Fire and Lies

by Angela Chrysler

  Obtusely aware of Kallan’s intent, Rune pulled off his shirt and fisted his knuckles into the cloth as he rested his arms on his knees and leaned forward in the chair. Wondering for the moment why he wasn’t in his own chambers with her, he exhaled and leaned back in the chair.

  At once, deciding he was too unnerved to eat, he threw his shirt to the floor and made his way to her bedroom. A wave of her scent engulfed him at the threshold and Rune released a loud, exasperated growl. Fighting back the urge to peel off his skin, he fell onto the furs of her bed, not daring to crawl beneath her blankets.

  It was a long, wearisome wait before his body finally allowed him to sleep.

  Kallan pressed her fingers against the stone of Rune’s window. Her body shook as she stared at the moon, pooling all her anger into her hands. Torunn, Geirolf, Daggon, Bergen, and Gudrun watched in silent worry. Her breathing was erratic.

  “How far do I have to push?” Kallan’s growl trembled with anger.

  “You could wait here,” Torunn said.

  “Or the war room,” Geirolf suggested, knowing Rune’s contempt for changed habitat.

  Bergen crossed his arms over his bare chest and leaned in the doorway. “You know him as well as I. Regardless of where she goes, he’ll only skirt around her.”

  “He pushes her away with as much resolve as you couple with one,” Geirolf grumbled.

  Anger glowed in Kallan’s eye as she turned from the window and settled her attention on Rune’s brother as if to rebut. But she stopped, suddenly becoming conscious of Bergen’s wide, bare shoulders and muscular frame. The room grew quiet as one by one they noticed Kallan’s enlightened interests. Kallan dragged her gaze from Bergen’s waist to his torso, to his face where Bergen met her eyes.

  With a revived enthusiasm in her step, Kallan held his eye and moved toward Bergen, sweeping right by him as she made her way to the back door of Rune’s bower. Eagerly, she yanked open the door. Kallan was across the hall and throwing open the door to the war room by the time the others jumped in step behind her.

  Wide-eyed comprehension obscured Bergen’s face and he doubled his pace.

  “Kallan!” Bergen beckoned as she marched herself across the room, past the table strewn with maps and to the door on the other side.

  “Kallan!” Bergen called again, desperate to keep up.

  Surprised to find it unlocked, Kallan threw open the door to Bergen’s chambers and slipped inside his sitting room.

  “Kallan!” Bergen kept on her heel.

  With jaunty amusement, she spun at the center of his sitting room, forcing Bergen to balance himself unnaturally to prevent falling into her. He shook his head in protest. “It’s my hide on the line. He won’t come after you. He’ll hunt me down and peg my ass to his target!”

  “Not if you’re with me, he won’t.” Kallan grinned slyly. “Besides,” she said, looking him over once more. “You’re not actually bedding me.”

  She spun on her heel, sauntered through his sitting room with a skip to her step, and happily swung open the door to Bergen’s bedroom.

  “He won’t stop long enough to hear that part!” Bergen cried as she disappeared into his room.

  Kallan’s troupe followed behind Bergen as she playfully dropped herself onto the foot of Bergen’s bed. Her face split wide with a grin, convinced this idea would work.

  “He didn’t seem to mind when he offered you to double up with me that night,” she argued, looking up from her boots as she freed the laces.

  “He made that threat knowing you wouldn’t follow through!”

  Bergen watched her drop a slender boot to the floor. Her petite toes wiggled delightfully in the air. He clenched and unclenched his fist, fighting back the wave of images bombarding his imagination.

  “Kallan, don’t you think you’re going a bit too far with this one?” Geirolf chimed in as she unlaced her second boot.

  In answer, she dropped it to the floor beside the other.

  “What about you?” Bergen barked, looking to Daggon and Gudrun, who stood in the doorway, content to watch the events unfold. “What say you?”

  With a set of matching grins, Daggon and Gudrun exchanged looks.

  “This is a woman whose stallion is named ‘Astrid’,” Daggon said.

  Kallan threw herself back onto Bergen’s bed.

  “Who learned the spells I taught her with the sole purpose of slipping past the guards,” Gudrun said with a hint of admiration.

  “She mastered the swords long before she bothered with diplomacy,” Daggon noted, peering down at Gudrun in fond recollection.

  “And learned the Seidr only to best her father in battle…” Gudrun placed an affectionate hand on Daggon’s arm as a reminder.

  With a gentle nod, Daggon looked back to Bergen.

  “We learned a long time ago to let Kallan go where Kallan goes,” Gudrun said. “Our only purpose in teaching her was to ensure she could survive her own whims.”

  They all gazed at Kallan sprawled happily on Bergen’s bed, her hair splayed in a mass of disorder over the pillows and furs as she stretched her arms to the sides as far as they could go.

  Bergen noted the space left from the tips of her fingers to the edge of his bed and followed her hands down to her body.

  “I’ll get you some extra blankets, Bergen,” Torunn said, taking her leave.

  “Kallan,” Bergen growled miserably at the contented lump on his bed. “Are you sure this isn’t some ploy to finish me?”

  He clenched his fists again somewhat peeved at the sight of an un-rumpled woman on his bed.

  Without lifting her head from the furs, she studied the stone overhead, remembering what Rune’s looked like. With a satisfied smile, she answered plainly, “Perhaps.”

  Outside beneath the pale moon, night blanketed Gunir. Borg stood cloaked by the Seidr and shadows. He would direct the conversation where it needed to go and had made up his mind hours ago where this day would end. He watched the Ljosalfr rise before the sun in his usual fashion. As the first of morning light crept over the trees, the Ljosalfr stepped into the morning and fed his horse then bid farewell to his sister who then lingered down the road toward the village. With hungry eyes, Borg watched the young woman and allowed his thoughts to stay with her a bit longer.

  She was far from view before Borg lifted the cloaking spell and stepped into the pale, morning light. The Ljosalfr lifted his axe.

  In mid-swing, Joren looked up from the freshly split wood, his face too placated to read. The axe head split through the wood, leaving its victim to fall to the ground with a series of hallowed thuds.

  “You’re early,” Joren greeted. His heart beat so loudly, he was certain Borg could hear it.

  Borg lowered his hood to reveal his dark face and one good eye. He kept his deep voice hushed with urgency. Joren forced his composure to be indifferent as he memorized the black hair, the sleek cheekbones, and pointed nose that matched the chin.

  “Rumor of a capture has reached me,” Borg said. “Two Dokkalfar.”

  Joren gulped uncomfortably, willing his temperament to relax. They hadn’t expected him so soon. They weren’t ready.

  “The rumors are true,” Joren said.

  “Have you been able to identify them?” Borg wasted no time arriving to the point of his visit.

  “They refuse to give us their names,” Joren said, scrambling to postpone Borg’s unexpected arrival.

  The disappointment was apparent in Borg’s eyes and Joren clambered for an idea that could prolong Borg’s stay long enough to lure him to the keep.

  “Refuse,” Borg repeated. “So they live?”

  “For now.” Joren scrunched his face with an impassive show and lavished his tale up a bit. “If they are who we think they are, the king will want to trade with Lorlenalin and gain the upper hand we’ve been looking for.”

  Darkness passed over Borg’s eyes.

  “To make such a trade one would need to be sure,” Borg said.

&n
bsp; “One would,” Joren said, keeping his composure indifferent to Borg’s proposal. The Dokkalfr allowed the air to thicken between them before speaking again, forcing the words forth with natural ease.

  “I know the faces of those who escaped,” Borg said. “If I were to see them, I could identify them.”

  Exultation burst within Joren’s chest as Borg’s words granted him the pass he needed.

  “I could make the arrangements,” Joren said evenly, holding his breath with every second. His mouth was painfully dry. “When would you—”

  “No,” Borg said. “Now.”

  With a stiff nod, Joren forced a smile and handed Borg all of his cards.

  “Very well.”

  The clatter and rumble of a fire poker stirred Rune from his disquieted sleep. He pushed the noise aside, failed, then woke with a grunt, forcing his eyes to focus in the dark.

  “Torunn?” he asked through clouded sleep. “What are you doing?”

  “Rune!” Torunn exclaimed with forced surprise. She rose beside the grand hearth of Kallan’s bedchamber. “What are you doing in here?”

  He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, forcing the last of the sleep from them. “I needed a place to sleep,” he said.

  As if she didn’t know, he thought.

  “What was wrong with your bower?” Torunn asked stupidly.

  With a sigh, Rune fell onto his back, too tired to keep himself upright, and spoke to the ceiling. “Kallan was there. I didn’t feel like dealing with the fuss so I came in here seeing as how she took my room for the night.”

  “Begging your pardon,” she interjected.

  Rune stopped rubbing his face long enough to look at the key keeper.

  “Kallan didn’t spend the night in your bower.”

  Rune furrowed his brow and dropped his hand.

  “Course she did. I saw her,” Rune insisted. “Geirolf told me she’d been there all day.”

  “Well, for a couple hours, yes,” Torunn said. “But she and Bergen took dinner together and…” Her voice trailed off. “She didn’t stay there.”

  Wide-eyed, Rune leapt from the bed, with no sign that he had been asleep only moments ago.

  “Where did she stay, Torunn?”

  “I thought you knew,” Torunn said, suddenly looking very mousy. “Kallan wanted to speak to you, and when she left, I thought—”

  “Where is she, Torunn?” With every word his shoulders expanded, doubling in size as the black of his eyes swelled like Bergen’s.

  “Where she’s been all night,” Torunn said. “In Bergen’s room.”

  With a berserker’s precision, Rune flew through the room, taking up Gramm as he threw open the door of Kallan’s bower. Still dressed in just his trousers, Rune vaulted down the hall and descended the stairs to the Great Hall.

  From behind the screens passage, Geirolf spun to Kallan and Bergen. “Here he comes.”

  Displaying no fear, Kallan swept past Bergen, who had moved to grasp his sword, then cursed himself for not bringing one, and stepped out from the staircase with gallant posture that displayed no fear. As if simply descending her chambers for breakfast, Kallan led Bergen into the Great Hall and stopped at the sight of Rune coming toward them.

  “Don’t let me die, Princess,” Bergen muttered into Kallan’s ear.

  She flaunted a smirk, catching the light in her eye as she beamed affectionately up to Bergen, instigating a red of Rune’s glower that flared with renewed rage.

  With a jolt, Rune pulled Gramm from its sheath and cast the casing aside. It slid across the floor with a shriek as the blade rang out and gave song to Rune’s roar.

  “Bergen!” Rune raised his sword.

  The metal struck metal, jarring Rune from his trance as he looked past Gramm’s spine to the hilt of Kallan’s dagger.

  His gaze rested on her sharpened eyes, hardened on the other side of their blades.

  “Get out of my way, Seidkona,” Rune growled with the fire alive in his voice. “I’ll deal with you after.”

  “You’ll deal with me now,” Kallan said from behind her dagger.

  “I will listen after his head is mounted at the gates of my keep, now move before I add yours alongside him!”

  Kallan pushed against their blades. Rune stumbled back before regaining his balance. With a flick of a wrist, Kallan collected a ball of flame in her palm and repositioned herself to fight.

  “If it’s my head you want, then you can have it if you can take it,” Kallan said.

  Her fire shimmered blue as it grew in Kallan’s hand.

  “Rune…” Geirolf said. “Please…heed the lady.”

  But the black of Bergen’s eyes caught Rune’s sight. Images, countless images, flashed through his head. Rune shook with a rage that fueled his temper.

  “Of all the requests,” Rune shouted. “Of all my orders I’ve given you, you had to break this one!”

  Kallan added more flame to the ball of Seidr.

  “Rune.” Torunn’s gentle voice called from somewhere behind them. Rune didn’t hear as his gaze fell back to Kallan.

  “Out of my way, Dokkalfr!” he barked.

  “Not until you’ve heard me,” Kallan spat.

  Rune sneered.

  “I have never spoken to one of Bergen’s trollops! I’m not about to start now!”

  Kallan extinguished her Seidr flame at once, sending a silence through the Hall. With a cool hand, Kallan sheathed her dagger. Calmly, quietly, Kallan strode across the Hall, her head held high, and slammed her hand into Rune’s face.

  Rune stumbled against the force. Fire impaled his cheek, leaving him blank for a moment. Before he could recover his balance, Kallan dropped her empty palm to his shoulder and pulled the Seidr from him. The Beast within Rune roared, but Kallan paid its temper no mind.

  In an instant, Rune felt his own Seidr drain, and his grip on Gramm weakened. Rune lowered the blade. His eyelids ached to close. Heavy with sleep, he struggled to fight. He fell to one knee, too drained of strength to stand.

  Kallan leaned down to him until her breath grazed his ear. He could smell the untouched perfumes of soft rose that blinded his senses.

  “He did not have me,” she whispered.

  Rune forced his eyes to hers despite his apparent exhaustion, desperate for a sign she spoke the truth. Pushing past the pain from where she had slapped him, Rune studied her face.

  “I’m to believe that he didn’t touch you although you slept in his bed?”

  She tilted her head down with a smirk perched on her lips.

  “How else could I get your attention?”

  “You seek to gain my affection by warming his bed?” he asked, unamused.

  “Affection?” Kallan furrowed her brow. “You think I summoned you to sleep with you?”

  Her voice reverberated off the high, stone walls around them.

  “Why else?” he asked.

  Rune watched her rage implode as the last of her rational composure receded.

  “Of all the—”

  Kallan released his shoulder and his strength returned as she released his Seidr threads and the Beast settled, pacing angrily on the leash it bore. At once, Kallan’s palms filled with a pair of blue flames that roared.

  Rune staggered to his feet, Gramm still clutched tightly in his hand. Both monarchs were oblivious to the growing audience as Daggon and Gudrun entered the Hall via the kitchens.

  “You can hardly blame me,” Rune bellowed back, taunting Kallan’s riled temper as he caught his breath. “With the number of passes you made—”

  “I made!” Kallan barked. “You kissed me!”

  Her voice thundered through the keep, adding a sudden jolt of interest to everyone’s attention as they all watched the spectacle before them.

  “An act I spend every moment regretting and, I assure you, it won’t happen again!”

  Brandishing the depths of her Seidr, unmasked a look that cut through him. Kallan inhaled and screamed, sending a pair of p
illared flames that flanked Rune’s sides.

  Undaunted, he stood between her columns of Seidr, panting to catch his breath, too exhausted to dodge her onslaught and too lethargic to battle her any longer.

  All at once, Kallan ceased her offense and dropped her arms to her side. In that instant, the color drained from her face, widening her eyes like round jewels. Her mouth opened as if to speak, but no sound came.

  Rune risked a glance to Bergen, who stood as afflicted with dread as Kallan. Realizing they looked at something behind him, Rune turned to the double doors of the Great Hall where the first light of morning spilled into the hall. There, two black silhouettes framed in the sun’s light stood: Joren, the loyal scout, and Borg—the man who bestowed the Fendinn inside him—looking as horror-stricken as the rest of them.

  None dared breathe as all eyes met Borg and he, in turn, learned each face: the Dark One, the captain, the Volva, the king, and the queen—

  The queen. An invisible hand twisted Borg’s insides.

  —who Aaric had proclaimed dead, standing alive and well and as spirited as ever.

  On the ball of his foot, Borg spun through the door and left Joren alone in the light.

  As one, they moved, forgetting the quarrel as Rune, Bergen, Joren, and Geirolf sprinted for the door.

  “Joren! To the gates!” Rune barked. “Seal the doors! Bergen! Flank the north!”

  Enveloped by the morning light that blanketed the open courtyard, the three men stopped and stared, stunned at Ottar, who gripped the back of Borg’s neck and twisted his arm around with ease.

  “Is this what you’re after?” Ottar called, giving an sharp yank of Borg’s arm up and around his back as the Dokkalfr attempted to wriggle himself free. His wiry frame buckled beneath Ottar’s firm grip as his hair fell over his face that contorted into a snarl. He peered at Rune with a large, blue eye and one blind eye.

  “I see you are not good on your word, Ljosalfr,” Borg said with a profound hate as he stared up at Rune. “You owe me a murder.”

  Rune stared down at the sniveling Dokkalfr in Ottar’s grip.

  “You should have killed her when you had the chance,” Borg spat, earning himself a pop of his arm as Ottar pulled his shoulder out of place.