“The war,” Joren repeated.
“Ya hear that, Rune?” Bergen called from the bed. “You can have her every damn night if you wish!”
“She told me to get out,” Rune mumbled.
Bergen sat up. “She did…” A grin interrupted his exclamation.
The berserker shoved himself off the bed and clomped his way into the fire’s light to better gaze upon Rune. After a moment, he threw back his head and belted a laugh that filled the room.
Rune tipped the bottle up and glowered at his brother over the mead.
“She did you well,” Bergen said between bouts of laughter, tears wetting his eyes.
“Oh, like you’ve never seen the end of her sword.” Rune nodded, indicating the deep scar that decorated his brother’s brow.
Bergen grinned.
“Well, the rate you’re going, she’ll never see yours,” Bergen retorted, nodding down to Rune’s waist.
“There are others, Rune,” Geirolf said, as Rune frowned at Bergen.
“Yeah,” Bergen agreed, snatching the mead from Rune. “Have one of those and be done with it.”
“I would…” Rune yanked the mead back from Bergen mid-gulp, pouring the sweet drink down the front of him. “But I can’t drink from any local wells without finding out you’ve bathed in it.”
“What of the wandering wench?” Joren piped in.
“The wandering what?” Bergen asked.
Rune stared darkly into the fire and raised his drink in salute. “The wandering wench.”
“What is the wandering wench?” Bergen asked, looking about from Joren to Geirolf for answers. “Has a new tavern opened up?”
“The wandering wench is a who, Bergen,” Geirolf said.
“He found some girl roaming around the woods the night before the Battle of Swann Dalr,” Joren said, perking Bergen’s interests.
“Wait, what girl?”
“One you hadn’t stoked yet,” Rune slurred, staring at the fire.
“We had to weasel it out of him,” Joren said, grinning. “But once he talked, he wouldn’t shut up.”
“So find her!” Bergen said.
“Feisty temperament,” Rune grumbled, dulled by the drink as the flames danced, “and striking blue eyes like the gems you brought back from the deserts.”
“Yeah, that’s the one,” Joren said, grinning.
“She called me obtuse, cowardly, and spoiled.” Rune threw his head back with a swig from the flagon.
“Why haven’t I stoked her?” Bergen asked.
“The wandering wench, Bergen,” Rune said, “is Kallan.”
With widened eyes, Bergen dropped his smile, suddenly understanding Rune’s behavior.
“Oh, you’ve gotta stoke her,” Bergen said, restoring his grin.
“You’re not going to think clearly until you do,” Geirolf interjected his opinion on the matter at last.
Rune downed the last of the mead.
“Have her,” Geirolf said. “Get your yearnings out of the way so we can send her back to Lorlenalin with our terms answered.”
“I don’t…” Rune dropped the empty bottle to his lap. “I don’t want her!”
“So,” Bergen mused. “On a sporadic whim, you ran off to Midgard—”
“—climbed Jotunheim—” Geirolf added.
“—picked a fight with the Dvergar—” Bergen said, staring at the ceiling.
“—lured Tryggvason’s army to Alfheim—” Geirolf said.
“—and prolonged the ride home by bringing the largest pain in my ass with us…” Bergen finished with a smirk that made Rune itch to punch him. “Because…” Bergen’s voice trailed off as the men waited for the grandest helping of ox dung Rune could muster.
Instead, the fire crackled and filled the silence.
“Borg approached me in Lorlenalin,” Rune slurred, balancing the empty flagon on his knee.
The words struck the three men, commanding their attention as they waited with piqued interest.
“He came to me with a deal almost immediately after my capture.”
“What kind of deal?” Bergen asked.
“He promised my freedom if I would take Kallan with me…” Rune twisted his head up to Bergen. “And kill her.” Rune returned his gaze to the fire before continuing, “Imagine my surprise when I recognized the queen as the wandering wench.”
Joren said, “If Borg approached you, then surely Kallan wou—”
“Kallan assures me that she doesn’t know Borg,” Rune answered.
“He’s a mercenary,” Bergen announced, looking to each face and waiting for them to see the connection as clearly as he. “He’s from Holmgardr.”
Gierolf furrowed his brow. “You suspect someone hired Borg from the Khazar to get Kallan out of the way?”
Bergen smiled. “The Khazar were eliminated by the Gardariki a few years back, Geirolf,” he said kindly. “I doubt the Khazar were involved.”
Geirolf pushed out his old bottom lip.
“Hard to keep these things apart, what with men killing off every rising power from the Imperial Guard to the Praetorian Guard, Aurvandiljar, Black Guard, Varingjar Guard—”
“The Black Guard is the Varingjar Guard, Geirolf,” Bergen corrected.
“Exactly!” Geirolf said.
“The Kryvics, the Aurvandiljar, the Gardariki…” Bergen said. “Any one of these turn out some of the best mercenaries.”
“Borg wasn’t hired from an outside source,” Joren said.
All eyes turned to the scout.
“I’ve presented Borg with every proposal made by Rune.” Joren shook his head. “Borg insisted that Kallan wouldn’t have it. When I met him with the last proposal before the attack at Swann Dalr, Borg just kept saying that he had his orders. That Kallan refuses all negotiations as did her father before her.”
Bergen turned to Rune, who watched the fire, lost to his bottle.
“And now you’re saying Kallan doesn’t even know about Borg?” Bergen asked.
“I told her,” Rune nodded. “Kallan has deemed her people loyal, and Borg’s existence as questionable. Then she told me to get out.”
Rune threw back his head for another drink before remembering the bottle was empty.
“You’ll need proof even she can’t deny,” Geirolf said.
“She is determined to return to Lorlenalin and be gifted with her throne as if she never left,” Rune said.
He looked down at his hands and sunk deeper into his chair before pushing himself up to his feet.
“Her high marshal rules Lorlenalin, claiming her death,” Joren said as Rune sauntered to a flagon of ale beside an untouched platter of food. “If Kallan returns—”
“Borg will ensure she doesn’t,” Rune said, selecting himself the largest flagon of spirits.
“She’s been usurped, and doesn’t even know it,” Bergen said.
Rune gulped his drink down in a single mouthful.
“Yep,” he concurred and stared at the food, his thoughts marinated with mead as he pondered. After a moment, Rune crinkled his face at Joren.
“The captain and the Seidkona have deserted, you say?”
Joren nodded. “That was the report.”
“And they’re coming here,” Rune said.
“Borg said the captain is convinced you have her, and they are looking to take her back,” Joren said.
“Borg said,” Rune pondered, recalling the same man who placed this Shadow Beast inside of him.
Joren and Geirolf exchanged confused looks.
“Tell me, Joren,” Rune said. “Did Borg ever show any signs of being a Seidr User?”
Joren gave a half-startled, half-confused look then shook his head. “Borg has no such—”
Raising his hand, Rune awakened the sleeping Beast of Shadow. Like black Seidr, an umbra streaked from Rune’s palm. Rune turned his hand over, studying the Shadow and holiding the Beast at bay as if on a short leash.
“The Seidkona did nothing to m
e,” Rune said, pulling the Shadow back inside him. “It was Borg who did this to me.”
The fire crackled as the men all gazed at Rune, too stunned to speak.
“And you say he is not Seidr User?” Rune asked.
Joren slowly shook his head, still too shocked to answer.
“Well, I watched him heal Kallan in front of me as the life was leaving her. He then put this thing inside of me.” Rune snorted at his own words, trying desperately to see where it all fit. “An amazing feat for someone who isn’t a Seidr User,” he added.
“What are you going to do?” Bergen asked.
Rune shrugged. “Question Borg,” he said. “He is the link that holds all the answers to this.”
“And Kallan?” Bergen asked.
“Kallan.” Rune sighed, shaking his head.
“Go have her,” Geirolf advised. “Clear your mind and get some sleep.”
“By morning, you’ll wonder why you ever wanted her at all,” Bergen said. “She’s more than eager to let you based on what I saw the other night.”
“What did you see?” Joren asked.
“She did lean in to it,” Rune mused. “She seemed to want it.”
Rune turned the empty flagon over, pretending to look over the detail carved into the metalwork as he mused over the previous night when he had kissed her.
“She may even enjoy herself for once,” Bergen added.
Resolved, Rune slammed the flagon back to the table.
“Right,” he said with a resounding slur. He marched slovenly out the door, leaving Joren, Geirolf, and Bergen in his chambers with a matching set of grins.
* * *
“Kallan!”
The door to Kallan’s chambers slammed open and Rune’s feet fell one in front of the other. With a decisive click, he closed the door behind him.
He spun to his right, prepared, this time, for Kallan’s slap. Losing his balance, he fell back against the wall.
A bit of his heart sank once he realized she wasn’t there and he proceeded to look around the vacant room. With a stupor, he stumbled, making his way to the bedroom where he froze at the threshold, holding him in place as the Beast awoke to the surge of Seidr on the other side of the door.
Finally taken by sleep, Kallan laid sprawled out on the bed still bound by the gown and laced in her boots. The firelight flickered, casting a warm glow over her pale complexion. Her chest rose and fell to the steady rhythm of her breath.
Forgetting all reason for being there—his mind suddenly clear of drink—Rune forced the Beast into submission then quietly made his way to the bed. Taking up her foot, he proceeded to unlace her boots. Slowly, he pulled them off and quietly set them on the floor before gently pulling her up from the bed.
Still drugged with sleep, Kallan gave a half groan that pulled at Rune’s chest as he leaned her onto his shoulder to loosen the lacing on her corset. Her breast grazed his chest and his fingers fumbled repeatedly as he slid her gown down an inch at a time, first from her shoulders then down past her waist while he battled with himself to focus through the excess blood flow.
With one hand, he held her as he turned down the furs with the other, and gently laid her back on the bed, freeing his hands to pull the gown the rest of the way off of her. Left in nothing but her chemise, Kallan curled her legs in and released a sigh, allowing Rune to pull the furs over her. Quietly, Rune draped the gown over the back of a chair and caught a scent of rose oil.
Shoving his hand through his hair, Rune circled the room, dowsing the candle light until the whole of the room was submerged in darkness save for the small fire that lingered in the hearth.
He rested his hand in the doorknob, hearing the bitter hate in her voice over and over until pain replaced her words.
Get out.
And before he could think twice, he returned to her bed and brushed her cheek with his lips. Moments later, Rune crossed the sitting room. With the effects of the mead wearing off too soon, he closed the door behind him.
Borg fell to the floor of the stone room, which was painted in streaks of flickering orange light cast by the torch secured to the wall. Wincing, he curled into the pain gouging his ribs as warm blood flowed from the gashes on his brow. The hurried step assured him that his wardens were not yet through.
Forcing a steady breath, he opened a swollen eye. His commander stopped at his feet.
“What did you tell him?” Aaric said.
Borg studied the black markings on the high marshal’s neck. The symbols and runes scrawled up to his ear and hair line, making him look far more menacing there in the dungeons.
“Have you no idea how close you are to death, Nidingr?” Aaric said.
“Go to Hel,” Borg spat and Aaric’s foot slammed into Borg’s face. There was a crack and another wave of pain followed as blood pooled onto the stone.
“Sweet Aaric,” a woman’s voice purred. The sensual rustle of silks and soft fabrics came with a gentle step that matched the voice.
The air thickened and soothing warmth filled the room, easing Borg’s nerves. With aid from the familiar spell, he breathed through his shattered nose. A number of foreign odors—all as appealing as a familiar spice, a warm fire, a simmering stew—clouded his mind with euphoric care and Borg raised his eyes in time to see a woman glide down the steps into his cell and across the room.
He spat out blood and gazed upon the slender face framed by the long, black hair. With eyes encircled with golden light glistening like rumored gems, she looked upon him with a compassion he knew to be false. He had known her too long to think she could be sincere.
“Is that anyway to treat a guest?” she said to Aaric.
“Get out of here, sea witch! This affair doesn’t concern you,” Aaric said.
“Oh, but it does,” Fand said. “If you want a man to talk, then you have to make it worth his while.”
Smiling, she knelt down beside Borg’s mutilated form and slid a slender finger down his broken face. Borg studied the distrust in Aaric’s eye, concluding that the acting monarch didn’t like the goddess any more than he.
Borg flinched at her gentle touch and Fand met his fear with a girlish chuckle dripping with venom.
“Shh,” she hushed and caressed the cuts on his brow with just the tip of her finger.
Gold threads of light flowed from her hand and, like a tailor’s needle and thread, mended the wound, closing it the instant she touched him.
Fand finished one cut, and then another, working languidly as she moved her hand to each wound.
“Sing and skip over fairy mound,” Fand sang in play while repairing Borg’s wounds and restoring his energy.
“Fand!” Aaric growled and she ended her song. She continued her work as she gazed over her shoulder at Aaric.
“Don’t!” he said.
Ending her song, Fand finished her work until only the stains of blood remained as evidence to the wounds.
“There now,” Fand said. “Now… What were you about to tell us?”
“Tell you,” Borg said, gasping with relief.
“How long have you been working with Dan’s Mork?” Aaric said. “What information have you traded with Forkbeard?”
Borg looked to Aaric, who could cut into him as many times as he wished, then to the Fae witch able to conduct her spells.
“You seek to end this war,” Borg said. “You wish to save the queen.”
His words accused, judged, and damned.
Fand laughed, but Borg’s gaze was fixed on Aaric, who stared at Fand with such loathing it confirmed Borg’s suspicions: the marshal was not on her side.
“I desire nothing more that the death of Queen Kallan,” Fand said. “You know this. Our deal was set on this.” Fand permitted a soft grin.
Borg shifted his attention from Fand to Aaric. Whatever deal was made, he doubted very much that Aaric supported it.
“What do you want with me?” Borg asked, deciding to follow the will of the witch.
“L
eave Lorlenlin,” Aaric said. “Stay out of Dan’s Reach. Stay away from Forkbeard.”
“Continue the machinations you’ve started,” Fand said.
Borg blinked back surprise.
“Back off, Witch!” Aaric growled. “I am still marshal here! Lorlenalin is still in my keep!”
“Tell no one,” Fand added, ignoring Aaric’s rant.
“You have no place here, Fand!”
Borg looked from Aaric to Fand.
“If this is what you want, then why not leave me to my intentions?”
“Because, pauper,” Fand said, “you need to know that I am here—watching—and that, should you fail, it is your death that will redeem your failure.”
“Enough of this,” Aaric said. “Answer, Nidingr. What information have you given to the king of Dan’s Reach?”
A low chuckle rose from Borg’s chest.
Aaric slammed his fist into Borg’s face. Another crack and blood flowed from Borg’s nose. Without a word or reprieve, Aaric turned on his heel and stomped his way up the stone steps.
“Marshal!” Borg called and Aaric stopped. Borg paced his pain with his broken breath. “I’ll give you my answers, if you answer this.”
“You think you’re in a position to negotiate?” Aaric asked.
“Where is the queen?” Borg said, ignoring Aaric’s question.
As if amused, Fand looked to Borg and then Aaric, seemingly delighted at the tension in the room.
When Aaric didn’t answer, Borg coughed, then threw back his head in a fit of hysterics. Loud, maddened laughter echoed through the dungeons. Borg dropped his head to the floor and allowed his body to shake with enjoyment as his wild laughter carried his mind from his cell.
After several moments, Borg settled down and forced the words out.
“Taken,” Borg gasped. “By Gunir’s king.” Another bout of laughter. Just as quickly, Borg peered up from the floor as serious as Aaric staring down at him. “I told the Ljosalfr that I would free him if he promised to take our queen and kill her.”
Aaric launched himself across the room and Borg threw himself back in another fit of laughter. Aaric slammed his fist into Borg’s face, throwing him down against the stone, and the laughing ceased. Blood splattered the floor as his head ricocheted off Aaric’s fist again and again until Borg gurgled blood, too near death to plead for his life.
Fire and Lies Page 9
