Fire and Lies

by Angela Chrysler

Joren pushed his weight off the wall and came to stand beside Kallan as word passed through the courtyard, gathering onlookers who filled the barracks, muttering excitedly.

  “Do you know what you’re doing?” Joren asked.

  With a smile, Kallan looked up from the blade.

  “Where is your king?” she asked, her hardened stare fixed on the scout’s face.

  “Seidkona!” Bergen spat with impatience.

  Turning from Joren, Kallan joined Bergen in the center of the room, balancing her weight on the balls of her feet. Bending her elbows, Kallan raised the sword to block her body and face, and waited.

  “No Seidr now, woman!” Bergen barked.

  “No Seidr,” Kallan said with a grin.

  Resuming his stance, Bergen shifted his way to Kallan’s right. He lowered his blade and, with patience, tapped Kallan’s sword held firm against the taunt. Kallan and Bergen stepped to the side, shifting their balance as they danced, mirroring the other’s movement.

  With might, Bergen swept his blade to Kallan’s right, fully expecting to take her down with his first blow, but Kallan blocked his attack. Again, Bergen brought down his sword, sweeping it toward Kallan’s left, and again to her right. Each time, Kallan met his attack with her blade.

  “Not even the slightest scolding?” Geirolf asked from across the war room.

  “I’ve been through this with Bergen,” Rune said, not bothering to look up from the maps. “Do I really have to go through this with you?”

  “Well, as long as you insist on going through this separately,” Geirolf said, “yes.”

  “Next time I’ll send for you.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  The room fell silent again as Rune studied the lines and curves that were the lakes, forests, and vast mountains of Midgard, stretching on to the far Northlands, where few had seen and fewer had travelled.

  “Oh, come on, Rune!” Geirolf’s voice filled the room, but his king only peered over the map. “A quick romp with her ends your misery and makes you tolerable for the rest of us!”

  “Leave it alone, Geirolf.” Rune said easily, keeping his eyes on the map.

  “What harm could possibly come with a quick release?” Geirolf asked. “Bergen will tell ya, i—”

  “I’ve accounted for the loss in the north.” Rune tapped the collection of trees to the north of Gunir. “Bergen confirmed the devastation suffered there prior to the Battle of Swann Dalr.”

  A flash of memory pricked his chest as a sudden flourish of images focused into view of the night before the Battle of Swann Dalr and a certain wandering wench in the wood. Rune closed down the sudden whirl of images and forced his attention to the south.

  “The Southern Keep…” Rune pointed to the land between Lake Wanern and the sea. “...has enough men to add to our forces, if it comes to it. Forkbeard hasn’t made a move from his seat in a few years. Trade continues without disruption and the alum and tin are still flowing in.”

  “And the salted fish are swimming out.”

  Rune peered up from the map. Geirolf grinned and Rune returned his attention to the table.

  “The keep should be fine with minimal guard.”

  Splaying his hands onto the table, Geirolf leaned toward Rune. The wood creaked beneath his weight.

  “Your Majesty.”

  Rune gazed at the mass of river lines mingled with forestry that was Swann Dalr. “Bergen reports his group is on alert and at the ready as soon as we have the word.”

  “Rune...” Geirolf shifted his face between Rune’s head and the map.

  Rune turned a warning glare up at Geirolf.

  “Would you at least put the girl out of her misery and go talk to her?” Geirolf asked.

  Rune inhaled and held his gaze on Geirolf.

  “Joren has been instructed to proceed as usual when Borg arrives.”

  Geirolf exhaled loudly.

  “I don’t expect Borg to cooperate, so be sure Bergen has his men in position when the Dokkalfr does arrive,” Rune said. “I expect they’ll need to surround him and be ready to close in.”

  Geirolf released the table and stood upright as Rune plowed on ahead with the details.

  “I want Joren to lead him through their usual proceedings before we make our move. The plan is to take him by force and have him subdued. I expect him to put up a struggle.”

  “You’re as stubborn as your father ever was,” Geirolf said, shaking his head.

  “Rune!”

  Joren’s voice carried from the corridor. His boot stomped up the steps two at a time. Panting, he threw open the door and stopped in the threshold, a bright gleam of amusement in his eye.

  “Is he here?” Rune asked, standing upright.

  “No,” Joren gasped.” It’s Kallan.”

  “What’s wrong?” Geirolf asked.

  Grinning from ear to ear, Joren said, “You’ve got to see this.”

  * * *

  The ring of the blades reached Rune before he could push his way through to the barracks overflowing with people shoving to see. At the head of the line, the secured perimeter of a fighting ring cleared an area for those sparring.

  Rune’s heart raced with worry as Bergen lunged for Kallan, which she blocked to follow through with a raised blade above Bergen’s head. He blocked her blow, but Kallan recovered, swinging her blade toward Bergen’s leg. Rune watched him block the advance that sent them into a fury of clashing swords. With each attack, the other met their opponent and blocked the advance head on.

  The steel screamed, holding Rune’s eye on the sparring circle. Their swords joined at the hilt and they pushed against the other until Bergen smacked Kallan’s nose with his elbow, sending blood running down her front. Pain split her face.

  Rune’s insides thundered with the silent rage that sent his body into a fit of shaking. Too rigid to call out, he stood and watched the blood flow from Kallan’s nose. Pain vibrated her skull, pulsing through the mass of blood. Nevertheless, she retained her focus and swung her sword toward Bergen.

  Always once more, their blades met, until Kallan pushed Bergen’s sword down with her own and, releasing her left hand from the hilt, she slammed the base of her hand into Bergen’s cheek, cracking the bone.

  He stumbled back, falling to one knee, blinded by the sheer burn that inflamed the whole of his head. His loss of balance allowed Kallan to thrust her blade toward him and stop, holding the point to Bergen’s throat.

  The barracks fell silent at the sudden end. Kallan’s short, deep breaths punched the air as she looked down at Bergen through the mass of blood coagulating on her face. In defeat, Bergen relaxed his sword arm and cued the barracks to explode into wolf whistles and cheers.

  The blood covering Kallan’s face matched the black from Bergen’s broken cheekbone. Blowing a long breath as she came to stand upright, Kallan lowered her weapon and, with the hardened glower still set in her eyes, extended a hand to Bergen, who paused. Scowling, Bergen slapped her hand away and hoisted himself from the floor, coming to stand to his full height. The men in the barracks fell silent again and waited as Bergen stared hatefully down at Kallan.

  Rune wrapped his fingers around Gramm’s hilt, ready for Bergen to make a move. No one dared breathed as they waited and watched, taking their cues from Bergen. Holding her bloody head high, refusing to cower or back down, Kallan matched Bergen’s glower. Tightening her grip on her sword, she prepared herself for another round. And all at once, Bergen smiled, barking a laugh that shook the barracks.

  Kallan smiled wide, still panting and released her grip on her sword as Bergen dropped his massive arm onto Kallan’s shoulders.

  “A woman you may be, Seidkona,” he said, laughing and enclosing her in a hug, “but you’re a fine swordsman, if I do say so myself.”

  Unable to stop his hands from shaking, Rune steadied his breath and, without a word of congratulations or acknowledgement, walked back to the keep shaking his head. As he emerged from the back of the crowd, lea
ving them to their winnings and praise, he made note to kill Bergen later.

  * * *

  Pull string. Inhale. Aim. Breathe.

  Rune released the arrow and held his breath as the arrowhead buried itself into a tree. He drew another arrow from his quiver. With the string pulled taut, he held his breath and took aim for an available target somewhere in the bundle of arrows tightly burrowed together in the tree.

  After settling his eye on a less than ideal spot barely above the collection, Rune released his breath and then shot as before, his tension still on the rise as he withdrew another arrow.

  Rune forced his breathing steady. He had already passed thrice through the reasons why his anger brewed, each time settling on the same answer.

  He relaxed his shoulders and breathed before releasing the arrow.

  Replaying the blood splattering across Kallan’s face, he silenced the nausea that flipped his stomach. Rune took aim. He recalled the amusement on Bergen’s face.

  Like pitted dogs, he thought.

  The arrow gave off a profound ‘thwit’ then a ‘thunk’ as it struck the wood. But his anger held, still raging as he remembered the bloody mass he had found curled up, near death, in the cave. Near death and now she goes looking for fights.

  Another arrow sank into the tree, and a third, until Rune stared blankly at the mass of shafts protruding from the tree’s trunk, his chest rising with every short breath he released. A bead of sweat spilled down his face and he shook, still as frustrated with its source as he had been an hour ago.

  Rune tightened his fist around his bow’s riser, not seeing the tree, the arrows, or the daylight passing with every hour. He tried to recall the last time such anger was evoked in him. Each time, instead, his thoughts settled on Kallan.

  Forcing his worries silent, Rune pulled another arrow from the quiver and took aim, ready to restart another volley.

  * * *

  Darkness blanketed the city. Exhaustion forced Rune calm as he pulled himself away from the range and dragged his aching body to his chambers, where he refreshed his nerves with a basin of cold water and a warm mead.

  Torunn bustled in and out, making slight mention of his meal growing cold in the hall. With a silent nod, he shuffled about and redressed himself, while the fatigue pacified his rage and pulled him down into complacent submission.

  His shoulder throbbed and he felt each shredded muscle in his back with every movement as he pulled his sleeve over his arm and leaned down to fasten his boots. Slowly, he made his way down to the Great Hall, slipping through the back door in his bedchamber, as far from Kallan’s bower as possible.

  An unusual buzz filled the Hall downstairs, where the fire roared and the servants shuffled from the kitchen with trays laden with fruits and meats. Warriors entered in handfuls, worn from the day’s training as they settled themselves in place around the tables. Kicking the legs of his chair with a pout, Rune took his seat at the head of a table, eager to dine and leave unseen. A servant shoved a large soapstone plate in front of him and, at once, he hunched over his black pudding, set on ignoring the merriment that flowed in from the barracks. An outburst exploded until the laughter and rabble was almost deafening.

  With a scowl, Rune shifted an impassive eye up from his pudding to the collection of warriors, who jostled about fresh with the stench of sparring and training. Bergen sauntered to a place at the table, but not before risking a glance at Rune, who chose that moment to shift his attention to Ottar and the dainty brunette tucked under his arm.

  The kick to his stomach turned his bottom lip out in a scowl as Rune grimaced like a bitter, poorly aged curmudgeon. Kallan’s long hair fell to her waist and swayed with every step synchronized to Ottar’s. The laughter in her eyes framed her bright smile as she listened, captivated, by Ottar’s every word.

  “I followed that bird call for two hours,” Ottar said above the uproarious merriment, “running around in circles and doubling back, only to find Bergen here had been the damn bird I’d been chasing!”

  “I was just as surprised to find your ugly face on the other end, answering my calls!” Bergen said.

  Kallan laughed, filling the hall with a warmth that left Rune holding his tankard in a death grip. Ottar found his seat across from Bergen and quickly, eagerly—

  Too eagerly, Rune thought, curling the corner of his lip into his nose.

  —guided Kallan onto the bench beside him. Together, the warriors dove into the smorgasbord of breads, stews, sugared fruits, sausages, puddings, and salted wild game splayed out in front of them.

  Famished from the day’s training, they swapped mead and meat for anecdote, paying no mind to their grimacing king at the table’s head. Within minutes, as mouths filled with food, the initial thunder of laughter settled into a continuous flow of boisterous sound that mingled with the sweet scent of the seared meats and brewed drink.

  The hearth fire battled with the torch light, adding to the glow of the room, and easing Kallan into a drugged state of euphoria that had little to do with the mead. Dropping her guard, she listened to the jovial nature of the men around her.

  By mid-bowl, Ottar shifted his weight to face her more comfortably, his body lax from the mead.

  “Tell me, lass…” He slurred his baritone. “…where did a woman such as yourself ever learn to fight?”

  The question stopped her hand and she lowered the bread soaked with broth to her bowl. Catching the deep scar buried in Bergen’s brow, she shifted her attention to Ottar.

  “During the Dvergar Wars, we had little choice but to recruit any and all who could fight.” She answered with as little detail as possible. “Since then, it’s an assumed requirement that has become a tradition carried over from our days in Svartálfaheim. Everyone learns to fight.”

  Ottar’s question had pulled every ear to her answer and her audience hungrily waited for more.

  “What he meant,” Bergen said with a gentle smile, “is where did a Seidkona find the time to learn swordplay in between your additional studies?”

  Kallan’s cheeks flushed red as she lowered her eyes to her soapstone bowl. A knot caught in her throat as she recalled the endless sessions alongside her father and Daggon.

  “My father ensured my training was thorough,” she said. The tone in her voice discouraged further inquiries.

  The fire popped and the men eased back in their seats. At once, the table shook beneath Ottar’s palm.

  “Well!” he said gruffly. “I’m off for the night.”

  Several others were standing and stretching while a few remained in their seats, immersed in their own conversation.

  “M’lady,” Ottar bid and, taking up Kallan’s hand, brushed a kiss across the back of it. “Bergen,” he nodded to Bergen, who offered Ottar the back of his hand.

  Still clutching Kallan’s hand, Ottar landed a slap on the back of Bergen’s.

  “Don’t keep her up too late,” Ottar said. “I plan to go a round with her tomorrow.”

  Kallan’s face burned red as she took back her hand, paying no mind as Ottar slogged from the table back to the doors, leaving Kallan to Bergen’s company. A few more men dispersed, leaving the room unusually quiet.

  Kallan shifted a hopeful eye to the head of the table and Bergen grinned. He watched, wallowing in the comfort of a full belly and full-bodied mead, as Kallan’s hope sank to dejection at the sight of Rune’s empty seat.

  “He left us a while ago,” Bergen said, crossing his arms onto the table and leaning closer, still grinning. His confidence gleamed with mischief in his black eyes.

  Kallan lifted her attention from her empty bowl.

  “I don’t care,” she said, irate that Bergen knew too much.

  “You don’t?” he asked, knowing too well the lies she told that masked her thoughts. “It’s funny,” he said, stretching his arms up over his head and arching his back. With a smirk and the slyness of a wolf, he re-folded his arms on the table. “He said the same thing about you.”
r />   Kallan snapped her head to the side with a huff.

  “Uskit,” she grumbled, staring down the table still loaded with a grand portion of uneaten food. The servants had not yet begun to clean up. At once, Kallan’s thoughts wandered to that of the children and the warrens. If she were home, she and Eilif would have loaded their arms with all the food and drink left untouched.

  The Hall was nearly empty now, save for two men at the end of the table still engrossed in their conversation. Unfolding his arms, Bergen stood from the bench and extended a hand in invitation.

  “Come,” he bade with a smile. “I have something to show you.”

  Kallan burned three shades of red and failed to gulp down the ball in her throat as she scrambled for a reply. Refusing to wait, Bergen took up her hand, oblivious to the stale terror still frozen on her face, and pulled her away from the table toward the door leading up to his chambers.

  Bergen led Kallan through the Hall to the far corner where the stairs descended into the kitchens. Just as she hoped he would pull her down the steps to the butlery, he led her straight around the screens passage that concealed a single oak door. Without a word, Bergen opened the door and meandered up the steps.

  The castle hummed with a rare quiet as Kallan followed Bergen up a narrow stairwell with a single window. The steps spiraled to a landing where she shadowed him to one of the only two doors that flanked the stairs.

  “That’s the war room.”

  Bergen nodded to a door on the right as he unlocked the door on the left.

  “This…” He was certain to look her dead in the eye as he pushed the door open. “…is my room.”

  Her neck burned and Kallan forced the words past the lump.

  “B-B-Bergen, I…”

  His mouth split into a wide grin, knowing that his reputation preceded him, and swung wide his chamber door. He stepped into the dark, cavernous sitting room and gave a look that urged her to follow.

  The hearth and the candles were cold. The only light came from the moonlight that poured in from the double set of windows where Kallan glanced at the astounding view. Rivers riddled the moors of Alfheim. Fields of thick, tall grasses, the sporadic tree, and a small lake extended past the city below.