Fire and Lies

by Angela Chrysler

  After pulling one of his tunics on over her head and snapping her hair free from his shirt, she fell to her knees and shuffled through the contents he had stored safely within the chest. She pushed aside a blanket, an embroidered tapestry, and what she could only guess was his first hunting bow.

  Resisting the urge to snap them in two, she gently laid aside a pair of weathered arrows carefully wrapped within an old satchel. With care, she lifted the satchel and found a dagger encrusted with black, polished stones. Favoring the dagger, she placed it into her lap.

  Entertaining her curiosity, Kallan permitted her temper to ebb and settled down with the satchel and dagger. The bag was heavy. Inquisitively, she tugged at the drawstring and dumped its contents into her open palm.

  She barely caught a glimpse of her own intricate crest bearing the House of Eyolf forged into an arm ring, before an onslaught of images burst to life inside of her and just like that she remembered.

  Gasping, Kallan lost her breath from the impact as a vivid, perfect picture came to life of Motsognir standing before the forge in Nidavellir, bending the metal into the arm ring she held in her hand.

  She saw, too clearly, the grand forge of the Dvergar as it faded into another image and looked upon the face of her father. With a smile, he accepted the arm ring from Motsognir as it passed from its smith to its owner, an agreeable exchange between old friends.

  The image changed again as Kallan watched her father proudly present the arm ring to Aaric, who smiled as a brother upon her father. Behind him, she saw the vibrant golden eyes of her mother standing beside Gudrun with the same ancient eyes.

  A moment later, they presented themselves to Eyolf’s court in Svartálfaheim.

  Aaric stood beside his king, the arm ring secured over the black sketches stained into his bicep as he gazed adoringly—too adoringly—upon her mother.

  The image changed again as Kallan strained to keep the vision on her mother, but the picture had faded into the great mountains of Lorlenalin where Livsvann flowed. There was no city or grand palace. Only untouched stone not yet honed into the citadel that would become the White Opal. Alone, Aaric stared from the mountain to the sea. She watched him order his soldier to lay the first stones of Lorlenalin’s keep.

  She saw the citadel rise, and the first of Lorlenalin’s forts form. She saw herself, barely seven winters old, as Eyolf stood at Lorlenalin’s keep and told Aaric of Kira’s death.

  She shook, crazed with loathing, as Aaric smashed the soapstone basins and shredded the blankets in his chamber. She buckled under the rage that rippled through her as they stared down at the arm ring resting on the table before him. She saw his eyes glisten with the same gold as Gudrun and her mother.

  One scene blurred as another cleared and Aaric stood before her, his palm firmly placed on her brow as he muttered indecipherably, taking her memories from her. Kallan saw her ten-year-old self, staring blankly back into nothing as Aaric sealed her gift of Sight.

  A scream disrupted the image, and Kallan gulped. A tear slid down her face. Too well, she knew that scream.

  The fog cleared and, once more, she looked down at the pale, perfect body of a young girl. But this time, she knew her. Swann writhed beneath Aaric, filling the forest with her desperate shrill cries. Helpless, she watched Aaric silence her screams as he snapped her neck.

  Coldly, as if focused only on a job at hand, Kallan watched Aaric turn to the Seidr light that poured from a pile of leaves and grass. A freshly born Seidr spring, a Seidi, not yet old enough to alter the life around it, flowed from the ground.

  She watched Aaric’s hands scramble as they shuffled the leaves about, but he needed to close it. He needed to close the spring. Kallan gawped as Aaric muttered a charm and sealed the Seidi. Slowly, the Seidr faded and Aaric ceased his incantation. He did his best to bury the mound in leaf litter. Only then did Kallan notice his missing arm ring.

  She quietly watched Aaric stand and, as if he had been reviewing trade imports in the war room, he walked off and left Swann dead on the forest floor. Kallan was certain the scene was done, but the image didn’t change. As Aaric left, a young Kovit slipped in.

  The scene changed again, but not before Kallan caught a glimpse of Borg stripping Swann’s body. When he was done, Kallan stared, pale with horror, as Borg pulled himself from Swann. A moment later, he plunged a dagger encrusted with black polished stone between the woman-child’s breasts and cut down the entire length of her belly. Within seconds, her body was drained of its blood.

  As if to finish the job and leave his mark, Kovit placed his bloodstained hand on her face. A woman screamed from somewhere off in the distance, and suddenly alert, Borg sat up. Hurriedly, Kovit pulled a Dokkalfr arm ring—Aaric’s arm ring—from his pocket and tossed it on the ground beside the dagger. He fled and a moment later Bergen and Rune arrived.

  Trembling, Kallan made to reach for the girl as she faded into the shadows. Too late, the scene had changed.

  In the shadows of an ill-lit room, in the canyons of an unknown land, water ran gold and magnificent night birds, black and lean with tail feathers that reached an arm’s span, flew low to the running waters. Aaric stared at a woman with long black hair, pale perfect skin not of Alfheim or Midgard, and eyes that glistened gold like Gudrun’s. At once Kallan knew her. With her back to Aaric, the woman gazed into the night from a ledge Kallan knew not where.

  “We need Kira’s daughter,” the woman said and Aaric shook his head skeptically.

  “There is no way Eyolf will let Kallan go. He will throw all of his army into finding her and rally his allies to join him. He won’t simply let the last of Kira be taken from him.”

  The woman seemed not to hear him. For a long while, she watched the strange birds skim the waters with the tips of their tail feathers and a stream of rippled water followed their flight.

  “A king’s head is worth its weight in gold,” she said. “Eyolf needs to go.”

  She spoke with a sultry, soft tone and the vision changed again.

  Too well, Kallan knew this image.

  Once again, she stood outside the Dokkalfar Keep where she last saw her father alive. This time, he stood subdued, masked by a spell and with a blade pressed to his throat outside the keep. Eyolf was watching her past self, crying out his name, while listening to Aaric whisper threats into his ear.

  “If you answer her, I will kill her.”

  Kallan watched her past self call again then vanish into the keep. But her father was there outside, arched against the blade poised at his throat. The door of the keep swayed back and the last of Kallan’s skirts vanished into the keep. Knowing too well what events would come, Kallan opened her mouth to call out, but no sound came.

  This time, she watched helpless as Aaric thrust the length of his sword up into her father’s back. Aaric released her father, muttered a charm that lifted the spell on Eyolf, and fled, still cloaked by the spell that hid him.

  Kallan gasped as she tried to scream, her body rent by the memory as she watched her father die. Any second now, her past self would stumble out of the keep and find him. Eyolf had managed to drag himself to the door and pull himself up against the frame. Kallan called out, screaming, helpless all over again as she watched her father die in her arms a second time.

  Kallan was still sobbing when the scene faded one last time.

  The day’s light shone on the horizon. Too clearly, Kallan could see the lines of pikemen ready on foot before the rally of equestrians who waited for the command from their king, perched high at the ready upon his horse. His forked beard trailed down the length of his chest and he held his arm for the cue.

  Kallan followed the path of his eyes across the Klarelfr River to Gunir, where she looked upon Rune. And there at his side, her own eyes looked back encased with rings of gold. The images diminished until they vanished, releasing Kallan and leaving her once more in Rune’s bower.

  Inhaling, Kallan dropped the arm ring and fell forward violently onto h
er palms as she gasped uncontrollably, deafened to the clink of the dagger as it hit the floor.

  Her throat burned as she swallowed wave upon wave of vomit. She realized she had been screaming at one point, leaving her throat shredded and raw. Drips of sweat fell, and Kallan held herself there, shaking as she stared at the floor and replayed the images over once more.

  Still shaking, she understood and raised her eyes from the floor, feeling the Seidr flow freely as if the arm ring had razed a barrier. The onslaught of images focused into view and, with relief, she could clearly hear each voice separate from all others.

  Her fingers clawed the wood floor as she met her own eyes in the looking glass and saw that the last of the blue was gone. The same golden glow that had once shone bright in Gudrun’s eyes now encased her pupils.

  Kallan stood, fueled with an urgency that knew no bounds and charged with a new hate that consumed her. Free to pool her Seidr at will, free from the seal that Aaric had caged her in centuries ago, Kallan raised her palms to the door and blasted it, the chair, and parts of the stone out of her way.

  She scooped up the dagger and arm ring, and marched from the room. After snatching a pair of Rune’s trousers from the back of a chair, she made her way to her own chambers.

  Within moments, she was dressed, armed, and fuming as she stomped her way down to the stables, not bothering to acknowledge the many questions that flowed from Torunn as Kallan rode Astrid hard out of Gunir and across the river.

  The waters of the Klarelfr blazoned red in the sun when Rune and Bergen dismounted from the west side of the Klarelfr and passed their reins to a soldier who greeted them. Moments later, Rune and Bergen threw back the flap of the tent pitched alongside the river.

  “Thorold, news,” Rune called to Thorold, hunched over the map table as Roald stood passing orders to his captain.

  “Still no word,” Thorold said. “Of the scouts we sent, only two have returned with updates on Aaric’s progress.”

  “What of Forkbeard?” Rune asked. “How is the scout from Dan’s Mork doing?”

  Thorold shook his head.

  “Still no word,” Roald said. “Forkbeard hasn’t learned that we’ve stripped our borders.”

  Rune blew a short breath and nodded.

  “We can assume,” Rune muttered. “Any word from the Northern Keep?”

  “The children and Elders have arrived and settled,” Bergen said. “I received confirmation only this morning.”

  Rune nodded again.

  “I expect Aaric here by midday,” Rune said. “And if he doesn’t, then tomorrow, we make our move.”

  Bergen’s eyes went wide at the thought of holding the raging Seidkona another day. The door wouldn’t hold out until then.

  “But Kallan—”

  “We can’t wait for Aaric,” Rune said. “We’re ready and hopes are high.”

  Bergen leaned against the table with his arms crossed, impatiently waiting for the sound of the battle horns as Thorold began pacing the room.

  “We have the advantage here at our borders,” Rune said, dragging his finger across the map as he spoke. “Our archers will be stationed with me here on the highest ground to the west. Bergen, have your men ready to the east. Be ready to flank the Dokkalfar once Thorold lures them here, to the center.”

  Each man nodded in turn, comprehending his position.

  “Roald will come in from behind, closing the ranks. With luck, we can lure them to the plains and hold them. For now, we have the advantage as Aar—”

  A sudden chill engulfed the room, forcing the fire to flicker violently. All eyes turned to the door, alert with the readiness of battle. Eager to see Joren, the room drooped with disappointment at the arrival of Kallan, holding back the pelt from the door.

  “She escaped,” Bergen said as Rune flushed red.

  Donned in a plain blue dress, Kallan stood ready for battle with her pouch fastened at her waist next to her own dagger. In her hand, she clutched a blade with black stones that drew Rune and Bergen’s eye and turned their faces white.

  “Leave here, Kallan,” Rune said, and returned his attention to the table.

  A flash of rage crunched Kallan’s face as she dropped the pelt behind her.

  “Rune,” Kallan said.

  “I expect movement from the west,” Rune continued to Bergen, Thorold, and Roald, who all tried to ignore the fuming Seidkona.

  “Rune, hear me!” she pleaded. “You can’t do this!”

  Sighing, Rune dropped his shoulders and pulled himself from the map.

  “Kallan. Your head isn’t right in this. You’re dealing with too much to be a part of this.” Her eyes flared with the insult and he knew he’d pay for that later. “You’re too close to make the calls that need to be made,” Rune said, turning back to the map.

  “There are things here you don’t know about,” Kallan said, taking a step forward.

  Rune returned to the table and continued. “I’ve already received word from the scouts that Aaric is on the move—”

  “It isn’t Aaric, Rune!” Kallan shouted. “The Da—”

  “Bergen, get her out of here,” Rune said.

  Bergen stepped and Kallan moved.

  Igniting her Seidr, Kallan sent a blast of wind that threw Bergen to the floor. Before Bergen could stand, before Roald or Thorold could advance, Kallan lunged, pushing Rune back against the table and raised the black jeweled dagger to Rune’s throat.

  “Look at me, Rune!” Kallan barked. “Look at my eyes!”

  The lapis blue was gone, replaced by the Seidr that encircled the black of her pupils. Rune stared into the rings of gold—Seidr gold—and his own eyes widened in awe.

  “I can See,” Kallan breathed. “I can See everything… And we don’t have much time.”

  “By the gods,” Thorold breathed, stepping closer.

  The urgency she delivered demanded their attention and the three men listened as Kallan released Rune.

  “Aaric marches now,” she concurred as she turned the blade around and handed the hilt to Rune.

  “He’s on the horizon, and he isn’t alone. Forkbeard comes. They seek to take all of Alfheim for the Dani.”

  “But the scouts—”

  “Are dead,” Kallan cut Roald off. “Forkbeard has been watching. The whole time.Too much of our focus has been on Aaric and Borg to have noticed.”

  “Are you certain?” Rune asked with unease.

  “Certain,” Kallan said. “I can See everything as far back as the Dvergar-Svartálfar Wars and further still.”

  Bergen slowly stood, absorbing the shock Kallan brought with her words, one question at the forefront of his mind.

  “What do you See?” Thorold jumped in, cutting Bergen off before he could ask the only question on his mind.

  “Forkbeard is on his way,” Kallan said. “They sail up the river now.”

  “How many?” Bergen asked.

  “Fifteen thousand,” she answered.

  “Fiftee…” Roald’s voice trailed off.

  “With Aaric’s twenty,” Thorold mumbled, stricken with sick.

  “Against nineteen thousand,” Rune said.

  Kallan eased her shoulders, conceding to Rune’s deduction to take over for her.

  “They stand against us with two armies,” Roald said, looking to each face for an answer.

  “Rune,” Thorold said, “If we take down the Dokkalfar, if we secure victory before Forkbeard’s troops arrive—”

  “It’s only a matter of time,” Kallan interjected. “Forkbeard doesn’t come with ships and men. He brings the support of the Empire.”

  “All of the Mainland,” Roald gasped.

  “We can not simply defeat him.” Rune peered at the map beside him. “We must abolish them.”

  The rains began to fall and pattered on the side of the tent.

  “We have one day to turn the tides,” Rune said. “One day to be the victor. If we don’t stand in a better position by tomorrow’s eve, we
don’t stand a chance against Forkbeard.”

  “Against nearly twice our numbers in two days,” Bergen said.

  “Aaric seeks to use Forkbeard as a second wave,” Kallan said. “He’ll take down whatever is left of you.”

  “Joren.” Rune turned to Kallan. “Can you see Joren or Daggon?”

  Kallan’s shoulders visibly fell and she shook her head.

  Backs slumped with worry as they all scrambled for a plan. Shouting outside and panic disrupted their silence and the first of the war horns sounded. In an instant, Rune took up his bow as Rune’s commanders fled the tent alongside he and Kallan just as the second horn was blown. A third horn then another filled the whole of the camp until the call of the war horns encompassed the valley, alerting the troops to battle.

  As one, Bergen, Roald, and Thorold scattered to prepare their men, leaving Kallan to Rune.

  “The Dokkalfar are on the horizon!” Bergen called and vanished into the troops.

  “Ready the arms!” Rune shouted back over the chorus of horns. “Kallan!”

  Rune grabbed her arms.

  “Get back to the keep n—”

  The horns drowned out his voice, followed by the uproar of his battalions.

  “My fight is here!” she argued.

  The horns sounded again, this time from the horizon as archers formed their lines.

  “There is no side for you to fight on!” Rune roared.

  Ljosalfar archers fell into line, readying their bows as Rune bolted from the camp to join them.

  “I have no where else to go!” Kallan called after him, but he didn’t hear.

  The horns sounded a final time, calling the last of the men to arms.

  Alone, at the river’s edge, Kallan stood looking upon the lines of archers who drew their bows at the ready.

  ‘Go’ she saw Rune say, unable to hear his voice over the thunder of troops to the south.

  Slowly, Kallan turned.