Dolor and Shadow (16 page)

CHAPTER 19

Aaric slapped back the flap of Kallan’s tent. The refreshing, cold air struck his face, revitalizing his senses after sitting in the warm tent for so long.

As he trudged through the camp, he replayed his conversation with Kallan and her refusal to keep the king alive. Too annoyed to join the festivities, he made his way to the small, dark tent at the far end of camp where Gudrun and Daggon sat exchanging anecdotes.

“How did it go?” Daggon asked, glancing up from the mead he coddled.

“It didn’t,” he grumbled. “Your turn.”

Daggon sighed, ending it with a swig of his drink.

With nothing to say, he studied the nearest fire surrounded by a gaggle of soldiers, bent on boasting their deeds in battle.

“How is she?” Gudrun asked. She wrapped her shawl tighter as Aaric found himself a seat on the ground beside her.

“She’s talking now,” he said, resting an arm on his knee. He found the same group of soldiers who had broken off into random song, the mead doing much to persuade their pitch.

“Did you talk to her about the execution?” Gudrun asked.

“I did.” Aaric didn’t nod, but stared, happy to appease her inquisitiveness. Gudrun puffed out her bottom lip with impatience.

A soldier fell over, sloshing his drink down his arm.

“And?”

“She’s going through with it.”

The old woman didn’t answer as she stared off at the farthest tree where the forest jabbed at the black of night. The soldiers had abandoned their song and moved on to downing more mead.

“Will she at least see him?” Daggon asked, rolling the neck of the flask between his fingers.

“I asked,” Aaric said. “She refused.”

“This isn’t looking very hopeful,” Gudrun said beneath her breath.

“Has he eaten?” Aaric asked with a nod indicating the prisoner in the tent behind him.

“He?” Daggon passed a calculative look toward the tent and shrugged. “He hasn’t spoken or moved since we put him there hours ago.”

A disquieting silence settled between the three of them as each stared off in their own direction.

The soldiers began another verse, this one louder and with less pitch than the last.

“She has said nothing all day,” Gudrun said. Aaric and Daggon gazed at the woman hugging her legs. “She refuses victory. She refuses meals and sleep.” Gudrun stared into the black of night above the trees. “She’s regressing and, what’s more, she’s closed everyone out. No one can get close enough to pull her back.”

“What will you have us do?” Daggon asked, ready to receive his orders.

Unfallen tears glazed the gold in Gudrun’s eyes. “You were Eyolf’s oldest friend,” she said.

The name of their late king silenced the group as the source of Kallan’s shadow surfaced.

There was a belt of laughter from the cluster of soldiers, barely muted by the distance between them.

“Speak to her,” Gudrun said. “She’ll listen to you.”

Daggon scoffed.

“When has Kallan ever listened to anyone?” he said. “Not even Eyolf could tame that child. You know that.”

On the other side of Gudrun, Aaric silently watched the soldier.

Daggon examined his flask as if lost in thoughts, likely of hunting games and swordplay he longed to have again. He threw back his head, taking in a large mouthful of mead.

Gudrun grinned. “Do you remember Kallan putting more effort into using the spells outside of class than the actual time spent in class?”

“Until you taught her the cloaking spell,” Aaric said with an admiring grin.

“Yes…” Gudrun frowned. “Which only made her harder to find for her next lesson.”

“I told you not to teach her the advanced spells,” Aaric said with a twinkle in his eye. “She’s too much of someone else I know.”

“I know what you’re doing, hag.” Daggon grimaced at the old woman who was content to ignore him. “It won’t work.”

“And a little girl trading dresses for smiles in the warrens,” Gudrun said.

“She was always fond of those damn warrens,” Aaric said.

“Or sparring in her father’s trousers and tunics alongside her father’s war-men,” Gudrun continued.

Daggon gazed at the distant fire with a muted, pained look. “She was forever running in and out of the streets of Lorlenalin in men’s clothes and rags, rallying up the orphans she and Eilif found there.”

“I have never seen anyone so eager to master the craft and swordplay,” Gudrun said.

“She was twelve, boasting battles not yet won and of lands not yet conquered with a garish candor only Kallan could master,” Aaric said.

“She stole my clothes,” Daggon grumbled. “Twice Eyolf and I woke to find our garderobe bare. We had breakfast wrapped in blankets like a couple of wet nurses.”

“Bundles of fruits wrapped in her gowns,” Gudrun said.

“Wasted on dreams, plans, and play,” Aaric said.

“Until the day I watched her fervor and voracity break beneath the weight of Eyolf’s corpse.” Daggon’s words put an end to their reflections as Aaric and Gudrun watched the captain throw his head back for a drink. A moment later, he shook his head. “I will talk to her…when we’re home.” Daggon downed the last of the mead and stood, sighing. “But expect no resolution,” he said and stumbled off in search of more drink.

* * *

Inside the tent, the air was cold. The pair of soldiers sat, staring down at Rune, who made no movement. The shackles that bound his wrists hadn’t clinked for hours now. The Ljosalfar king stared at the lantern, refusing to acknowledge his guard.

Outside, the distant laughter rolled through the air. The low whispers of the high marshal, the captain, and the woman clung to the whistling wind and Rune sat, listening to every word.

CHAPTER 20

From the northernmost ends of the world, over the snows of Jotunheim, down past the fjords of Midgard, the land of Alfheim lay. Her tall, ancient pines stretched across the grass plains riddled with rivers that intertwined through forests and lakes. Rich forests radiated the heart of Freyr’s land where secrets were buried within, secrets forgotten even by the Ljosalfar, who had dwelt in the land since it had formed.

To the east, Lake Wanern stretched on like the sea. During the long, cold winters, it iced over so thick, so solid, that kings fought their wars on the surface, which was strong enough to sustain thousands. When standing on the bank, looking out to the farthest corner, one could not see its end. Its primary inlet, the Klarelfr River, flowed from the north and split in two around the island filled with the Ljosalfar city, Gunir, before pouring into Lake Wanern.

At the southernmost end of the lake, the waters drained into the Gautelfr River. For days it flowed, ending at the sea of the Kattegat. There, the shallow waters clawed and chewed apart a ship’s hull, ready to eat away the keel of a negligent crew. Sailors ignorant of the passing tides would find themselves run aground, or worse.

From the Kattegat, the mountains emerged, reaching high into the heavens where the peaks rose and vanished into the lowest clouds. Waterfalls cascaded from the mountains, dressing the rock in glistening streaks, the Dokkalfar’s most beloved waterfall being Livsvann that supplied Lorlenalin with fresh water.

There, the Dokkalfar built their mountain city, Lorlenalin, the White Opal. With stones of white glistening in the sun’s light, the Dokkalfar’s city distended from the precipice with a beauty equaled only to that of the Dvergar who lived in the caves beneath the mountains to the west. Homes and towers dressed the cliff face overlooking the Kattegat. Winding streets of white led deep into the earth, faceted with towering parapets and balustrades that extended into the clouds.

At the base of Lorlenalin and Livsvann’s end, the mountain met the sea. There, the Dokkalfar’s shipyard spanned the docks. There, they constructed great longships, shaped to cut through the waters. They formed their hulls to move with the sea, welcoming its power and using it rather than carving an unnatural path against the currents.

From the docks, the forests began and peppered the crag with speckled green, stretching up and around the elevation where it joined with Alfheim’s wood and concealed Lorlenalin. Pines and maples still green with color lined the earth and twisted their way up to the main gates in the back of the mountain.

Before the sun had reached its height, Kallan’s army emerged from the forest. In and out of trees, they weaved, crossing the occasional pool of light that spilled across the forest floor. The thunderous rumble of a horn shook the ground in welcome. Kallan slouched back into her saddle, raising a blank set of eyes to the city.

As a child, Lorlenalin had been her playground, bursting with many mysteries she once explored. The older she grew, the more restrictions forced her into the confines of her station. No longer free to run through the streets or crawl into the hidden corners of the market, the pearl-white streets with green décor were forgotten, left there as a painful reminder of the life she no longer had.

The portcullis rose and the bridge lowered like a giant, outstretched hand eager to receive her people. Hollowed and cold, Kallan gazed at the courtyard’s façade as she followed her guard into the vast courtyard spanning a generous acre. The city buzzed with excitement around a resplendent fountain of pale green stone that rose at the yard’s center. Precious gems glistened from every corner of the citadel, adding an ancient grace that permeated the ample streets.

Cheers echoed through the high buildings as the war-men dismounted, hungrily taking up their wives or the random wench who ran to greet them. Unseen from the dank side streets, hidden among the barrels and shadows, a lone urchin searched the mounted riders. Careful to keep his distance, Latha grinned from the alley, eager to catch a glimpse of the queen before vanishing into the alley back toward the warrens.

Disconnected from the uproar of welcome, Kallan sat, allowing the emptiness to engulf her. She took a moment to watch the children run to their fathers while a few of her men raised a flagon of mead to hail her name. Kallan lifted her eyes to the citadel whose white opal face vanished into the clouds. Three stories above, a vacant balcony ordained with green stone extended over the courtyard. By nightfall, she would receive her people from that balcony, and the king’s execution would launch the three-day festivities. Already, her people had prepared an altar for the Blood Eagle.

By nightfall,
Kallan thought.

Nausea set in and Kallan lowered her eyes as she steered Astrid through the tumult of jubilation, leaving her war-men to their glory and song.

* * *

The corridor filtered the excitement that rolled from the courtyard, easing Kallan’s nerves as the light of the late morning faded. An occasional lantern threw a tinge of orange to the stone, lighting her path. Within the labyrinth, she slid from the saddle and gathered the reins, leading Astrid down the hall past the doublewide arch that opened to the Great Hall.

Knowing each crack and each crevice of stone, Kallan walked down the hall. A black void encompassed her thoughts as she strode past the barracks where a handful of men had escaped the courtyard ruckus. Astrid’s hooves struck the stone with a deafening clop that set the rhythm of her pace. The horse shook his head and snorted, pulling the reins in Kallan’s grip.

At the end of the corridor, a warm orange light poured from the stables where the walls opened to a vast cave that the waters of Livsvann had honed naturally into the mountain. The thundering falls welcomed her and drowned out all outside noise as the water sent a constant hum into the grotto that calmed the fjord horses. A permanent gust of air pushed through the subterranean room and mingled with the scent of sweet hay.

Mindlessly, Kallan stepped over the small, manufactured stream directed off the main river outside the grotto. Its waters provided the stables with a constant supply of fresh, running water made available for watering the animals and cleaning.

Fresh hay covered the floor alongside the stalls built of thick, rich wood. Blankets, bridles, and saddles hung about the cavern on pegs, fences, and barrels. The wrought iron lanterns scattered about gave sufficient light, save for a single path buried in darkness at the back of the stables near Livsvann. To the naked eye, the path appeared to fade behind the falls, but in actuality, it emerged on the outside, leading into a series of courser paths and trails.

Kallan led Astrid down the lines of stalls where more than three dozen fjord horses grazed. Their wide, stocky bodies appeared dwarfed next to Astrid’s tall, muscular build of the southeastern deserts. His dark coat and long, black mane contrasted the rows of light cream coats with black and white tails.

Paying the stable master and stablemen no mind, Kallan directed Astrid into his stall where she loosened the buckle on her saddle.

“The shipment of silk and alum just arrived in exchange for our soapstone, whetstone, and iron.”

The gentle voice glazed over her like silk, and Kallan whipped her attention around to the well-groomed, wiry frame of her scribe, Eilif. He peered through the thin, pale brown hair that tapered to his shoulder.

“Eilif,” she said and, with no qualms, leapt into his skinny arms, forcing him to catch her and knowing he would.

With a chuckle, he hugged Kallan, holding on a bit longer than was customary before letting go again.

“What news do you bring from the valley?” Eilif’s thin grin creased the corners of his eyes, matching the lines at the corner of his mouth.

Kallan furrowed her brow and grinned, still holding onto his arm.

“My scout rode ahead. You know we bring the king.”

Eilif shrugged.

“Rumors hardly reflect the truth. Did he say anything?” he asked, pushing the subject too often breeched by Gudrun.

“Never mind that,” Kallan said. “How are Rind and Latha? And Kri? How is she?”

“As well as always,” Eilif said, “and excellent evasion. What did he say?”

Kallan’s face fell and she diverted her attention to Astrid, emptying her thoughts with physical work. She pulled the saddle from Astrid’s back and disposed of it on the stone fence that made up Astrid’s stall. Eilif whisked around the horse and, intercepting her, took her hands.

“What did he say?” Eilif asked.

Kallan did her best to look confused. “He?”

“The king,” Eilif said, playing along.

“Oh.” Kallan’s face fell and she took back her hands to pull off the bearskin from Astrid’s back.

“We haven’t spoken yet,” she said, heaving the load onto the fence.

Eilif blinked back surprise. “You mean to say that you finally have the King of Gunir shackled in chains, and you ‘haven’t spoken yet’?”

Kallan pushed a brush through Astrid’s coat. She managed to get in two vigorous strokes before Eilif took the brush from her. She surrendered to his interference, knowing that a fight would be futile.

“My dearest lady,” he said, placing the brush on the barrel behind her and, touching her chin, raised her face to his. Her eyes brimmed with a constant sorrow none could take from her. Eilif shook his head and forced a saddened smile. “Will you never laugh again?”

Kallan said nothing as she studied the face of her friend, unmarked from battle scars. After a moment, his brow furrowed with questions.

“Something is different about you,” he said.

With a jerk, Kallan freed her chin and took up a bucket of oats she held for Astrid. If he looked at her long enough, he would reach the same conclusion that Gudrun had: that she had met someone.

“What will you do now that King Rune is here?” Eilif asked.

“My dearest Eilif…” Kallan grinned. “You always did know when to back off. I will do with the king as I’ve always done. The Dark One still lives. Executing the king will be just what I need to get the Dark One’s attention.”

“You’re picking a fight,” Eilif said.

Kallan shrugged.

“He picked one first,” she said as memories flooded back of a raid gone bad.

Outnumbered, she had underestimated the Dark One’s prowess and failed to see him double back with twice the guard. His maneuver had caught her by surprise and left him with a scar she had seared into his brow. She had barely escaped.

“I have an unfinished quarrel with that berserker,” she said. “One I look to end.”

“You are certain you’ll win?” Eilif asked.

“I must,” she said, looking up from the oats.

With a nod and shoulders slouched, the scribe started back toward the corridor.

“Eilif?”

Her crystal voice pulled him back and he stood as she mustered the strength to gather the words while biting the side of her lip.

“Tonight, when I receive my people…”

Fine lines creased the corners of Eilif’s mouth as he grinned.

“When you are dressed and primped and are ordained in glistening jewels. And Gudrun has you stuffed into a gown made of the finest Eastern silks,” he said, quoting a much younger Kallan from ages ago.

“Whether I am ready or not, I will be forced to receive the king,” Kallan said, setting her worries aside. But it was too late, she knew Eilif had seen. Fondly, the scribe took up Kallan’s hand.

“Lady Kallan.” He planted a kiss on her knuckles. “You have always been and will always be my dearest lady. If you run to the ends of the world so it is there that I will follow.”

Without another word, the scribe disappeared into the corridor, leaving her alone with her thoughts turning to the feasts the cooks were preparing. A tremble that began in her arms built to Kallan’s shoulders until her entire body felt as if it would crumble.

Fighting to breathe, Kallan dropped the bucket of oats, passed Astrid an apple from her pouch, and took up the reins. Without a second glance, she climbed onto Astrid and steered him around, sending him into a canter down the path behind Livsvann as the apple restored the luster to his coat.

She had barely ridden the few steps out into the open before coaxing Astrid into a full gallop around the precipice where Livsvann fell.