtr glanced upon her tiny frame, dwarfed by the magnitude of his race. He paused, coming to rest his gaze onto her eyes that peered so hopefully at him. He sighed, hating what he had to do.

  “I see the torment of his suffering in your eyes,” Surtr replied. “You still grieve for your sons. I know your tears were ignored when Odinn bound your husband to Yggdrasill. Nevertheless, Loptr’s affliction was cast upon you.”

  Despite the heat that sweltered, a cold permeated Sigyn that left her rigid against her frayed nerves.

  “I will not deny that the march against Asgard stirs a desire in me,” Surtr continued. “Greater still, if Loptr were to fight at my side, but…” Each word clawed its way to Sigyn’s insides. “The task you ask rings out as treason to those in Asgard.”

  Sigyn forced down a silent sob with a dry gulp.

  “As long as Loptr lies at the roots of Yggdrasill, bound by Odinn’s damnation,” Surtr proclaimed, softening his voice, “I can not risk angering the gods of Asgard, lest war be waged on Muspellsheim.”